Author's Note:
And I thought the ending of 6x02 was painful to watch…sad and dark times ahead for these two, I can only imagine.
Sons of Anarchy does not belong to me and neither does anything recognizable in this piece.
This was inspired by the events at the end of 6x08.
Of Promises Shattered and Futures (Once Again) Rewritten
You love him.
Undeniably.
Irrevocably.
Irrefutably.
No one, single adverb will suffice.
This is a fact. Probably the most honest–untainted–thing in your life.
You've loved him since you were fifteen. You've loved him the ten years in between. You'll love him in the future unforeseen.
You know you won't ever love another like him–he was your first in every way that matters.
But this isn't healthy; it isn't right–not anymore.
He made promises–ones he had full intention of keeping, you know. But some ties aren't meant to be severed, no matter what the cost. Just like no matter what, you will never come first, nor will your boys. Not because he doesn't want to put them first.
Because he can't.
He will always choose the club.
You understand:
SAMCRO is in his blood–etched deep into his bones. It's the legacy of a father he never really knew–not by his choosing; life just had different plans. It's about loyalty and brotherhood–it's about making sure that Opie didn't die for nothing.
He will always choose the club.
You don't understand:
You are his wife. You have two beautiful baby boys. This club, this town, will destroy both of you.
All of you.
You know that Jax can't leave the club.
But if you stay, you will lose yourself–there are pieces missing already; the reflection in the mirror a little less recognizable with each passing day. Eventually –inevitably–the boys will be sucked into this life; the one that will very likely be the death of their father, if he stays.
When he stays.
Because he stays.
You know that Jax won't be the same if you leave Charming. As much as you don't want to admit it, you know. Jax was meant to sit at the head of the table, gavel in hand. Because if anyone can move the club in the right direction, it's Jackson Teller–the once 17-year old arrogant, blue-eyed motorcycle club prince. And you're his old lady; you have the ink on your lower back to prove it.
But Jax knows–as do you–that it will get worse before it ever gets any better.
Much worse.
And besides, he fell in love with the innocent, raven-haired Tara Knowles, who wanted to make a difference in the twisted world she'd known growing up. What you have become as a result of this club (that he loves so much)–the things it has driven you to do; the blood it has left on your hands–that Tara: withdrawn, lost, and manipulative; this is a Tara you don't think even Jax can stomach.
You have betrayed the man you love–the end justifies the means and all that…
You have become your own worst nightmare.
But he'll understand, won't he?
This is for the boys, For Abel and for Thomas.
And yet, that look in Unser's eyes from this morning–apprehensive, accusatory–haunts you still.
Who are you?
The question echoes in his gaze.
And then a voice brings you back to the present.
Do you regret it…?
…coming back?
His voice is exhausted, worn out–the voice of a man who has lost his way–his shoulders slumped, the tension rolling off him in waves.
If only he knew just how many times a day you asked yourself that question; turning it over and over repeatedly in your head.
Now, standing across from him, looking at his defeated blue eyes–the ones that still remind you of warm summer afternoons–the words escape you.
You tell him there are things you would have done differently.
Things.
You don't go into details.
But he makes it all worth it.
Your eyes are on Thomas, lying quietly in his crib.
I just feel so far away from you…
...my fault.
Babe, please let me back in.
The look on his face–his eyes brimming with tears–the plea in his voice, they devastate you, making it almost difficult to breathe.
It's the same look from years ago, when he was asking you to stay.
But you stay put. You don't make a move to reassure him, don't lay a hand on his cheek; don't run your fingers through his hair–even though that's where they're itching to be.
Because when it comes to Jax Teller, you have little to no resolve.
And you have to stay strong; if not for yourself and who you were, then for your boys.
All three of them.
For Abel, who has his daddy's infectious smile and beautiful blond hair. For Thomas, whose eyes remind you so much of Jax's, sometimes it's too painful not to look away. And most of all, for Jax, whom you love so much, it's nothing short of petrifying.
And that's why you need to leave.
You remember Bobby's words from earlier in the day.
He needs you…
…can't do this without you.
But what about what you need, Bobby?
For the sake of your own sanity, more than anything.
The assurance that your children will be safe.
That each time 'he' doesn't pick up his phone, you don't have to think the worst–that he's lying somewhere with a bullet in his temple, Bobby and Chibs standing over him, paralyzed.
Even now–presently–in your current positions–you standing and him sitting, with little distance between you two–you feel farther away from him than ever; the space–literal, metaphorical–almost suffocating.
There's a chance that you'll go to prison.
There's a chance that you will not.
Either way, you break a promise. Or two.
But what's one broken promise on your end, when he's left dozens shattered–fractured–in his wake?
*Fin*