Chapter Three

The soft, reassuring sounds of Abel's machines, of Jax's breathing, filled her ears; her eyes, lids heavy, watched the chests – one so small and vulnerable, one so capable – of both Teller boys as they slept on peacefully before her, Jax's respirations instinctively timed to match those of his son's. Tara should have been asleep, too. She was tired. She had rounds in the morning; she was running out of clean clothes, so she'd have to make a trip back to her room at the inn; and she had long ago learned to enjoy the moments of pure calm. They didn't happen very often – even in a town as small as Charming.

That was something Tara had been foolishly fearful of when relocating from Chicago – that she would be bored, that, after the speed, and the demand, and the rush that was working at a major metropolitan hospital – one life or death case after another – St. Thomas wouldn't be capable of keeping her interest or challenging her. But Tara had been wrong. Perhaps she didn't have as many cases, but they were just as important, just as intense, and just as all-consuming.

Or maybe that was just what she told herself so that she wouldn't have to face the truth.

What she was really afraid of was that she wasn't capable of enjoying the calm anymore. For Tara, quiet meant she wasn't listening hard enough to hear those sounds someone didn't want her to detect. The stillness was always misleading – action in suspension versus actual rest. And contentment? Contentment was just a means of making her let down her guard. Danger lurked in the calm. She had learned that the hard way, too.

So, even though the hospital made her feel safe – after all, she was never alone there, it didn't necessarily allow her to relax. Sometimes it seemed like she was only able to let go and sleep when surrounded by sheer chaos. Chaos was familiar, and she trusted it... as much as she could trust anything or anyone. She trusted Jax, too – had told him so, in fact, and Tara hadn't been lying, not even to herself, when she had made such a declaration. She had no doubt that, if someone were to try and hurt her, Jax would do whatever he could to protect her. But that willingness to put himself between her and harm was a whole different set of worry. The thought of being the reason why someone else, someone who mattered to her, was hurt terrified Tara.

But she was sick and tired of being scared. Hell, that was why she had picked up her entire life and moved across the country to a little, hole-in-the-wall town that was supposed to offer her the respite of anonymity. Only, Charming in its smallness, was proving to be simply a microcosm of what she had left behind. The same entanglements, and complications, and grayness existed there. In fact, because Tara now felt like a vital part of something significant rather than just a cog in the wheel of a finely honed machine, those entanglements and complications meant more, that grayness was murkier. With each day, she was becoming more and more emotionally invested in the people, things, and places around her, which just meant that, when everything came crumbling down, the pain and devastation would be that much worse.

She couldn't walk away, however. Not only did her career mean more to her than her emotional self-preservation, but Tara realized that she'd rather feel that pain and devastation than feel nothing at all... which just brought her back full circle, because that desire was yet something else to fear. But then Jax shifted in his sleep – his hips lifting and sliding forwards, his body angling towards Abel's incubator just a few degrees more, and Tara sighed, joy singing through her blood and making her feel just that much more alive. Finally, she could fight her body's needs no longer, and her lashes fluttered once, twice, and then closed completely.

Tara managed to hover in that murkiness that was the state between awareness and slumber for less than a minute before all hell broke loose.

The first thing she heard was the aching sobs of a traumatized mother, but then every other sound that accompanied the wreckage of one's world being dismantled settled in as well: rushed, determined footsteps; the looping squeaks of a hospital gurney being wheeled over freshly mopped floors; the quiet words and reverent tones of hospital personnel discussing a case while trying to project confidence and poise, respect in the face of a family's desolation; the hum of, at first, worried on-lookers, and then slowly the din crescendoing into curious gossip, the whispers carrying far more weight and noise than a father's shouts for justice or a victim's screams of pain.

As Tara slipped away from where she had been reclined upon the couch in Abel's room, she came to stand in the open doorway – a silent sentinel to the passing soldiers, their war one she knew all too well. The patient was fortunate in that they were unconscious – whether merely asleep or medically induced, she couldn't tell; the parents obviously relieved that the hospital was slow that evening, no crowd there to witness their little girl's damnation. But that was where her observations stopped. Instead, Tara could see nothing but the ripped clothing, the bruises, the blood.

