Author Note: Anyone familiar with my writing will know that I've never been quite happy with one of my first attempts at SOA fanfiction, despite having grown pretty attached to my pairing along the way. Back when I first wrote Casting Shadows, I'd only started to watch the show and was seasons behind - so there were some unintentional inaccuracies, not to mention some stylistic choices that have since come to grate on me. I've always said I'd love to fix that. This is my attempt.

For those familiar with Kozik and Tasha's story, the choice to read on or not is yours. I decided to post this as a new story because the changes are so extensive that it would be difficult to just swap chapters in the originals. This is all the fics, which were pretty short, rolled into one. I'm not going to promise completely different outcomes, but I can't swear that I've stuck to my original plot either. I hope you, and those reading with completely fresh eyes, enjoy.

Far Stretched The Road

One

In the dark heat of the clubhouse in full swing, the air was thick with sweat, blood and sex, and those closest to the ring roared approval at every body blow, while those further back clamoured for a better view of the action. Leather cuts had been carefully set aside, shirts shed, and rings pocketed. Bare knuckles were the only weapons allowed, but already they were proving more than enough to satisfy the bloodlust of the baying crowd.

There was a time when he had thrived on nights like this. A time when he would have taken centre stage with a swagger in his stride and a grin on his face, confidence personified. Not tonight. Tonight wasn't about brash showmanship. It wasn't even about settling a score. It was just about release.

Fists clenched, muscles flexing, Kozik ducked between the ropes to a rare moment's hush from those gathered. He knew there must be a hardness to his face that these occasions didn't usually call for, just like he knew what was almost certainly being whispered about. His jaw set all the tighter at the thought, while his opponent bounced on the balls of his feet.

"We dancing, or we gonna fucking fight?" he snarled at the unsuspecting nomad.

He didn't wait for the response to throw the first punch, putting his whole weight behind it. He knew it connected, and hard, but everything after that was little more than a blur.

The adrenaline was still pumping and his chest still heaving when he found himself hauled bodily out of the ring to cool off, despite his protests. He'd taken more than a few solid shots himself, but even with bloodied knuckles, what promised to be a hell of a black eye and a split lip, he was in better shape than his now crumpled opponent.

"Jesus, take it easy, bro. Twinkle-toes over there might be an asshole, but you don't gotta kill him. You good?"

Jackson Teller. He could hardly tell the mother charter VP to shove his concern up his ass. Especially when he knew he meant well.

"I'm good," he managed, albeit through gritted teeth.

But the blue eyes trained on him only narrowed thoughtfully. "That some beef I don't know about?" Jax asked, jerking his head in the direction of the ring, even though he had to already know the answer.

Kozik shook his head, not trusting himself to speak and not really having the breath for it yet either. His opponent was still spark out, his head lolling on his shoulders as he was half-dragged, half-carried away to be revived.

"You need to cool down. Clean up." The advice came complete with a shot of something, even as some leggy redhead appeared at his elbow carrying his belongings and a first aid kit. She gave him what might have, on someone else, passed for a coy smile. But the ass-skimming, slashed-to-the-navel dress and hooker heels left nothing to the imagination. And that was clearly the point.

"Your poor face," she said, all wide-eyed sympathy. "Need me to ... make it better, sergeant?"

For a second, the thought of letting her lead him back to the dorms filled his mind, followed swiftly by the image of her on her knees in front of him. He grabbed the shot, downed it and then shook his head angrily as he slammed the empty glass back down on the bar and pulled his t-shirt and cut from her hands. "I gotta get out of here."

But even as he stormed outside, he realised he had nowhere else to go.

"Ay, Koz, ya mind?"

With the fight finally drained out of him and his broad shoulders slumped, the Tacoma sergeant shrugged from his perch on top of the picnic table. "Free country," he mumbled around his smoke.

"And the home o' the brave," came the wry response.

Filip Telford. Chibs to his club brothers. He could hardly tell him to fuck off either, all things considered.

"So how've ya been, my brother?" the Scotman asked, oh-so-casual like, moving to take a seat beside him as he stared out into the darkness. "Been a while."

"Guess so," Kozik nodded. "Took a while for the dust to settle after ... everything."

"And Tasha, she doin' okay?"

