Thanks for the reviews, loves! Happy reading. (I say that sort of ironically.)

there are good days
and they come and go and never seem to last
and the bad days
when they come around
always kick the good days' ass into the ground
Bob Schneider, "The Way Life is Supposed to Be"

When the call came over the radio Eli immediately recognized Olivia Gable's address. His first thought was a domestic, but he dismissed that quickly. That Ortiz kid was way too hung up on her to lift a hand, and if he did she'd probably cut it off with that (illegal) switchblade she carried. On second thought maybe a domestic wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility.

He was on that side of town anyway, so he radioed in that he was responding. When he asked for more details dispatch didn't have any. Just a 911 call, she said. No further information.

He frowned and flipped on the lights and siren. Olivia had sounded strange on the phone yesterday, like maybe she had something to worry about. He'd done a little digging after they hung up and some things just didn't quite come together the way he might want. First, he couldn't find any paper anywhere on the new deal she'd made with Potter. Second, there were a bunch of weird-ass messages in his inbox from Atlanta asking all sorts of questions. None of them mentioned an arrest; mostly they just seemed concerned with her present whereabouts.

He screeched to a stop in front of her house, and a quick glance showed her front door hanging open. He let out a curse and pulled his piece before he jumped from the car. Three men were halfway down the block, running hard toward an old brown van. He called in a foot pursuit and set off after them.

"Sheriff's department!" he yelled. "Stop where you are!"

One of them glanced back, but they didn't stop. They were at the van, and as the taillights flicked on he caught a glimpse of the license plate. It was obscured by dust and mud, but he thought he could make out the first few letters.

"Three suspects, male, race unknown, fleeing the scene in a brown van, partial license Ida Charlie Zebra. Suspects did not appear to be armed," he barked into the radio. He holstered his weapon and turned back toward the house. Obviously Olivia hadn't been with them, which made him think this was more inline with the recent home invasions than a strike by Mick Doyle.

He let dispatch know he was going inside, and before he mounted the front steps he pulled his gun again. It was possible there had been more of them. Unlikely, but possible.

The house was small, and while he suspected that she normally kept it neat, the intruders had ransacked it. There was blood on the porch, and a trail that led down the hall and into the bathroom. He didn't pause there, but instead surveyed the bedroom and even checked the closets before he came back to it.

He pushed the door open with the barrel of his gun. It drifted partway before it hit something. He flipped on the light.

"Goddammit," he muttered. He stowed his gun and knelt next to her. Her pulse was sluggish and she'd lost a lot of blood from a nasty gash on her forehead. More blood was smeared across the floor, and he thought that was probably from whoever had bled his way down her hall. Her knife was near the toilet, and its blade gave answer to one question: she'd fought back, and hard.

He called for backup, a crime scene team, and an ambulance. She was dressed only in a bathrobe, and it was mostly off. He scowled and pulled it up to cover her. There was a darkening bruise on her face and around one wrist, but he couldn't see any other injuries. He grabbed a towel from the cabinet and pressed it against her forehead. The blood had slowed, but head wounds were always a mess.

"What the hell were you thinkin'? I told you it was dangerous out here," he said. "If you die from this I'm gonna be really fuckin' pissed off. As it is I'm keepin' your car an extra week."

Fury surged through him and he punched the bathtub hard enough to leave his knuckles aching. "Fucking SAMCRO," he said. "Goddamn poisonous sons a'bitches."

"Yo, boss!"

Eli frowned and turned toward the voice in the hallway. One of his deputies stood there with a scowl on his face. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Got one of 'em out here. Kickin' up a fuss."

He didn't have to ask one of what. SAMCRO. Of course. "Which one?" he said with a weary sigh.

The deputy swirled his hand around his head. "Stupid mohawk. Tribal shit on his head."

Eli grunted, unsurprised. "Yeah, I'm coming." He flipped his notepad closed and shoved it in his pocket. "Make sure you get shots of the blood trail down the hall," he told the photographer. One last glance back at the bathroom and he followed his deputy out into the yard.

They had Juice cuffed and shoved against a patrol car. He was yelling and kicking, and two deputies were trying to wrestle him into the backseat. Eli hustled over and held up a hand.

"Hang on," he said. "Hang on."

"He took a swing at me," the taller of the two said. "Asshole's outta his mind."

"What the fuck happened here?" Juice yelled at Eli. "Where's Olivia? Get these dickheads off me!"

Eli sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he looked up his dark gaze was stern. "Calm the fuck down, Ortiz. I'm gonna take these cuffs off and explain what's going on, but you got to promise me you'll calm the fuck down."

