A/N: This gives a glimpse into the origin of the animosity between the Mayans and SAMCRO which will definitely be a part of the present day story through out. It's also a flashback to part of the reason JT grew conflicted with his lifestyle choices.

EXTRASODE: "I Promise"


"Mommy, can I have more juice?"

"More juice what?" Gemma Teller prompted. Smiling down at her son, she brought a hand up to rest on her hip, one eyebrow cocked.

Thomas' eyes flitted up toward the dining room ceiling, his tiny, bow lips pursed as he tried to figure out what his mother wanted.

Leaning over towards him, Jackson placed one hand on his younger brother's shoulder, the other reaching to curve around the five year olds ear as he whispered the magic word to him.

Little Tommy's eyes lit up. He cast a grateful smile towards the ten year old sitting next to him before looking back up at his patiently waiting mother.

"Mommy, can I have more juice..please?"

Gemma beamed at her eldest child before nodding her head at the youngest. "Of course you can, sweetheart," she cooed, ruffling his already unruly blonde head. "I'll go get it and you make sure you finish your sandwhich, okay?"

Thomas nodded. "Yes, M'am."

Gemma headed back towards the kitchen, smiling to herself as she turned the corner.

She'd just pulled the container of juice from the middle shelf in the refrigerator when the loud bang of a gunshot sounded from the front of the house.

She could hear the crackle of splintering wood, the resounding boom of the front door being knocked off its hinges—it was the perfect score, background music for when she immediately yanked the kitchen drawer open, pulling a .22 from underneath the case of forks and spoons.

Sliding the safety off with as much as ease as blinking her eyes, Gemma quickly rounded the corner, rushing from behind the tiny patch of wall that blocked her view of the dining room—where her children sat at the table.

It was almost magnetic the way the gun in her hand automatically found the sweet spot on her target.

But that same hand began twitching, her whole body starting to shake. There was a tingling in her fingers, traveling up her arm, shooting through every vein. The numbness, the chill wrapped around her heart, making her stomach churn. Her chest felt tighter the longer she stared at him—her eyes were glued to the Mayan prospect aiming a gun at her ten year old son.

She could hear Thomas crying. And she could practically feel the shudders coursing through his pint-sized body—but she couldn't see him.

Jackson's shoulders shook as he stood tall as he could manage, chin up as he blocked Thomas with his body, shielding his younger brother from the man with his hand on the trigger.

"You're making a big mistake," Gemma warned, her finger tapping against her own trigger. "Does your boss know you're here? Threatening the family of a son? Threatening John Teller's Old lady and her—"

"—Cayate!" The young Mayan prospect scowled. "Quit trying to scare me with your credentials, bitch. Your status don't mean shit outside of Charming"

"We're in Charming, asshole," Gemma barked. "You're in my town and you're gonna have my Old Man to answer to if—"

"—your husband made a shitty call yesterday," the prospect taunted. "siding with the one-niners puts us at odds, mami."

"There is no us for you," Gemma scolded. "No we... Right now you're just some grunt trying to earn your patch. You trying to get a gold star by bringing in the SAMCRO President's Old lady? Coming for me is a big move, sweetheart. And you wetbacks always keep shit interesting…but your initiation has nothing to do with my kids. Leave them out of it."

"You think I give a shit about your kids?" The Mayan aimed the gun higher, moving up from Jax's chest, towards his face. "You think I never killed a kid before?"

"Alright," Gemma said, aiming her gun away from him. Holding both arms out on either side of her, she slowly walked towards him. "I'll go with you. Consider your initiation in the bag…just leave them here. Leave my sons out of it…I'm not going to fight you," she said, moving as close to him as she could without the gun suddenly being aimed her way tapping against her forehead. Slowly, she made a show of sitting the gun in her hand down at the head of the table where her husband always sat—where the stood now, on the opposite end of the room where her children were.

