Disclaimer: I claim no right to Sons of Anarchy or any of its characters; they belong to the amazingly talented Kurt Sutter. Bunny & Crew belong to me as well as my writing. The story is set to begin after the first episode of Season 2. Enjoy.

Lesser Evils

Chapter One

It had been a little over a week since she had arrived to the sleepy west coast town, and yet Bunny's body clock still wasn't right. Up until yesterday, she had been so busy tying up Aunt Malory's affairs that her pace hadn't been much different than that of the New York hustle-and-bustle she was used to. But after burying Malory in the Owens' mausoleum, meeting with the lawyers to execute her aunt's will, and tying up whatever other loose ends Malory left behind, Bunny was left with nothing to do. And that stillness haunted her. It wasn't like Bunny was always busy back in the city, but the constant stream of people out and about always made her feel like she was part of something alive—even if she wasn't actively participating at the time. There was always a possibility to engage in a task in NYC, and the ease of it gave Bunny a great sense of comfort. It was knowing she never needed to be alone. She had grown accustom to the New Yorkers' general sense of detached togetherness. In child developmental science this idea of 'detached togetherness' is known as parallel play. According to Mildred Parten, who was one of the first to study peer sociability in 1932, parallel play is the first of three stages in social development. Parallel play can increase a child's confidence because they are learning to play near others—which makes a lot of sense when you think about how cocky New Yorkers can be.

Bunny's randomly excessive knowledge on this subject was a result of her seventy-third hour of consciousness a few months back. Years ago Bunny had decided that whenever she started another long stretch of sleeplessness she would keep herself as busy as possible. Being constantly engaged in some task kept her from getting down on herself and delayed some of the detrimental side effects that happen with a lack of sleep. Years of keeping busy had left Bunny with a plethora of random factoids that were only useful if you wanted to make yourself seem interesting at a cocktail party and an expertise in knitting, weaving, baking, and whatever other crafts she could get her hands on. Some of Bunny's more useless talents included learning the art of trapeze, hula hooping, beekeeping, and reciting the list of U.S. Presidents backwards and forwards. Somehow all of her randomly acquired knowledge had come into use at least once in her New York dealings and parallel play.

Charming, however, did not offer that same sort of detached togetherness Bunny so craved. The only thing that California seemed to offer her was the acute awareness of the fact that she was at a loss of what to do with herself. Too much time in seclusion had never led Bunny down a good path that was for sure. The uncertainty of it all was causing all of Bunny's bad habits and quirks to slowly but surely rise to the surface. And in the silence of the birds and the wind through the trees, she started to regret her somewhat hasty yet valid decision to stay out west.

The Charming air was a pleasant and there was a subtle breeze coming in from the west. Owenswood, the property Bunny had recently inherited, was situated on the outskirts of the town close to the Waheewa Reservation. The acreage was surrounded by a dense forest of California Redwoods and Evergreens. The property was comprised of about seven separate structures that were dispersed over thirteen acres. A long winding cobblestone path lead from the access road to the main house where a member from the Owens family had lived since before the California Gold Rush. Besides the main house and the detached garage there were three or four other small cottages that had served many various functions over the years. Originally most of them had been servants' quarters. But as we progressed further and further into the modern age, they adopted other functions like a beekeeping outpost, greenhouse, and woodshop. Only one outer structure was still being inhabited by a non-Owens. Bunny affectionately thought of the small cottage as the Hagrid's Hut to her Hogwarts. All-and-all Owenswood was a pretty magical place. She felt blessed to have spent a good portion of her formative years in such a setting. Her family's history was so rich here. And even though she was surrounded by so many memories of all the different Owens who lived here, Owenswood felt hauntingly vacant now that she was the last of her kin.

As it was, Bunny was now perched up on the old Redwood rocking chair that had a permanent spot on her aunt's, well now I guess it was her, front porch. The rocking chair and its companion, which sat on the other side of the coffee table, had been there ever since Bunny could remember. If she had to venture a guess, she'd wager they were at least double her age—which was not unlike most of the items that called Owenswood home. Bunny sunk further into the chair as she sipped her morning coffee, seeing if she could permanently ingrain herself into the very woodwork. Her memories of this particular chair were so warm and bright that maybe she could receive some solace from it to negate the unnerving energy that seemed to dissipate through the Charming air.