Juice lurched away from the deputy holding him and gave a stuttering nod. "She's okay, right? Just tell me that."

Eli gestured for them to uncuff him, and the deputy did so reluctantly. "Call your people," he said. "Ambo left here about five minutes ago."

"Ambo? Fuck. Where, Saint Thomas?"

"Yep. Make the call and then one of these guys will escort you inside. Gonna need to ask you a few questions."

"Wait!" Juice said as he turned away. "How bad? Did they…?"

Eli shook his head. "She was unconscious when they took her out. Looks like she hit her head on the tub. That and a busted up wrist…seemed about it." He didn't mention how he'd found her, crumpled on the floor half wrapped in a bathrobe. Despite her state of undress he hadn't seen any obvious signs of sexual assault. The doctors would know more after they examined her, but it was, for now, the one reassurance he could offer.

Eli left him with the glowering deputy. Juice pulled out his phone and stared down at it. Who? Jax? Gemma? He jerked his head and flipped the phone open. Chibs. He'd get the word out and would understand that Juice didn't have the patience for a shit ton of questions.

When he answered Juice didn't waste time with formalities. "Someone broke into Olivia's house. Roosevelt's here. She's on the way to Saint Thomas now."

"What? Wait, slow down. What happened?"

He bit off a sigh. "Olivia was attacked, Chibs. I don't know how bad. He just said she was unconscious and they got her in an ambulance. I gotta stay here a minute, answer some questions I guess, but somebody needs to get down there."

Chibs said something to someone in the room with him and Juice could hear a muffled explosion of curses. "Hang on, Juicy boy. I'm on my way to you. Bobby and Tiggy are headed to the hospital."

"Somebody better call Gemma."

"Aye. Jackie, too. Don't worry, laddie. Go answer the copper's questions so you can get to your girl."

"Yeah. Thanks, Chibs. See you soon." He hung up before the other man could answer and turned to the deputy. "Let's go," he said.

He offered a pair of blue cloth booties and Juice snapped them on over his boots. They stepped inside and he looked around with a growing sense of fury. The assholes had trashed the place. Her books had been knocked off the shelves and lay scattered across the living room floor. The handmade afghan that she kept draped over her sofa was in tatters. The painting above the fireplace hung at a crazy angle and the glass was cracked.

Eli pointed out the blood trail on the floor to make sure Juice didn't step in it.

"Is that hers?" he said, choking a little.

"That? No." He held up an evidence bag with a bloody knife. "Look familiar?"

Juice let out a huff of strained laughter. "So she got one of 'em."

"Would seem so." He paused. "There were three of them. I got here as they were fleeing the scene. Big guys." He passed the evidence bag off to the deputy and waved him away. "That girl does not fuck around."

"Nah," Juice said. "You got that right." He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his cut. "What the fuck happened here? This Doyle's guys?"

"Don't know for sure, but I'm thinking no. A little too unprofessional for his people. And, besides, why would they leave her?"

"So the home invasions then?"

"Yep. Looks like. I was hopin' you could tell me if anything's missing."

"I don't know, man. Place's a mess."

"She have any valuables? Jewelry?"

He shook his head as he thought about it. "No, not really." He frowned. "Yeah, wait, one thing. A gold necklace. A cross. It was her mom's. She never wore it, but she kept it for, you know, the sentimental value. She kept it in a wood jewelry box on her dresser."

"Hhmm," Eli said. He made a note of it on his pad. "Didn't see any jewelry box back there. Walk with me."

They started down the hall, and as they approached the bathroom Eli gestured for the crime tech to close the door. He tried, but Juice noticed the exchange and surged forward only to stop short in the doorway.

"Holy shit," he breathed. "This the guy's blood, too?"

"No," Eli said, his voice somber. "Well, some. But a lot of it's hers." He pointed to the edge of the tub. "Looks like she hit her head there and that's what knocked her out. I don't have to tell you how head wounds bleed."

His face was ashen, his expression stunned. "She was—Jesus Christ, Eli, she was breathin' when they took her out…right?"

"Yeah, man. Like I told you, she was unconscious and she'd lost a lot of blood, but she was breathing." He paused and studied Juice through shrewd eyes. "Listen, Ortiz. If you or your club know anything about these break-ins, now's the time. What they did to Unser was fucked up, but this?" He broke off with an angry shake of his head.

"We've told you everything we know," he said. "Pope says he's not behind it, and after what happened to Ope, Jax says he believes him."

"What do you think?"

"I've never met the man. I don't got a clue."

"But you trust Jax?"

Juice jerked toward him. "You hear about her deal?" he said, seemingly apropos of nothing.

