A.N.- I don't own any of these characters. They all belong to Kurt Sutter.
This is a sequel to my one-shot Family Circle that goes with the idea of Tara being the person who painted all of the paintings on the walls of their house, and also that she and Abel bond by doing a lot of drawing together. That one was set before season four while Jax was still in jail and this one takes place a couple of months after season 4 ends. It's bound to be completely AU once season 5 starts. This was supposed to be a one-shot but it has gotten too long and cumbersome to edit so I'm posting the first part now. It'll be two or three chapters, and I know my track record for finishing fics sucks, but this one is almost completely written, so it should be a quick one. ;-)
This one is for all the ladies on the thread. You know who you are.
Also, don't let the angst of the first half scare you away. There's an illegal amount of fluff heading right towards this fic.
Tara lets Jax help her every morning now when she dresses.
Buttons and ties have become the enemy. She does own easier clothing. Her closet is stuffed with yoga pants, tank tops with shelf bras, and slip on shoes, but without the hospital as a touchstone, Tara feels like she's ghosting through her days when she stays in her pajamas.
Jax found her about a month ago, squirming and defiant and rolling on the bed, waging a one-handed war against her clothing. He offered to assist and Tara let him know she could do it herself. Jax snorted at that and helped her anyway, saying he couldn't stand to watch her struggle.
So he clasps her necklace, hooks her bra, and tugs her jeans up over the last few inches of her hips, fastening the button and lifting the zipper. There is sweetness in these early mornings, or at least Tara thinks there should be. But in no other part of the day does Tara feel as helpless as she does in the mornings, and Jax for his part seems unable to look at her. His eyes skittishly dart around, his lips press into a tight line, and guilt pours off of him so thickly Tara almost chokes on it. As if for both of them, it is inescapable in this one moment every day that his lifestyle, his club, his family, is the reason she no longer has full use of one hand, and it leaves them bruised and sore.
This morning he kneels in front of her. Tara's good hand rests on his shoulder for balance while he helps her into her boots. He reaches for her waist, but instead of buttoning her jeans, his hands curl around her hips and his head dips down, his breath hot on her belly.
"I miss you so much," he whispers into the skin at her waist. Starting at her navel, he slowly kisses down her stomach, pushing aside the open front of her jeans so he can suck on her hipbones. Desire licks through Tara, surprising her, welcome and foreign, like an old forgotten friend.
There have been surgeries and casts, and re-learning how to juggle babies, and examining the remains of her career. There's been Clay… and Piney, and the accusations in those letters that Jax has read and re-read late into the night, smudging and wearing away the edges of the paper as he worries it between the pads of his fingers. Tara has put on a composed face for the club, supporting Jax in his new role, knowing he doesn't truly want to be there, and trying to ease his burden. And Jax has held her at four in the morning when the weight of what she's lost is too heavy to carry in silence, catching her wrist and kissing her knuckles, when she repeatedly punches her good hand against their headboard in frustration. They're making it work, getting through it, but it's been many weeks since they've done anything more than sleep in their bed.
Tara brings her hands up to hold him against her, an unconscious gesture, almost forgetting her injuries. One hand skims deftly through his short hair to rub his scalp, the other one twitches against his head, uncooperative and clumsy. She lifts her damaged hand and looks at it. She has some mobility and some feeling now. Tara gingerly curls her fingers and tries to touch the tips of them one by one against her thumb, practicing opposition.
Her pinky works perfectly and her ring finger, only half controlled by her crushed median nerve, is bouncing back the fastest. These victories feel small and empty to Tara when her first two fingers and most of her thumb remain stubborn and numb. And the places on her hand that aren't numb are still incredibly tender. Tara can't make a fist. She can't open a jar of baby food, or hold a paintbrush, or tie her shoes, or trust her good hand enough to bathe Thomas' wiggling and slippery body.
She's still not herself.
The pang of desire fades away, as she stares at her hand, willing it to work properly. She's been silent for too long and she can feel Jax's eyes on her, waiting and expectant.
"I miss me too," She admits finally, her voice a floating, far away, thing. It's not the response he was looking for. Jax huffs and gets to his feet. He does up her jeans quickly and with ease, and Tara finds herself resenting his nimble fingers.
He catches her gaze and holds it with a searching look. He's weary, a little impatient, and when he speaks, his words are full of sighs. "Tara, you've gotta have a good day today. I got club business in Oakland, and I'm not gonna be back until late. I can't rush home if you need me, so please have a good day."