She'd never been raped, never felt that ultimate destruction of security and self. But Tara was familiar with violation, with intimidation, with feeling as if one's control had been cruelly ripped away from them. She knew the fear of not being able to trust strangers and friends alike, of feeling like one couldn't trust themselves. She understood losing one's very identity in a single, solitary moment, and she understood the sheer amount of will required to fight in an effort to gain it back. She recognized and remembered broken things and broken skin; the blacks, and the blues, and the purples, and the greens, and the yellows, and even the reds of hemorrhages beneath the skin which had been damaged and traumatized by the cruel hands of someone who thought they had a right to control you, to possess you, to overpower you.

Tara felt her breath stutter in her lungs, felt it catch on the suddenly dry skin of her parted and trembling lips. Her heart beat faster, louder, harder, heavier. Dizzy, she rocked back and forth on her unsteady feet, her face and hands prickling painfully as the blood rushed from her extremities. She felt like she needed to throw up – bile rising in her throat to choke her, gag her, burn her from the inside out. Without thought, she brought her left wrist out in front of her torso, the pads of her fingers on her right hand tracing the ghosts of bruises her eyes were seeing once again. Despite the time that had passed, she could still feel the tenderness.

"Tara?" A hand, savage in its deceptively kind and gentle nature, settled upon her shoulder. She gasped in terror, retched on a sob torn from her stinging throat. But then she recognized the touch as Jax's, and the relief that washed through her entire body was so swift in banishing the tension of her anxiety that it left her nearly boneless. She relaxed on a shuddering exhale. Although she didn't give in entirely and lean into Jax's waiting embrace like she wanted to, she did allow his strength and comfort to warm away the lingering chill of her recollection. Still, she didn't say anything, however, and, when Jax next spoke, she could hear the uncertainty and escalating concern in his tone. "Tara?"

"A little girl was just brought in – no more than thirteen, maybe fourteen. She'd been beaten, raped."

Jax didn't offer empty platitudes or ask inane questions like 'will she be alright?,' and, for that, Tara was thankful, her almost instinctual faith in him once more justified. Rather, he quietly, respectfully queried, "your past?"

Slowly, Tara turned around, Jax's hand following the line of her shoulder, her arm, her wrist, her fingers until his touch finally slipped away from her own. Meeting his gaze, she evenly stated, "I wasn't that young, and I stopped it before it went that far, but, yes, my past."

He nodded once. She could see the flare of feeling behind his intense, blue gaze – remorse, fury, regret, that thirst for revenge that drove his character. She also saw admiration and respect. What Tara didn't see was pity or even disgust, which validated her trust and made her realize that Jax was right; someday, she would tell him what had happened to her. But that day was not upon them yet, and Jax didn't press the issue.

Instead, he hitched his head in the direction of the couch, indicating that they should both approach the sofa. They did. Jax allowed Tara to sit first. She choose the far end, curling her legs beneath her and resting the side of her head against the back. Once she was settled, Jax collapsed into the opposite corner – his legs staying out in front of him, though his head moved to reflect her position. Sporadically blinking, they simply watched each other, eventually getting closer and closer to falling asleep. Just before Tara's lids fell for the final time that night, she felt Jax's left fingers wrap through and around those of her right hand. The reassuring weight of his palm stretching from her knuckles to well past her wrist was the final push she needed to let go and relax into slumber.

…

Cooly, dispassionately, Tara observed Wendy Teller as she woke from her sedated detox with a snuffle and a groan, with a painful wince. The blinds were open and the room bright, no doubt an uncomfortable setting for someone who had just overdosed not once but twice. Still, Tara didn't stand to close the shades. Frankly, she needed the light, and Wendy deserved it. As she waited for the other woman to notice her presence, she sat silently – scrub encased legs crossed, forearms resting against the arms of her chair, hands folded in her lap.

