Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from "Sons of Anarchy." They are the property of Kurt Sutter and Fox Network. No money is changing hands in the writing, reading or distribution of this story.

The first time he'd ever seen her, Tig had been disappointed that her skin was so fair. Her long, wavy dark hair had caught his attention and made him expect to have a bronze complexion and brown eyes meet his stare, but it wasn't to be. No, her hair was dark, almost black like his, but she was anything but Latina. She was all peaches and cream this one, green eyes that gleamed like fire lit emeralds, shiny, neatly trimmed hair, her make up perfect. She was young too, younger than most hangarounds, but there was nothing underdeveloped in her figure, she had a million dollar body, full, firm breasts, gracefully curving hips, long elegant legs. To say she was pretty wasn't saying enough; she was gorgeous… beautiful…too beautiful to be hanging around biker trash like him. That was two years ago. The life had taken some of that away from her now, her makeup was no longer matte, and she chose to trace her green eyes with black liner, her hair was longer and more ragged on the ends, all her former perfections noticeably botched, but she was still too beautiful to be here.

He fucking hated Butcher, but then, who didn't? Aaron Butcher had been in SOA once, and he'd been in The Tribe once, and the Hells Angels once, went out east and became a Pagan, once. The asshole collected top rockers, staying with a club until the Feds put too much of a squeeze on them and then he resigned and bolted to his next destination, leaving his brothers to hang alone. He might as well have been a rat, and rats deserved to die. Well, Tig knew he was stretching things, but he'd still like to see Butcher dead. The bastard had balls coming back here, particularly with her. How long had this been going on? The last time Tig left her, it wasn't with Butcher.

Tig shook his head in discontent; didn't that silly little bitch learn anything last time? What did he have to do to make it clear to her? Didn't she understand what it was he tried to do for her? She wasn't stupid, he knew that, her IQ was 164, all the Mensa shit had been plastered all over her bedroom walls beside the beauty pageant photos and sashes and tiaras and shit. So why? Why didn't she get it? Tig was staring again, more than just staring, scrutinizing every detail from her black leather slouch boots, up her long legs to the denim mini skirt and the half unzipped black hoodie she wore. Butcher had walked over to where she was standing away from the crowd, his six foot four inch, three hundred pound frame towered over her, made her look like nothing. His thick brown beard moved as he spoke to her, his long dark blond hair sticking out all over the place beneath the knit black skullcap, it was like watching Sasquatch hitting on a school girl. But when Butcher approached her, Tig noticed with an out of place excitement that she unconsciously took a step backwards, away from her old man. Ah, she fucking hated Butcher too! And now there was a smile on his face, a musing smile…the worst kind to have anyone else notice.

"Pretty piece a jailbait Butcher's draggin' aroond these days." Chibs was looking in the same direction that Tig was, his eyes on the same dark haired girl as he lifted a beer bottle to his lips. "The man's a piece a shit, but he's got fine taste in women."

"Yeah," laughed Jax facetiously. "If you can even call her a 'woman.' I bet she's got a book report due in the morning."

Tig heard them but didn't hear them, he was too busy watching, analyzing; any moment now that girl was going to step away from Butcher, and then she'd be alone, and vulnerable. And finally she did, directed over towards the bar to get Butcher a beer, walking off with her head down, looking more dejected and desperate than he'd ever seen her before. It kind of hurt in a place he didn't like, but it didn't change his intention. He gave Chibs and Jax a quick glance, jerked his bottle to his mouth and swallowed the last of his beer. "I know that girl." He stated, and walked off after her.

Jax turned to Chibs, half smirking. "Are you surprised?"

She leaned against the bar with her back to the crowd as she waited for Butcher's beer, she felt tired. But sleep wasn't going to remove that feeling; she was eighteen and understood what elderly people meant when they sighed and said they were tired. She was tired of going to sleep, tired of waking up, tired of eating and drinking and being touched and touching and thinking and feeling. Existing, she was so tired of being here or anywhere else. But then, what had she expected this life to be? She'd forgone the advice she should have trusted, twice, and now, here she was. Existing.

Butcher wouldn't have been so bad, if he were attractive, and didn't always smell like sweat and stale beer and cigarettes, and if he didn't dope her up so much she could barely think, let alone speak, and if he didn't treat her altogether like some pack mule he also fucked. But at least he was big and mean, and hardly anyone messed with him or what was his, and that's all she could ask for. Almost.

She felt something snag her hair in the back, an empty was set down on the bar beside her, and then a hand gripped her shoulder gently, but solidly. Who would dare to touch her? What the hell? She jerked sharply and spun around with annoyed and squinted eyes.

"Jocelyn."

She more than knew the voice, that voice was a part of her, she used to hear it in her dreams until the downers Butcher forced on her turned sleep into a black nothingness. "Tig." She hadn't even realized she said anything, his name creeping out of her mouth with no thought as to how to form it or how it sounded. She blinked once, felt herself flush as she looked at him, the familiarity of his appearance always a strange comfort, short, rugged goatee, jeans with the wallet chain across his thigh, knife strapped to his hip, long sleeved black t-shirt, leather wrist cuffs, gold rings on every finger, heavy black motorcycle boots, and of course his cut. He looked like that the first time she'd ever seen him, back when she thought no other man could ever look as good sitting on a bike as Tig did. She still thought that.

She felt herself waver, surprise and fear gripping her that he was here, although she'd wanted to see him again for so long. Butcher, he wouldn't like it if he noticed her talking to another guy, he really wouldn't like it. And Tig, well, it was always so difficult to place his motivations and predict his moods, and the last time she saw him, the last thing he told her to do, she clearly hadn't. What exactly were his intentions? But it was Tig, and as soon as he said her name, her fight was lost. But it couldn't look that way.

"How are you doing?" He half smiled, putting his other hand possessively on her other shoulder and turning her to face him and only him. "And what the hell are you doing here?" Any concern he truly felt was masked in the foreboding tone of his voice, but he knew she wouldn't run from him or even be scared. They'd been through way too much together, knew one another far too well, she knew about his Bronze Star in Mogadishu, he knew about her father; they shared a bond that went beyond that of being a man and a woman.

Her brain seized with answers, so many explanations, so many apologies, so many pleas that she wanted to make to him. Her arms trembled to be wrapped around him with her head curled to his chest, he'd let her hold to him if she just pretended it wasn't happening, and let him pretend the same thing. But no, anywhere near Butcher was not a place to even be thinking these things. She shook her head, regained her solemn attitude. "I'm getting Butcher a beer," she said, picking up the new bottle, surprised by how much attitude tainted her words and wondering why. She looked at Tig, letting her eyes meet his, still as blue and as beautiful as they'd always been, watching her alertly if not somewhat amusedly, eagerly awaiting her next move and confident he could beat it. It made her a little angry. "And I think you know what happens to me if I don't take it to him."

Tig nodded, but he'd never tell her how stupid Butcher would be if he did anything to her. He casually pulled a cigarette from the inside pocket of his cut, offering it to her first, only to have her refuse it. "Still not smoking or drinking, huh?" he laughed somewhat condescendingly as he put the cigarette between his lips and reached into his jean pocket for a lighter. He looked across the bar towards Butcher, but only for a second, the big man was distracted in conversation. Tig snapped a flame from the lighter and gave her a sideways glance. "Two minutes," his voice was low, he paused to light the cigarette and puff out some smoke. "Find a reason, meet me outside."