When he's not suffocating her with his guilt, he's gauging her, checking her eyes for the manic shine of a crazy person, and looking for her breaking point. He seems to no longer trust her judgment, or her ability to reason, and that wakes something curved and green and venomous inside Tara. In these unpredictable moments that seize her every so often now, when her thoughts tense and coil around themselves, she wants to strike out at Jax and poison what's left of the sweet things between them.
"I'll be just fine, Jax. I know the club needs you." She taunts, her smile bright and biting. Jax's face shuts down as he sucks in his breath. He closes his eyes, his grip on her shoulders tightens, and he shakes his head slowly from side to side.
Tara instantly regrets the sharp insinuation in her words and the fresh hurt they may have caused. She steps closer and rejects the hissing urge to destroy fragile things. She slips her good hand under the soft material of his t-shirt. Tara winds her arm around him and lays her forehead against his chest.
"Sorry… I didn't mean that." She whispers. "Really, I'll be okay."
Jax relaxes against her and wraps her up in a hug. "Elyda will be back with the boys this afternoon." He says and pulls back. "Do you want me to call my mom? She could help you with them tonight." He says with some reluctance.
Tara shakes her head. The hard won trust between Tara and Gemma is gone now. It burnt away so quickly, so completely, it's almost like it never existed at all, and in the long nights, in the quiet, when she's mourning her hand, Tara's doubt in Gemma grows, following shadowed paths. She doesn't want Gemma anywhere near her right now.
"Why don't you want her to help you?" He asks softly, but there's a weight to his voice.
Tara looks at Jax. She can tell he's trying to push her forward through her long silences, as she gets distracted by the chattering of her mind. Instead of impatience this time, she finds an intense focus in Jax's eyes while his lips twitch with suppressed emotion. He's asking a silent question, or willing her to make a connection, and she can tell by the way he's bracing his shoulders he doesn't really want the answer. The truth of it pours icily down her body, washing away her earlier bitterness as she puts it together.
Oh baby, she thinks staring back into his eyes. You suspect she was in on it too. It wasn't Clay alone who killed your father. He had help and that's so big, neither of us can say it out loud… Not yet.
"Sometimes…" Tara says, losing her nerve and breaking the spell between them. She holds up her good hand and pretends to crush something in her clenching fist. "Your mother holds on a little too tightly."
Jax laughs and rolls his eyes. He sighs again, this time in commiseration. "Don't I know it?" He says and he looks relieved when she doesn't confirm what he can't ask.
Jax's hands go to her hair and he kisses her, a hard press of lips with half the heat he showed a few minutes earlier, and Tara feels a pang of regret because she knows that's her fault. She pulls him back against her for another hug, rubbing his shoulders and ribs, trying to smooth out hurt feelings like they are wrinkles in his t-shirt.
"I gotta go. Have a good day." He says, appraising her again before he heads out the door.
Tara wanders into the kitchen to seek out the coffee pot. She has a little time to spare before her physical therapy appointment. The half finished canvas on her easel in the dining room catches her eye. She sits down in front of it, sips her coffee, and holds the warmth of the mug against her cheek as she considers this new painting.
Gone are the soft greens and blues, and precise little strokes of her landscapes. The last one of those, a cherry tree in full blossom, was almost done when her hand was ruined. She wanted to capture the petals in motion as they fluttered to the ground, and before she was attacked Tara was proud of the breeze she could almost feel blowing the flowers through her painting. But after she was released from the hospital, the finely shaped petals seemed to mock her and everything she lost.
Tara took a box cutter and a boot heel to that last pretty painting and dumped the remains in the trash can next to the garage. She knows Jax considers that day to be one of her bad days.
This new painting looks like nothing she's ever done before. It's angry, all browns and reds with brilliant yellows shooting through it and interconnecting like the branches of a tree. The strokes are different too. Her left hand is still a surgeon's hand but it doesn't have the same control as her right, giving the painting a rougher, chaotic feel. But more than that, it's the first time she's ever sat down without a plan or a sketch and just put paint to canvas. Tara wasn't sure what she was making, was only glad her left hand could paint at all.
It was Jax who spied the method in her madness. A few days ago he looked at her work for a long moment before gesturing to the streaks of yellow. "Are those nerves?" He asked her, his eyes sad. "Is this the inside of your hand?"
Tara was startled, and looked back at the canvas. She could see it then and she found herself stripped bare by his question. Her eyes welling with the raw tenderness she feels every time she finds Jax digging in her medical books and looking for his own answers.
"It isn't anything. It's abstract." She answered quickly, ducking her head, her words tasting like lies. Tara could tell he didn't believe her, but he let it drop after that, leaving her alone with her painting to contemplate the power of her sub-conscious mind.