As Wendy stretched, she also took in her surroundings. "Jesus," she rasped upon catching sight of Tara. "What the hell?" It was obvious that her throat was dry, that she was thirsty. Wordlessly, Tara rose to pour her a small glass of water, passing it off to the other woman with a nod before reclaiming her seat. Wendy drank it slowly, never once taking her eyes off of Tara. When she was finished, she pushed the empty cup onto her bedside table, laid back down, and demanded, "who the hell are you?"

"I'm Doctor Tara Knowles."

"You're a shrink, right," Wendy guessed, scowling and rolling her eyes. "A different one, because my last talk with one of your kind went so well."

Tara didn't rise to the bitterness, to the bait. "Actually, no. I'm your son, Abel Teller's, surgeon."

"Yeah, I know my own kid's name," Wendy snapped.

"Of course."

"Don't patronize me," the other woman warned, voice rising with irritation. "Just because I'm in this bed doesn't mean..."

"I'm sorry," Tara interrupted, holding her hands out and up in supplication. "My intention was not to upset you."

Wendy calmed somewhat, but she still remained skeptical, on edge. "So, then, what is your intention?"

"I want to talk to you about what happened – about your second overdose."

With narrowed gaze, Wendy challenged, "I thought you said that you weren't a shrink?"

"I'm not."

Abel's mother turned away, stared at the wall opposite of Tara. "Then you have no business here."

"Wendy, I'm not here to hurt you, or to judge you, or to..."

A snort of derision cut Tara off. Dark eyes burning with animosity and self-recrimination flashed in her direction. "Right. You're not here to judge me. The fact that you're here at all, because you're sure as hell not my doctor, says that you already have."

Tara decided to be blunt. "I know you weren't trying to kill yourself, and I know that no friend brought you in that much crank."

"You don't know shit."

She continued undaunted. "So, either someone shot you up with enough meth to kill you, or they guilted you into giving yourself the overdose. Either way, that person needs to pay for their crimes."

With an empty, acidic smile, Wendy suggested, "maybe I just wanted one last high before being shipped off to rehab. Again."

"Your overdose had nothing to do with wanting to get high."

"Yeah, and what do you know about being an addict," Wendy challenged, pushing herself up so that she was more fully alert. She bit her lip in discomfort. "About needing that rush; about being willing to do anything for those few blissful moments of numbness, of feeling nothing? Hell," Wendy scoffed, "I'd bet you've never even smoked a joint before."

"You're right," Tara allowed. "I've never taken drugs to get high before, but that doesn't mean that I don't understand addiction, about craving the rush. There's no greater high than being a surgeon and knowing that a person's life rests in your skills, in your abilities, in your knowledge. That's the best rush ever."

Wendy scoffed, laughing cruelly. "That doesn't make us the same, Doctor Tara Knowles; that makes you a control freak bitch, and that leaves me as the junkie whore that I've always been."

"I see that you've been talking to Gemma."

"Well, for better or worse, and until my divorce papers are finalized, she is my mother-in-law, so, yeah, she's been by a few times."

"Was she here the night you overdosed," Tara inquired. She unfolded her hands. "Did she bring that syringe full of crank to you?" Tara brought her right hand up to her own neck to mimic the bruises on Wendy's skin. "Did she squeeze the life out of you while she threatened you, taunted you, ridiculed you?"

"Even if she did," Wendy fiddled with her own hands – spreading them wide and running her nails between her knuckles, over the webs between her fingers where needles had pierced her skin so many times in the past. "Why do you care?"

"I care because a hospital is supposed to be a safe place. I care because you're the mother of my patient," Tara answered honestly.

Yet, those weren't the only reasons motivating her visit, and Wendy seemed to pick up on what Tara left unsaid. "Oh, I get it," the other woman sneered, shaking her head from side to side in rancorous realization. "You do care – you care a lot, but it sure as hell isn't about me."

Defensively – even when she knew what image the movement presented, Tara still found herself doing it anyway, she folded her arms across her chest. "I don't know what you're..."