Bunny let out a large sigh and drank the last sips of her coffee. She haphazardly placed the handmade piece of stoneware beside her as she righted herself in the chair. Realizing at that moment no matter how much effort she put into it there was just no way she could dissolve into the charming furnishings. Bunny placed her hands on either side of the rocking chair's arms and pushed herself to stand. She rolled her neck in a clockwise fashion and stretched her arms above her head, satisfied with the audible crack that accompanied her actions. Glancing back at the antique clock on the kitchen's south wall, she noticed it was now nine o'clock in the morning. Bunny decided that this was a respectable hour that normal people would start their day. With one last look at the property's expansive grounds she went back inside the Victorian inspired main house, taking the empty mug with her.

After taking a quick shower, foregoing the washing of her long silvery locks, Bunny went back downstairs and grabbed a pair of jeans and clean underwear out of her large Louis Vuitton Trunk. It had been a week and Bunny was still living out of a suitcase. She shook her head and muttered her disgust with herself. She really needed to come to grips with the permanence of her situation. Exhaling a large breath and nodding at the offending piece of luggage, she made a solemn promise to move her clothes up to the master bedroom when she returned later that afternoon. Bunny slipped into her clothes and threw back on the Iron Maiden t-shirt that she had spent the previous night in. It smelled clean enough. The shirt was originally her fathers and for what she needed to do this morning she was definitely going to need some moral support. Without even a second glance, Bunny grabbed her shoes, headed back downstairs and out the door.

Twenty feet from the main house on the property was a garage that's exterior looked like it belonged more in the mythical Shire than on the outskirts of Charming, California. Aunt Malory had obviously been on a Tolkien kick when she had it redone a decade ago. The red brick building was covered in crawling ivy. The green leaves were so prominent that unless you knew from experiences inside, you would be hard pressed to believe it was not solely constructed of vines and leaves.

Bunny opened the large rounded wood doors, nearly yanking her arm out of its socket in the process. "Well at least you make the burglars work for their reward," Bunny commented to the inanimate object. Realizing that she was about to engage in a very one-sided discussion with the oaken object, she proceeded inside the garage sparing herself any further embarrassment.

Inside the Middle Earth inspired structure sat two vehicles. The first was her Aunt Malory's '56 Buick pickup truck. The teal paint was finally beginning to chip but otherwise the old girl worked fine. Bunny had been utilizing the car all week to transport herself to the many errands she had to go to while tying up all of Malory's loose ends. It had been a laugh going to her aunt's well-to-do lawyer's office. The white collar office workers getting their hourly nicotine fixes jaws had hit the floor when a very put-together Bunny hopped out of the old truck. Their faces had been worth dealing with Malory's slimy lawyer for a few days. Bunny had never liked lawyers or doctors for that matter. In her experience, a meeting with either of the two was never a good thing and should be avoided like the plague if possible. But today her Aunt's truck would get a well-deserved break.

Sitting next to the large teal hunk of metal was a vehicle that had not felt the warmth of the California sun in approximately fifteen years. Bunny fingered the dust covered canvas tarp and smiled. In one fowl swoop she removed the protective covering. Underneath it sat a candy apple red 1940's Chevy convertible. It was her father's pride and joy. She could still remember her father's teary goodbye to the car the night before him and Bunny move out east fifteen some-odd years ago.

Her father had taken Matilda, the name a three-year-old Bunny had given the red convertible after reading the Roald Dahl book by the same title, for 'one last spin.' The 'spin' was more like a tour of the entire county. Boss was on the road for six hours leaving his eleven-year-old daughter alone on their last night in California together. Bunny never held it against him though. She knew he was saying goodbye to a loved one, although she never understood Boss' decision to uproot their entire life to New York. But then again, men do strange things when presented with 'good' pussy. To say Bunny was a little bitter when it came to her stepmother, Pamela would be a gross understatement. But before going down that road and ruining this wondrous reuniting, Bunny squashed all thoughts of the heinous bitch.