Inevitable though it was, the question still felt like a slug in the gut and he raked a hand through hair that was still damp with sweat. "From what she tells me," he said eventually, the reply loaded with everything he couldn't say. A glance towards his friend was all it took to know he understood.

"It ain't too late to get the wee lass down here," Chibs said. "We're gonna go on lockdown 'til this shit is done ..."

"She'd never go for it, not right now."

"Aye, I get that," the older man sighed, the look on his scarred face making Kozik wonder if his thoughts had turned to his own absent family. "Listen, man, I know we got a helluva mess brewin' here, but after ... I'm just sayin' ... we're all here for ya. All of us."

"One shit-storm at a time, dude," Kozik drawled, taking another drag on his cigarette. "One shit-storm at a time."

Clapping him on the back, Chibs finally left him alone with his thoughts. And with his wounds to lick, so to speak. There was no need for injured pride, having nearly put his younger opponent in the hospital, but he knew he'd lost control at times. Let his guard down. That wasn't like him and it didn't sit well. He could feel his goddamn eye closing and the dull throbbing in his ribs flared with his every move. His lip stung like a bitch too and he winced as he gave it an experimental poke. Fucking nomad and his lucky shots.

His cut lay beside him and he dug in his pocket for his phone, heaving a sigh as he considered it. His girl looked back at him from the screen, forever caught in that sexy-as-hell moment she'd winked and blown him a kiss, with laughter tugging at her soft lips and a twinkle in those beautiful green eyes. It felt like a lifetime since she'd kissed him. Longer since he'd seen her smile.

No missed calls, no messages. It made his heart sink all over again, knowing it never used to be that way.

Scrolling through his contacts, he found the number he was after and made the call, only to get on the receiving end of a recording telling him to leave a message after the beep. It was tempting to just hang up. But he couldn't.

"Hey, baby," he managed, trying to keep his tone upbeat as usual. "Not gonna make it back for a few days – got some extra business with the guys. So I guess I'll see you when it's done. Stay safe." And then, not as an afterthought, just with hesitation. "Love you."

Kozik hung up, finished what little was left of his cigarette and pitched the butt to the ground, stubbing it out under the toe of his heavy motorcycle boot. He knew the days that followed were likely to be brutal.

And, even after his turn in the ring, maybe that was exactly what he needed.

Laid on his back on top of his clubhouse bed, trying to block out the noise that filtered through from the bar, Kozik recalled Clay Morrow's stern face as he'd looked around the table at his equally grim-faced brothers earlier. If anyone knew something about the torment the mother charter president was battling on the inside, it was him. That need for vengeance, to just do something rather than sit helpless.

There had been a time when tensions ran so high in Charming that Kozik had been glad of his place two states away in Tacoma. But that butting of heads between Clay and his step-son Jax, a situation that had looked like spilling into something much darker, now appeared to be over. They were all looking to them for answers to the latest cluster-fuck to rock up on the club's doorstep, trusting that they were now firmly back on the same page.

At least some good had come from the horror of Gemma's brutal gang rape.

He wiped a hand over his face at that thought. There was nothing good about the club's women suffering at the hands of their enemies. Gemma may have been Clay's wife, Jax's mom, but she was family to them all. Just like Donna, Luann ... Tasha.

"Ten on ten," Clay had told those gathered. "Us or them. Someone ain't walking away."

The president had taken a moment to light a cigar and to let the weight of his words, and what they meant sink in, before flicking his Zippo closed. "That said, anyone want or need out? If you ain't down with this one hundred percent, you're no good to me. This ain't the time to be trying to save face. We have to walk out of this whole."

No one spoke. His men had just traded glances and then fixed their collective gaze back to the head of the table. Kozik would have been lying if he said much of the discussion that had followed had sank in for him. There was too much already on his mind. But when he and Happy had been called on to lend their support as two of the chosen, he'd simply nodded like it should never have been a question. Those Nazi-loving bastards had to pay.

"Koz, you sure, man?" Jax had asked hesitantly, his tone low amid his obvious reluctance to single him out in front of everyone. "Family's what's getting us into this in the first place. No one's gonna say a word if you can't-"

"I'm in," he'd said. "Simple as."

And just like that, he'd once more put his life on the line for his club. Only this time, he couldn't help wondering if he had much left to lose.