"Shut up," Wendy snapped, glaring. "I may be an addict, but I'm not stupid, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't lie right to my face."

"I'm not lying to you when I say that I'm concerned about what happened to you."

"Oh, I know you are," Wendy said, but her tone was anything but tolerant or patient. "Because you care about my husband, and you care about my son, and, now, you want to know just how big of a threat I am to you."

Having been pushed too far, Tara decided that she had been nice long enough. "You're right. Abel is my patient, and Jax is my friend, so, yes, I do care about them, but we both know that you are not a threat, especially to me."

"No," Wendy sang out, drew out. In a smug jibe, she added, "but Gemma is."

"Fine, protect her if you want," Tara said, standing. "But just remember two things: I wasn't the one who wanted you dead." She crossed the room, took hold of the door handle before looking back over her shoulder. "And, if Gemma wants to kill me, it's going to take a hell of a lot more than a syringe full of cheap crank." Tara pulled open the door and lobbed one last, parting remark. "Good luck in rehab, Wendy. Again."

…

"Samcro is going after Tristan Oswald's rapist."

Tara jumped – startled, closing her eyes in frustration. At least she hadn't been holding her patient. Centering herself by placing a gentle hand on the belly and chest of the baby before her in the incubator, Tara counted to ten before turning around, slowly walking away, and closing the door to the nursery behind her. The infants did not need to be subjected to Deputy Chief Hale's brand of justice.

But she wasn't going to bait him, and she wasn't going to allow him to bait her either. After all, when dealing with the Charming Deputy Chief, Tara had quickly realized that he wouldn't take the vexation she caused him out on her; he'd take it out on Jax. "I am not assigned to Miss Oswald's case. I know neither her nor her family, and I am not privy to any information regarding what may or may not have happened to her. I'm sorry, but I cannot help you."

Tara moved to walk away, but Hale followed after her. "Can't or won't," he queried several steps behind her rapid pace.

Due to the sensitive nature of what they were discussing – the last thing Tristan Oswald needed was for an entire hospital floor to overhear the man investigating her rape sprout off details that were nobody's business but those involved, Tara stopped, waited for the police officer to get within a few feet of her before quietly responding, "if I could help, I would." Emphasizing her next words, Tara enunciated carefully. "But I can't."

"You have eyes; you have ears."

She couldn't help but taunt, "those are very astute observations, Deputy Chief, but I fail to see your point."

"My point is that, if you would see or hear something that could help with this case, you need to contact me."

"Or somebody else in your department, of course," she suggested with guile and a deceptively innocent grin. "Maybe I'll just talk to Mr. Oswald himself and allow him to decide what to do with any information I may or may not see or hear."

Hale narrowed his gaze at her in suspicion. "Just what game exactly are you playing, Dr. Knowles?"

"This isn't a game," she retorted shortly.

"At least we agree about one thing."

"I just don't trust you," Tara continued. "I don't trust you to do your job impartially, and I don't trust you not to selfishly use that badge you wear so proudly on your chest to your own ends."

Hale took a step forward trying to crowd her, trying to intimidate her. His voice, when he spoke, was low with menace. "And you think, if Jax and the club were to get their hands on Tristan's rapist first, that they would do what's best for that little girl?" Before she could respond, the cop continued, "you know that they'll kill him, and that's not going to help anybody."

"But it would stop him from ever hurting anybody else again, now, wouldn't it?"

He looked taken aback by her response. "As a doctor, you would actually condone murder?"

"But that's just it," Tara argued, looking the Deputy Chief directly in the eye. To do so, she had to tilt her head back at a less than comfortable angle. "I'm not just a doctor, and life's not as cut and dried as you'd like to believe it is. I'm also a woman, and, someday, I want to be a wife and a mother, too. Life's also complicated, and messy, and too big for us to ever fully understand. Do I condone murder? No. But, if one man putting down some sick freak helps a little girl and her family sleep better at night, then I could see how somebody else might."

Hale tried one last tactic. "Samcro isn't the law."

"I think they're well aware of the fact. You remind them of it enough, after all," Tara pointed out.