Tilda's keys were hanging on a spoke by the garage's entrance waiting to be plucked off the wall. Bunny caressed the red convertible, almost as if it were her father's cheek, and retrieved its keys. After plopping herself into the driver's seat and adjusting her mirrors, she finally stuck the keys in the ignition and heard Tilda come to life. "Alright ol'girl, time to stretch those legs," Bunny cooed while patting the dashboard. Making two brief pauses to shut the garage and property gates respectively, Bunny and Tilda were off to start their adventure.

Driving in the California sun with Matilda's top down was completely surreal. She felt like she was in a scene from some lost David Lynch movie. The town of Charming if anything was aptly named. Surrounded by picturesque homes and shops, the town looked like it had been transported in time from the 1950s. In Bunny's experience, something that looked so completely perfect on the outside was seldom as lovely once you really got to know it. Charming kind of gave her the creeps, now that she thought about it. She was half convinced that the people's faces she saw as she drove by were starting to distort like those eerie fucks in Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun" music video. Sleep deprivation was definitely starting to rear its ugly head. Paranoia once again was making a nice little home for itself in Bunny's brain.

As she drove down the streets that lead closer to the heart of town more and more residents seemed to pause and glance her way. Bunny had spent a third of her life living in Charming, but no matter how much time she spent there, people always looked at her like she was an outsider. Not that it was necessarily untrue in most cases. Bunny was somewhat of an enigma. She was a tomboy and a beauty queen all at once. She was charismatic and a force to be reckoned with when it came to her career and yet shy and vulnerable when it came to forming any real relationships outside of work. Bunny had lived on the outside of things for most of her life and had thrived there. New York City was a mecca for people like her so it made sense. However, just because she was used to never fitting in, it did not mean that the judgmental stares did not throw her off her game once and a while. She already doubted herself when it came to Charming. The accusatory stares from its residents were not helping to alleviate those reservations. But maybe Bunny was being a little too full of herself and the people of Charming were just gawking at the vintage beauty she was sitting in. More likely than not, the stares were a result of some combination of the two.

Bunny let out a weary sigh when she reached the stop sign on Luellen Drive, opened the glove compartment and blindly reached around for Boss' secret stash. Her father always kept an emergency pack of Reds along with the car's registration. With a couple of seconds of struggle, Bunny found success. She brought the cigarette to her lips, lit the end and took a long drag, coughing up a lung as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. The Marlboro product was dry and stale. Fifteen years of sitting in a glove compartment was bound to do that to you though. Taking another, smaller, drag and transferring the cancer stick to rest between the middle and index finger of her left hand she turn on Tilda's radio and pressed play.

Bunny smiled from ear to ear. The tape in the car was the one an eleven-year-old Bunny made for her father. She had recorded on her old Tascam in the summer of '93. A week before they had moved a young Bunny sat with twenty of her favorite records scattered around her while she thought of the best songs to capture the place and the people she and her father were leaving behind. This little experiment had turned into somewhat of a ritual for Bunny and became an integral part of her and Trip's company. Although the compilations had moved from cumbersome audio cassettes to accessible downloadable mp3 playlists, a decision Bunny was not entirely happy with. She still remembered her father's face when she gave the mixed tape to him all those years ago. Boss was beaming with pride—glad his love and legacy of music was being passed down to his daughter.

Fingering the nobs, she turned the volume up on the Pixies track. Doolittle was still one of Bunny's all-time favorite records. The album had this honest grit to it that seemed to be missing in most of today's top charters. The caucus sounds of "Monkey Gone to Heaven" were permeating through Matilda's speakers as Bunny made the right onto Main Street. According to her handy-dandy iphone and Google maps she was about five minutes away from her destination.

