This work was written by me a very long time ago here (published during Season 4 of SOA), and virtually forgotten about until recently. I removed the story, re-vamped it, added more plot, improved the medical bits and... Voila! A much more thorough, expanded, and emotional journey of our favorite club and its members.
This is based during and after Season 4. Anyone not wanting spoilers for this should turn back now. This is a short introduction. Much longer chapters to come, if you enjoy...
The door that Opie leaned against was hard and callous, supporting his body but nothing more as he stared at Lyla's disheveled, vacant bed.
The bedroom where Tara lay was empty and quiet and lifeless, save for the soft cooing of sweet baby Thomas whom she clutched, and the quiet cries that escaped her own lips.
The bottle of Jack that Bobby grasped seemed wrong and unrelenting, and the stench of hard alcohol permeated the room, enveloping him, but this was the cure he needed.
The redwood table at which Clay sat was aged and rigid, a strange likeness to himself, his arthritic hands tapping the engraved face of the fearless reaper.
The tires of the tow-truck rode rough against the dirt, but true and steady, unknowing of the urgency of its passengers as Chibs and Tig sped towards the warehouse.
The night was unforgiving and cold, unlike Juice - sweet and innocent Juice - who sat shaking at the top of the tree, seized with shame and self-hatred.
The cold chains bit his neck, taut and pinching his skin, hurting him more than physically. His breath came in short gasps as he willed himself jump, just jump - but his body sat stiff, seizing the bark of the tree branch with such force that it tore his skin.
You killed Miles, you stole from your club, you ratted - you've betrayed the only people that have ever accepted you - you're dead if they find out what you've done, you're dead if you go to prison as a known rat, you're dead if they find out you're black, you have no more family, you have nothing left -
The breath escaped him as he pushed himself off the branch, and his neck snapped up when the chain pulled tight; his lungs spasming for air as the noose strangled him - and his body suddenly lost its desperation to die and he was fighting and scrambling against the chains on pure instinct, the need to breathe engulfing his senses - grunting, choking - the only thing he could see was red, and the last fleeting thought he had was that it was the same red as Miles' face after he'd been shot -
His body twitched once more, and then he went still. Silent.
And then the soft cadence of Juan-Carlos' heartbeat slowly ceased, and he welcomed Death knowing that he had at last earned the Mayhem patch meticulously stitched against his cut, because by taking his life, he was finally avenging his club.