He seemed to bristle at her words, but he didn't back down. "They can't be allowed to run around this town playing judge, jury, and executioner."

Before Tara could respond, her cell phone rang. Stepping away and reaching into the right pocket of her lab coat, she removed it, checked the number. She didn't recognize who was calling, but that wasn't rare given her policy regarding communication with the families of her patients. She saved all the numbers they provided her with, but sometimes questions came up at work, or at a relative's, or when they didn't have reception, and a parent didn't wait until they could use a number she would have programmed into her cell to call. Why should they? "Hello, this is Doctor Tara Knowles."

There was a sigh on the other end of the line, and it made the hair rise on the back of Tara's neck. "It's been a long time since..."

She snapped her phone shut, cutting off anything else the voice – that voice, his voice – was going to say. With shaking hands, Tara slipped her cell back into her pocket. It wasn't until Hale spoke from behind her that she remembered where she was, what she had been doing, who she was standing with.

"Are you alright?" She didn't like the man, but she could tell that his concern was genuine.

Still, though, Tara was not about to confide in Charming PD's second-in-command. "Just a..." She cleared her throat, shook away any lingering unease. Meeting Hale's worried gaze, she assured him, "just a wrong number."

"Okay," the Deputy Chief said carefully. Tara could tell that he didn't believe her, but she didn't care. "You know, though, if it ever was something else – something more, that you could come to me, and I'd help you, no hard feelings about our little battle of wills." And he gestured between them, indicating their animosity that had been present since the day they met.

"I do." And she did... if for no other reason than Hale would love to lord Tara asking him for help over Jax. Haltingly, she added, "thanks."

He nodded once and then walked away.

Tara waited until she could no longer see the cop before she, too, left, electing to duck into the chapel where she hoped she'd find a little privacy. It was empty. Retrieving her cell phone once again, she dialed on instinct. It took three rings for him to answer.

"Hey?"

"Hi. It's not a bad time, is it? I'm not bothering you, am I?"

"No, it's cool." She could hear voices in the background. "What's up?"

"You're busy," she said instead of answering him or asking what she actually called about. "I know you're looking for that rapist, and it was presumptuous of me to call. Just forget..."

"Tara," Jax interrupted. She heard both exasperation and pleasure when he said her name. "It's fine," he stressed both words. "What's going on?"

"Hale was just here, asking questions about Tristan Oswald."

"Shit," he swore. "I didn't think you were working her case?"

"I'm not," she responded. "But that wasn't a concept Charming's Deputy Chief seemed capable of grasping. He insisted, if I were to see or hear anything regarding his investigation, that I was to inform him. I don't think it's likely to happen, but, just in case, I thought I'd see if there was actually someone on the police force that I could trust if I were to learn anything of value." She felt guilty for using the Oswald girl's situation as her cover story, and she didn't like withholding the true reason behind her inquiry from Jax, but Tara did need to know if there was an honest cop in Charming, and she told herself that Jax was better off not knowing what really was motivating her.

"Call Unser if you get anything," Jax answered.

"Should I let you know as well?"

"Nah," he replied, and Tara noticed that the background noise had gotten less and less during their conversation, like Jax had moved away from whomever he was with. "I wouldn't want you to put yourself in that kind of position, Tara. Besides," and he chuckled. "If it's something we need to know, Unser will tell us."

"Alright, and thanks," she said, knowing their call was coming to a close. "Good luck, I guess?"

Jax simply responded with, "I'll see you tonight." And then he hung up.

Nodding once, Tara was already dialing again as she walked out of the chapel. She had a cop to track down.

…

"Chief Unser?"

"God damn it," the short in stature, balding man before her cursed as he thew his towel down upon his lap. "Can't a man get five minutes of...," he continued to grumble until he finally looked at Tara, recognizing that he didn't know her. "I'm sorry." The older man smiled politely. "How can I help you, young lady... or should I say doctor, judging by those green pajamas you're wearing?"