"Hurting children?" Gemma shook her head, her expression not unlike one she'd give Thomas when explaining something his naïve mind could never truly wrap his head around. "I don't think that's what Alvarez had in mind…that's a lot of blowback, sweetheart. Not just from SAMCRO…we're outlaws but certain things we just don't do…"

There was a split second when he seemed conflicted on how he wanted to proceed with the situation he'd created.

Anyone who truly knew Gemma Teller would have never made that mistake.

His brief moment of confliction was the distraction she needed to launch herself at him, immediately grabbing the hand he held the gun in as her abandoned one skirted to the floor with a clang that went unnoticed. Ramming an elbow hard into the young man's chest, both her hands gripped his one as she aimed the gun upwards.

Both children on the other side of the table jumped as bullets ripped through the ceiling, sheetrock raining down over their heads, the chandelier above the dining room table crashing down in the center of the mahogany oak.

Two more rounds pierced through the dining room wallpaper before the Mayan managed to overpower her. He sent Gemma flying backwards, cracking the gun against the side of her jaw. Blood sprayed from her mouth, against the shiny hardwood floors.

"LEAVE HER ALONE!" Jackson screamed over Thomas' wailing cry.

The young prospect made his second mistake as his head jerked towards the ten year old hopping up on top of the table, running across it, towards him.

Whether it was the pure rage in the kids' eyes, nature's ingrained instincts—or a combination of the two, the Mayan turned the gun still in his hand on the boy charging across the table.

"NO!" Gemma yelled. She reached up for him, grabbed him by the ends of his leather Kutte just as he pulled the trigger.

The Mayan squeezed the trigger once.

Then again.

Then two times more.

The guns click finally registered after the fourth attempt. Realizing he was empty, he dropped the pistol quickly, pulling a knife from inside his kutte.

Jackson never stopped running. He was still coming for his mother when the gun was aimed at his chest. And when the gun hit the floor he was already jumping over the chandelier, wrapping his arms around the Mayan's neck—knocking the knife from his hand in the process.

Gemma pulled his legs from under him. She was so focused on protecting her kids she realized too late that her action would hurt Jax.

The ten year old fell against the table, the back of his head hitting the edge.

"JACKSON!" she screamed.

"JACK!" Thomas squealed, crawling towards his big brother from underneath the table where he'd quietly sat on top of his mother's gun.

Gemma reached for her eldest child, pulling him towards her. Stroking the scarlet-red soaking into the blonde hair at the back of Jax's head, she was too lost in motherly concern to remember the man towering over her. She winced, cringing at the sharp pain shooting through every nerve ending in her own head when the Mayan grabbed her by her hair, yanking hard.

He dragged her backwards, one hand reached to grip tightly around her neck. Tears rolled down her face, the glassiness to her eyes blurring the view of Thomas pulling on Jax's shirt as he struggled with getting up to help her and leaving his hysterical baby brother underneath the table.

Gemma scratched at his calloused fingers, nails clawing at his grip on her throat.

"You're dead, you hear me, punta?" The prospect yelled over Thomas' screaming. Pulling her up he shoved her into the living room. The force of his push sent her flipping over the arm of the couch, landing face first into the coffee table, shattering the glass. "As soon as Marcus gives me the okay, I'm gonna—MOTHERFUCKER!"

The adrenaline keeping her from passing out was slowly losing its power. It took just about every ounce of energy in her body for Gemma to lift her head up to see the source of the Mayan's sudden anguished yelp.

It wasn't the bloodcurdling pain shooting through her temple—it was the shock of what she was seeing that nearly rendered her unconscious.

Jackson, her ten year old son was pulling the Mayan's blade from the man's shoulder, his feet planting firmly back on the ground as he landed from his jump.

It was eerie, chilling, almost terrifying how much young Jax resembled his father as he glared at the man towering above him.

"Leave my mommy alone!" Jax shouted, slashing at the back of his neck as he continued to jump up and down, instinctively trying to puncture anything vital that wasn't shielded by thick leather.

The Mayan spun around. Awareness flashed in Jax's eyes. Knowing he was seconds away from losing the only weapon he had, the blue-eyed boy raised his arm and plunged down with all his might, lodging the knife in the Mayan's thigh.