It had been a strange and eventful few days to say the least, Happy thought. It was ten past nine Monday morning and Hap's first weekend in Charming had been a doozy. Friday night had started off promising. SAMCRO really did throw the best Friday night party this side of the Mississippi, which was only amped up for Bobby's release. The entire TM lot and clubhouse was packed with patched members, hangarounds, and croweaters getting drunk off their ass in celebration for a beloved brother's release from federal prison. Friday night's bash had everything: fire pits, stripper poles, boxing matches and enough liquor to drown a small whale—basically everything a growing boy needs. But as the festivities progressed the evening had taken a few wrong turns from Partyville.

The appearance of those white-power assholes was an interesting throw in the loop. If Hap's instincts were correct, which they almost always were, he and the Mother Charter would need to keep a close eye on those fucks. About three hours later the night took another wrong turn off the track. Unser, Charming's Chief of Police, told Clay that his Ol Lady had gotten into a nasty accident involving a median and totaling Gem's Caddy. The Queen Bee had been banged up pretty good, but something seemed off Happy. He and everybody who was at least remotely connected to the Sons knew that Gemma Teller-Morrow was one tough bitch. You couldn't be the Ol Lady of two SAMCRO Presidents and mother to its current VP, if you weren't. Gemma had seen more than her fair share of fucked up shit that would send most broads and even a majority of men into years of therapy. But not Gem. She was always the cool customer and model Ol Lady. So why was she shaken up over a car accident? There was something missing to this story that was certain. But since Gemma was neither his mother nor Ol Lady, Hap had no right to say anything. That and it just wasn't Hap's style to interfere with other people's personal shit. All that personal shit and emotions equaled one thing: a fucking mess.

And if there was one thing that he hated in this world it was messy situations. It was not like he couldn't handle a complicated situation. Most of Hap's roll in the club was cleaning up those messy situations charters found themselves in. He was the enforcer: The Tacoma Killer. The shit he'd dealt with over the years was surely guaranteeing him a first class ticket to Hell. Cleaning up the mess was never the issue. It was being in the middle of unnecessary drama that made the killer cringe. Hap craved order and control like most people crave air. Even his dorm room was pristine. If his first weekend in Cali had taught him anything, it was that the Mother Charter had its fair share of action and drama.

Hap was sitting alone on the picnic bench in the lot at TM recalling the weekend's events, readying himself for Church later in the morning. The lot was relatively quiet for a fall morning. Sack was out and about, running all over the lot like a chicken with his head cut off. Happy shook his at the frantic prospect while thinking to himself he was never that green. Juice and Tig were working on putting in new brake pedals in a silver Honda. The club door swung open and out walked Jax with two cups of coffee.

"Here you go, bro," Jax offered while handing Hap a large cup of black coffee, "I'm so glad Bobby's back. Coffee's tasted like ass for the last month. Prospect can't brew a pot for shit," the VP joked while giving the nomad a toothy grin.

Hap took the mug from the SAMCRO Veep, lifting it slightly towards Jax in thanks before taking a slug of the hot caffeinated liquid. Hap sat the mug down on the picnic table beside him and let out a small chuckle.

"Nice choice," Hap rasped out as he nodded his head towards the ceramic cup. The stoneware in question had a large yellow smiley face on one side and on the other the inscription: 'have a nice fucking day! '

"I thought so, Killer," Jax smirked back.

Jax and Happy fell into a comfortable silence as they sat enjoying their morning coffee and watching the members and mechanics working around the garage. Hap had always liked Jax. Where the killer had always respected the Mother Charter's President's strength, brutality and authority, the young VP commanded a different kind of respect. The Sons' motto was 'Brains before bullets' and Jax was definitely the brains of SAMCRO. Hap was obviously no stranger to slinging bullets into enemies, but he knew blind action often created unnecessary complications. Jax was smart: always focusing on big picture shit. That type of restraint calls for a different type of strength. That silent strength does not come easily to the male sex, especially men such as them. About ten minutes into their 'coffee date' Hap and Jax were suddenly jolted to the edge of their seats.

Pulling into the lot had to be one of the most beautiful cars anyone at Teller-Morrow had ever seen in person. No Son was much for a cage, but this sure was something else. Parked right across from the line of Harleys that sat next to the picnic bent Hap and Jax were perched on was a 1940 Chevrolet special deluxe convertible coupe in candy apple red.