"Doctor Tara Knowles," she confirmed, returning his grin with a slight one of her own. "I apologize for bothering you when you're not at work."

"Don't worry about it," he assured her, waving off her regret. "I'm the one who should be apologizing – for barking at you. You see, I thought you were one of the department secretaries, harassing me about an idiot jaywalker or something equally as pointless. What can I help you with, sweetheart?"

"It's silly, really," Tara immediately dismissed.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that."

"Alright," she agreed. "Well, a friend of mine said that I could trust you."

"That's a good start," Chief Unser prompted her. "Trust me with what exactly?"

"Okay, this is going to sound worse than it actually is," Tara warned, "but, if I had a restraining order against someone in another city, would it still apply here?"

The suddenly worried man picked up his towel and wiped off his face. "Are you in some kind of danger? Is somebody threatening you?"

"No, I just..." Wringing her hands together and licking her lips, Tara paused and regrouped. "Would it still be valid?"

"Well, I really couldn't say," he told her, and she could sense that he didn't like not knowing the answer to her question, that he couldn't tell her what she needed and wanted to hear. "It would depend upon when and where the order was issued." Narrowing his gaze, the chief observed her closely. "Do you think this person is coming here to Charming?"

Trying to affect self-possession and a calm she didn't feel, Tara said, "I'm sure I'm just being paranoid. It's this guy I dated once. When I tried to end things... Anyway, it was just a phone call. I'm probably over-reacting."

"Just to be safe, if you want to give me his name, I'll run him – see what I can find out about this restraining order and make sure that you really are safe here."

"No, that's okay. I wouldn't want you to go to the trouble."

"Trust me, sweetheart," Unser promised. "It wouldn't be any trouble." Whereas if anyone else were to call her sweetheart, Tara would take it as demeaning, but, with the chief, it just seemed... nice. He was an amiable older gentleman. While Tara had no doubt that he could be just as cunning as the next guy if need be, there was also this overwhelming sense of kindness to Wayne Unser.

"Thank you, but no."

"Well, I'm still going to do a little poking around," he told her, nodding once to accentuate his own conclusion. "I have your name, if nothing else, so I'll just see if anything pops." Before she could respond, he changed topics. "Do you mind if I ask who this friend was?"

"It doesn't..."

"It was Jax Teller, wasn't it," Chief Unser answered his own question. Tara had no idea how he knew that, and he seemed to sense her bewilderment, for he chuckled. "I have stage three cancer, so I spend a little time at the hospital, and I long ago decided that it was better for Charming if I were to work with Samcro rather than against them. You're his kid, Abel's, doctor, right?"

"I am."

"Tell Jax what's going on," Unser instructed her. "While I appreciate you coming to me with this, if anyone can keep you safe, it's Jax."

"It's not like...," she started to explain, but then she changed tactics. "That wouldn't be very professional."

"Yeah, well, you can't be professional if you're dead, sweetheart, and, if you were afraid of this ex of yours enough to take out a restraining order, and he just called you, then I'd say it's time to forget about being professional and, instead, focus on self-preservation."

The bell above the barber shop's door rang, signaling that there was a new arrival, but Tara didn't pull her gaze away from the very forthright and very forward chief's. "Give us a... Tara?"

She bit the inside of her mouth to keep from reacting, closing her eyes for just a second in self-admonishment. "Anyway, thanks for your time, Chief Unser. It was nice to meet you. If I see or hear anything about the Oswald case, I'll let you know."

Tara nodded in recognition when she walked by Jax, but, otherwise, she didn't address him. As she was leaving, she heard Unser say, "you keep an eye on that girl, Jax. She's running scared from something."

"Yeah," Jax agreed tightly. "I know." She could feel his eyes burning into her back as he watched her. But she never turned around, and she didn't stop. "And I will."

She shouldn't have found his promise as comforting as she did.

…

If the last few evenings once more proved to be a habit that night, she and Jax would end up talking late and then falling asleep in Abel's hospital room. With this in mind, Tara had forgone jeans and, instead, elected to slip on a pair of yoga pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt after showering following her shift. There was no sense being uncomfortable, and she was far passed the point where she felt the need and was much too secure to primp for the boy she liked.