"HIJO DE PUTA!" the man screamed. Leaning forward, he put full force behind the blow as he swung his elbow at him, knocking Jax in the face.

Between his own outcry of pain as he pulled the knife from his leg, Thomas's scream-crying behind the couch and Gemma shouting "I'M GOING TO FUCKIN KILL YOU," no one heard the rumbling of the motorcycle outside the unhinged front door.

Or the footsteps that followed when the engine died.

The prospect was wielding the bloody knife in his hand, pulling a dazed Jax up by the collar of his shirt when gunshots rang out in the Teller residence once more.

More engines died. And more footsteps sounded.

John Teller's were the first to land near the patch of carpet where his eldest son leaned back against the front end of the couch, his eyes shutting.

JT sank to his knees. "Jax!" he grunted out, shaking him slightly as his eyelids fluttered. "Jackson! Are you okay, son?"

Jax's blue eyes widened as he abruptly came to. Squirming out of his father's grasp, he stumbled three times before finally reaching his destination—behind the couch where Thomas' hiccups were at war with the cry ripping through his hoarse throat.

"You okay, Tommy?" Jackson asked, boring into his baby brother's face. The crying Old lady and the husband consoling her were dead to his world. All he could focus on was Thomas.

"You're bleeding, Jack," Thomas choked out, his little fingers rubbing his older brother's swollen jaw.

"I'm okay."

Thomas shook his head, shrieking, "you and mommy—"

"—Dad's here," Jackson explained. "We're safe now, Tommy. I promise, Okay? Promise."

"Pinky promise?" Thomas held out the smallest finger on his right hand.

Jackson winced as he tried and failed to smile. He held up his own pinky, twisting it around his brother's. "Pinky promise."

"Okay."

The word okay was a hiccup.

And it was the final sound Thomas made before his hand, and the body connected to it collapsed, his eyes rolling back as he fell into his big brother's chest.

"Tommy?" Jackson shook him the same way his father did to him. "Thomas? Tommy! DADDY!"

Jackson's scream was an earsplitting screech that had every adult in the room running towards them.

Gemma pushed through, her husband falling to the floor right beside her. Jackson scooted backwards—his blue eyes wide in fear.

She laid him on his back, softly letting his head drop against the carpet. Pressing an ear to his chest, one finger pressed against his tiny wrist, Gemma's eyes were just as wide as her sons.

"He's barely breathing, John!" she croaked.

"SHIT!" Happy Lowman hissed from the other side of the couch.

"Mother of Christ!" Chibs yelled at the same time.

Bobby already had his phone out, dialing three numbers before Tig grabbed his wrist.

"What the hell are you doing, brother?" Tig scolded. "We got a dead Mayan in the middle of the living room."

"We're gonna have a dead SON if you don't back the hell off!" Piney grunted, shoving Tig aside. "Call them!"

"Gem, let Chibs check him, We'll get Thomas to the h—" Clays suggestion was cut short as the dark-haired woman glowered up at him, her voice a guttural growl.

"GET ME SOMEBODY WITH A FUCKIN M.D YOU FUCKIN MORON!"

"Call it in, Bobby!" John ordered.

Bobby pressed send on the flip phone. Pacing back and forth as the 911 operator picked up the call, he both gave and received directions—which he repeated for Chibs' benefit as the Scotsman gently pushed through the troubled parents on the living room floor.

"This is me," Gemma cried, placing a hand over Thomas' barely moving chest. "It's the family curse…"

"He's gonna be okay, Gem," JT declared. He looked over at his other son. He lifted the hand that wasn't caressing the blonde locks of Thomas' hair to brush a thumb through the steady trail of silent tears rolling down Jackson's face.

"He's going to be okay, son," JT assured him. "Look at me," he ordered, while simultaneously gripping his trembling chin to turn his face towards him. "Thomas is going to be...just fine, Jackson. I promise."

Jackson was too old for Pinky promises.

But God bless his heart, he really missed the comfort they used to bring him.