"Her deal? You mean the new one? The one that let her come back here?"

"That's it, yeah."

Eli frowned and looked away. "Something kinda weird about it, if that's what you mean."

"You could say that," Juice said, his voice raw and hard. "It's bogus. Complete bullshit. Potter didn't have the authority to make it."

"Shit," he muttered. "Atlanta's called me four times in the last two days. Guess now I know why."

"You tell them anything?"

"I look stupid to you? They just keep leavin' messages."

"They might send somebody. Eventually. If you don't talk to them."

"Yeah," he said with a grim nod. "Fuck. I'll do what I can, but she did the murder. Nothin' can change that."

"You know why she did it, Eli. She told me she showed you X-rays."

He scowled but said nothing.

Juice cut a look over and his voice turned thoughtful. "She's a lot mellower now than when she first got here. I mean, back then she flipped out if anyone came up behind her. Loud noises made her jump. She's a mechanic and the sound of a car backfiring nearly gave her a fuckin' stroke."

He hitched a shoulder and met the Sheriff's eyes with a long, meaningful look. "I know what you think about SAMCRO, and you're probably right about some shit. But the fact is she's a hell of a lot better now than she was two and a half years ago, and that's because of this club.

"Maybe she did kill her husband, but I think you've been a cop long enough and seen enough shit to know he deserved it. You let them get their hands on her and she's dead. That'll be on you."

Eli's expression hardened and he pressed in closer, crowding Juice and herding him against the doorjamb. "SAMCRO's been good for her? You seriously tryin' to sell me on that bullshit, Ortiz? Look the fuck around, man. The blood in this bathroom? That's on your hands. Yours and your club's. Because without you, none of this shit would've happened."

She opened her eyes and immediately screwed them shut again as the light speared in like daggers. Then she winced because the actual act of shutting her eyes that hard created a ripple of pain through her skull that was like the banging of a gong.

"Fuck me," she muttered.

At the sound of her voice Juice sat up like he'd been shocked. She hadn't even noticed him dozing in the chair by the bed, and when she tried to turn her head to look at him, the pain (accompanied by general spininess and the urge to vomit) spiked again.

"Whoa, don't, just lie still," he said. He leaned over the bed and she raised a shaking hand to touch his cheek.

"You look like shit, Ortiz," she croaked. There were dark circles under his eyes and scruff across his chin. His eyes were red and his face was haggard.

He didn't comment on her appearance. Just Olivia, awake and talking, was probably the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen, but objectively she looked like a train wreck. Her face was a mass of bruises, and where it wasn't mottled blue and purple, her skin was whiter than the pillow case she rested against. He wanted to kiss her, just to reassure himself he wasn't dreaming, but he didn't know where. She seemed incredibly fragile, and for once he was aware of how small she was.

He didn't say any of that, though, and instead grinned and gingerly captured her fingers in his. "Thanks, babe. Good to see you too." He poured some water from the pitcher on the bedside table and held the cup as she sipped from the straw.

She swallowed through a sandpaper throat and almost cried at how good the liquid felt as it flooded her parched mouth. She sat back and tried to take stock of where it hurt. Everywhere. Her body was one giant ache. There was a cast around her right wrist and a bandage wrapped around her head. She could only see out of one eye; the other was blurry and shadowed.

"What happened?" she said.

"You don't remember?"

She started to shake her head and then caught herself. "Maybe…a little? I don't know. It's all fuzzy."

"The doctor said it might be for a while, but some of it might come back." He cast a frown over his shoulder. "I'm supposed to get a nurse. They said to come get them when you woke up."

"Wait," she said as he started away. "Juice, how long was I out?"

He hesitated. "Not long, really, but they were worried about…I don't know. Your brain and injuries and shit, so they knocked you out so you could heal some."

Her good eye widened and she winced. "They put me in a coma?"

"No, not that bad. Just some drugs. You weren't on one of those breathing machines or anything like that." He leaned closer and his voice dropped. "They used leaches on your eye. It was fuckin' gross."

Her mouth quirked a little. "Been there. Glad I slept through it this time."

His brows drew together. "Wait…what?"

She flicked her fingers. "Lots of black eyes."

He glowered and looked away. "Right," he bit out. Then, "I should go get the nurse."

"Don't. Not yet. Stay." She reached for him with her good hand. "Hit the button or whatever. But stay. Please."

He jerked his head in a nod and dragged the chair closer. His fingers tangled in hers and she squeezed. "Chibs and Phil are outside. Everyone's been takin' turns—well, except Chibs, really; can't get rid of that asshole—but they'll only let one person in the room at a time."