Not that anything was going to happen between she and Jax, Tara was still sticking with that denial.

As she rounded the corner to head down the hallway towards Abel's room, Tara wasn't expecting to see Jax until she stepped inside. She knew he was there. After word spread that the Oswald family was finally talking to the police but that Deputy Chief Hale's jeep had been sabotaged so he couldn't leave the hospital right away to make his arrest, Tara had known that Jax had gotten to the rapist first. That had been several hours earlier, and the Sons of Anarchy wouldn't need that much time to deal with a sick and twisted pervert who attacked little girls. But Jax wasn't inside his son's NICU room. Instead, he was sitting out in the hallway – on the floor, feet braced against the tile and knees bent for his elbows to rest upon... much like he had been sitting the night they ate dinner together outside on the loading dock.

"Jax," she questioned, approaching him. He didn't look up, just rotated his head around so that he could peer through his long hair. Without thought of how their appearance together might look and without second guessing what she was about to do, Tara knelt down beside him, using her index finger to gather and push his blonde locks back behind his left ear. "What's going on? Why are you sitting out here and not inside with Abel?"

"It doesn't feel right," he confessed on a whisper, "going to him every night with blood on my hands."

So, the rapist was dead.

While Tara hated to see how heavily Jax's guilt was weighing upon him, she struggled to piece together any of her own remorse for the murdered man. She did, however, regret how it was affecting Jax. "She was a thirteen year old girl. I don't think anybody would hold this blood against you." Looking around them to make sure that nobody was watching or listening in on their conversation, Tara didn't see anybody, but that didn't mean that she felt they were safe to talk out there in the open either. "Come on," she insisted, wrapping her hands around his arm – one above and one just below his elbow – and pulling him up with her. Luckily, Jax cooperated, standing, because there was no way she would have been able to move him without his combined effort.

Once they were inside, she closed the door securely behind them. "It's done, then? I take it Elliott got his revenge?" He shot her a puzzled look. Tara shrugged self-effacingly. "People talk."

After a brief moment, he scuffed his dusty, white tennis shoes against the floor, looking down at his feet as he said, "he couldn't do it."

"So, the guy isn't...?"

"Clay did it for him," Jax interrupted. Then, his tone turned resentful. "Clay did it for himself."

Tara shook her head and admitted, "I don't understand."

Jax licked his top lip, ran his teeth over the bottom, raising his brows in emphasis. "Elliott Oswald is a very rich and powerful man, which makes him a great blackmail mark." They were facing towards each other – Tara just inside the door, Jax further into the room with his back towards his son's incubator. But then he moved, his wide steps eating up the distance between Abel and the couch in a matter of seconds. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the sofa. "I had no problem hunting that animal down so Oswald could get whatever kind of justice he needed. It was his kid who got hurt. But Clay...?" He grimaced, shook his head in unreleased wrath. "Clay had us out searching for this guy, and the whole time he had an ulterior motive. Either way, he'd get what he wanted, too. Either Oswald would kill the pig, and Clay'd be able to hold that debt over his head, or he wouldn't, and Clay would do it for him and still walk away with blackmail material." Sitting back and exhaling harshly, Jax admitted, "we had no business getting involved in this mess. Vengeance is a daunting responsibility, one we're not up to the task of."

Tara chose that moment to cross the room towards Jax, sitting down close beside him, though she made sure they didn't touch. "Oh, I don't know. What you just said there? It was pretty wise, competent."

Jax looked at her, grinned wryly. "My words, not my idea." Catching her off guard by the shift in topic, he nodded his head towards his little boy. "Do you think he can hear us?"

"I do."

"So, then, maybe I should start reading to him?"

Tara smiled widely, proudly. "I can get you some books from the nursery."

"Nah." And Jax lifted a hand, patting it against his chest where she realized he had something beneath his fastened kutte. "I brought something with me. It's something I found when Abel was born. I've been reading it a lot lately. My dad wrote it... about Samcro – about the mistakes he made and the things he wanted to change."

"I think that – you reading this, your father's words, to Abel – will be good for the both of you."

"And you, too. You're staying, right?" She nodded her assent, and he gave her a fleeting yet pleased smile in return. A comfortable silence fell between them. Minutes went by. It was companionable and relaxing, Tara getting better situated on the sofa. Her lids were just about ready to droop shut when she felt Jax's touch upon her left hand, his fingers tenderly tracing the lines of her own digits. She snapped to attention, her gaze locking onto how their skin looked side by side, embracing, flowing together and then ebbing apart. "I can't imagine having a daughter. With Abel, it's different. I love him, and I want to protect him, but a daughter? I don't think I could handle that. If something like what happened to Tristan happened to my little girl...?"

Tara considered what he had said. "I don't know... I could see you with a daughter. She'd control you from the moment she drew her first breath on, but it'd be sweet... until she wanted to start dating. Then it would just become scary."

"No, what's scary is the idea of a little Wendy or, worse, a miniature Gemma."

Despite the heavy and sensitive nature of what had prompted their teasing, Tara was enjoying it, and she didn't want the lighter moment to fade away too quickly. Bumping her shoulder against Jax's, she cajoled, "come on, she could just as easily turn out like your favorite elementary school teacher, or your first crush, or..."

"Or like you, Tara."

She went completely still in shock, all traces of humor fleeing until she tried to force some levity and laughed. It was a poor imitation. "When I think about having a daughter someday, I really hope she's not like me, that she doesn't make my same mistakes."

Jax allowed the delicate moment and her reaction to it to slide. "You want kids, though?"

"I do. But children change... everything."

Once more, he shifted the subject. "Wendy's going to rehab."

"I know." Tara closed her eyes in realization of what she had just admitted.

"You two talked?"

"I'm Abel's doctor; she's Abel's mother. It seemed... necessary."

"Yeah, I guess," Jax agreed, shrugging unconcerned. "I told her what happened to Abel wasn't her fault."

"That was kind of you," she praised.

"It's the truth." He shrugged, leaned back, but, still, Jax never let go of her hand. "I'd filed for divorce before Wendy got pregnant. But then she got clean, and we reconciled... even though I knew that I didn't want to be married to her. When she found out she was pregnant, I was already gone again, and I was pissed – didn't want anything to do with either her or the kid." Shaking his head in accusation, Jax admitted, "if I'd stayed, maybe Wendy wouldn't have relapsed."

"You can't be the reason for someone else's sobriety." When Jax looked at her curiously, Tara reminded him, "drunk daddy, remember? No," she pressed, twisting so as to bring her legs up and to the side, burrowing deeper into the couch. "If you would have stayed, you all would have been miserable. Maybe Abel wouldn't have been born premature or with a tear in his abdomen, but he still would have been hurt... just in a different way. And you never know. That could have been worse."

"Yeah, the kid got dealt a pretty shitty hand – a junkie mom and a deadbeat dad."

"Maybe at first," Tara allowed. Her honesty drew Jax's gaze away from Abel's incubator and towards her face. "But, Jax, you've come so far with him. Without prompting, you're thinking about what you have to do to take care of him. You're asking about his future eating habits, and you're bringing in things to read to him."

"Tara, it's not a children's book; it's the rambling thoughts of a dead man about an outlaw motorcycle club."

"Sure sounds a hell of a lot more interesting to me than See Spot Run."

"You say that now..." After playfully warning her, he unsnapped his kutte, removing a faded, unbound stack of typed pages. Jax shifted, lifted his hips up slightly to resituate himself, his right hand letting go of her so as to rest the length of his arm along the back of the couch. With his left, Jax removed the title page, setting it aside face down on the cushion beside him. Clearing his throat, he started reading. Tara closed her eyes to listen. "'Sometimes things start with a good idea. You realize there is a need, and you come up with an answer to that need. Other times, things just begin.

"The Sons of Anarchy was the name I came up with...'"