"Taking turns," she murmured as though she weren't sure what the words meant.

He could tell she was drifting again, skimming the edge of consciousness and skating away from it. The doctor had said even after she woke up she'd probably be in and out for a while. But still. He'd been watching her sleep long enough. He wanted to hear her voice. He needed to hear it, because despite everyone's (including Tara's) assurances to the contrary, he'd been afraid she might not wake up at all.

Her eyes struggled open and she squeezed his hand again. "How long?"

He shifted in the chair. "Don't worry about it right now, babe. Just get some rest."

"Don't leave," she whispered.

"I won't," he said. He pressed her fingertips to his mouth. "I'm right here, Liv."

The next time she woke the lights had been dimmed, so she wasn't greeted by quite the same level of excruciating pain. She shifted in bed and managed to turn her head a little. Chibs was in the chair instead of Juice, and when he saw her looking at him, a smile spread across his face.

"Well, well, Sleeping Beauty, nice of you to join us."

She grimaced. "Right."

She swallowed and gestured for some water. When he offered to hold the cup for her she took it from him instead. He propped himself against the bed and watched her as she drank.

"On a scale of one to Bride of Frankenstein, just how bad do I look?"

His mouth twisted and he ducked his head. "Aye, well, you've had better days, to be sure, but it's nice to see those pretty green eyes again."

"How long have I been out? Juice wouldn't say."

"Ohh…a few days. Off and on."

She choked and he took the cup from her before she could drop it. "A few days? How many?"

He sighed. "Lass—"

"Chibs."

His face hardened into the stubborn expression she recognized well. "It's mid-afternoon on the twenty-fourth. You were attacked on the nineteenth," he said, grudgingly.

She fell back against the pillow and stared down at her hands: one normal, the other wrapped in a cast. "Holy shit," she muttered.

"They had to do a wee bit of surgery on your head, and on your wrist, too. For the former they said it was lucky you've a thick skull, and for the latter—ahh…"

"Hum. I can imagine. It was a hot mess because of old injuries, yeah?"

He hitched a shoulder. "Aye."

That had been a rough moment; he'd heard all about it from Bobby. The doctor had come out, all official and frowning, and made some comment to the effect of well what can you expect when she keeps this kind of company? Bobby had needed to physically restrain Tig, and only Tara's intervention had stopped the doctor from calling the cops.

Call them if you want, she'd said. But Sheriff Roosevelt is a personal friend of mine, and of hers too. She's a survivor of a six-year marriage that almost killed her, and tonight she was brutally attacked in her own home. So maybe rather than pulling him or his men away from the crime scene, you can take your ridiculous assumptions and baseless allegations and shove them up your ass. Then, if you can still walk, fix her fucking wrist.

Bobby had almost choked he laughed so hard, and Tig had stopped trying to deck the doctor long enough to applaud.

Chibs wished he'd seen it, but he'd gone to Olivia's to collect Juice. And good thing, too: the boy'd been in no state to operate a motor vehicle.

He cleared his throat. "Gemma dragged Juicy home for some sleep in a real bed and a meal that didn't come from a vending machine. He's been right here the whole time."

"Good," she murmured. "I'm glad she did. No reason for him to make himself sick."

"Sheriff Eli's been by a few times, but we've run him off."

Her eyes flicked his way and she managed a little frown. "No, it's okay. Next time he comes, let him in. I need to tell him what I remember, and he…he's kind of a friend."

"You, friends with a cop?" he said and lifted his brows.

"He's decent enough. For a cop."

"Aye," he said doubtfully.

Suddenly her eyes went wide. "Did you say surgery on my head?" Her hand fluttered up to her skull and her entire face transformed into a mask of relief when she brushed her fingers over her hair.

Chibs laughed and shook his head. "No worries there, lass. Juicy boy pitched a fit when they said they'd need to cut it, and then Tara had a thing or two to say about it, so in the end they just shaved a wee bit here." He pointed to a spot just above her temple. "Should grow back in no time."

Her head fell back against the pillow and she hauled in a deep breath. "Probably seems silly to you."

"Tara mentioned your mam. I supposed some people get ink, and other people grow their hair."

There was a knock at the door and a nurse bustled in without waiting for an answer. "Oh, good, you're awake!" she said. Her tone was sunny but she kept her voice low. She checked the stats on the monitor beside the bed and shone a light in both of Olivia's eyes. She winced, but apparently the nurse was satisfied. "Looking much better, hon."

"Word on the street is I look like I did ten rounds with Ali," she said, sardonically.

Chibs choked back a laugh and the nurse made a soft tutting sound at him. "Sheriff Roosevelt is here again. He's insisting we let him in as soon as you're awake. Are you awake?"

"Hhmm." She shifted in bed and hissed. "Yeah. I guess so."

The nurse eyed her. "I'll give him five minutes."

She hurried out and Chibs watched her go with a long whistle of admiration. "Now there's one to give a body a run for his money."

"Down, boy. You can flirt with her later."

Eli rapped his knuckles against the door and poked his head in. "Can I come in? The nurse was sort of…" He trailed off and cast a look over his shoulder.

"Aye," Chibs said. "But keep it short. Lass needs her rest."

Olivia could judge her appearance by the brief, unguarded spasm that pass over Eli's face. It was only a second before he mastered himself, but in that moment she realized she might've underestimated the damage.

"That bad?" she said.

"Nah, it's not—I just—" He cleared his throat and Chibs rolled his eyes.

"How about get on with it, yeah?" he growled.

She frowned. "Chibs. Maybe go get some coffee."

He scowled. She tilted her head. Finally he threw one long, hard glare at Eli and stomped out of the room. "Five minutes!" he said over his shoulder before he disappeared. He left the door ajar.

"You got some serious protectors, kid."

"Yeah, well, there's a reason I started hangin' out with biker gangs. Big and loud and uncouth, but also like tattooed mama grizzlies when someone fucks with one of their own." She flicked her fingers toward the chair. "Sit down."

"I'll stand," he said. "Only got five minutes, and don't want you to have to turn your head that far."

A brief silence fell while they studied each other. Finally Olivia said, "What happened, Eli?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "Best we can tell the intruders broke in and surprised you in the bathroom. You attacked at least one of them, but then somehow you fell and hit your head on the tub." He tapped his forehead, just above his left brow. "That was what did most of the damage."

"I don't remember much," she said.

"Doctor said that's normal. Maybe if we walk through it more will come back?"

It was worth a try, so she closed her eyes and trudged through the sludge inside her head. "Um. I…I wanted a bath."

"Okay, good. So that's why you were in your robe."

Her eyes flew open and an expression of horror contorted her face. "Eli—"

He held up a hand. "Whoa, hey, breathe." He leaned closer to fix her with his steady gaze. "No, Olivia. No. I promise you."

She let out a shaky breath and brushed her fingertips over her cheek. "Okay," she whispered. "Yeah, okay."

"If you don't want to do this now—"

She made a cutting gesture. "There were three of them. White."

"White?" he said. "You're sure?"

"They were wearing masks, but I jumped one of them. I was close enough to tell."

"That's the one you stabbed?"

"I stabbed him?"

He let out a huff of amusement. "We're gonna be able to get some DNA off that knife of yours. Probably in the system, I'd imagine."

"He's the one who hit me, I think. I'm not sure."

"It's okay. We'll figure it out." He glanced back toward the door. "That's probably enough for today anyway. You need to rest."

"Wait, Eli. I do remember one thing."

He flipped his pad open again and his brow furrowed in a question.

"One of them kept talking about he. He told them…he said not to hurt me."

"He? He who?"

"I don't know. But I got the idea—it wasn't random. They were there because of me, but I don't think they expected me to be there."

"Hum," he said. "Like Unser at Gemma's place."

"Someone's pulling the strings, and I really don't think it's Damon Pope."

He frowned and stowed his pad. He didn't tell her that between them, he and Unser had all but ruled out Pope as a suspect. Unser had his own ideas, and Eli could tell Jax did, too. He had his hands full between trying to chase down leads and keep Jackson Teller's overwrought sense of vigilante justice in check. He'd managed to work a promise out of Jax that he would come to Eli with anything he knew before taking action. He wasn't one hundred percent sure he believed him, but it was better than nothing.

"Get some rest, Olivia," he said and patted her gently on the arm. "We'll talk more later."

Her lids were already closing, but she managed to lift them long enough to offer a weary smile. "You're not so bad," she murmured, "for a cop."

He laughed. "High compliment, Ms. Gable. High compliment indeed."

In other news, Eli's wife is not gonna die. There. Spoiler alert. Big change for s5. (this is partially bc I know the actress, Merle Dandridge, from my old Rent days, and Merle deserved so much better. But it's also bc I really like Eli. And also bc I'm tired of women dying for manpain. Olivia's attack; and the motivations behind it; aren't designed to cause Juice manpain, but instead to help deepen the trust between them and to further his growing sense of agency. Part of my whole point of writing this thing was to correct some of the MAJOR HORRIBLE fumbles the writing team has made w Juice (and, frankly, everyone) since s4, one of the biggest being how he's constantly everyone's pawn and has no agency of his own.)