I'm gonna go ahead and apologize right here for the extensive end notes. One does not write a magnum opus (as this is turning into) without accumulating some thoughts.

Thanks so much for the reviews! You're all lovely. :D


i told her people had been talking
about how dark she was inside
she said my hopes are buried
in the soil deep in the earth outside
and with one twist of the world
she brought me to her side
she asked me for the truth one time
and all i did was lied
David Gray, "Lead Me Upstairs"

Juice kept her up to date on the progress with Jax' plan to frame Clay, and the day it all was scheduled to go down she went with him to Clay's place. Apparently he planned to hole up in Belfast for a while, a few months, and he'd asked Gemma to go with him. Olivia hadn't talked to her, but she'd seen her tense face and the grim, determined set to her mouth.

Gemma played whatever role Jax had asked her to, and it wore on her. Olivia remembered what she'd said to him the night of Opie's wake: you would use literally anyone to get what you want, wouldn't you? Despite how spectacularly wrong things had gone with Otto (at least from Tara's point of view), Jax obviously hadn't learned any sort of lesson. Now his mother was caught in the middle of his revenge vendetta against Clay, and instead of being able to move on as she wanted, she was forced to pretend to still love a man she loathed.

The worst part of the whole thing was that Olivia had to admire Jax' balls. The plan was—as she'd said about the one to kill Stahl, something that had also been his idea—Machiavellian. And, after all, what had Machiavelli said? It's better to be feared than loved.

The way Jax was going, he could write his own modern version of The Prince, sell three million copies, and give up his life of crime to retire to the Poconos.

And he'd learned it all from the very man he was trying to take down. It wasn't his father's footsteps he walked in; it was Clarence Morrow's. If Jax weren't careful one day he'd be the only one left amidst the ashes and smoke his scheming wrought.

She shook off her morbid, melodramatic thoughts and summoned up a smile for Juice. She knew how all of this weighed on him. It was obvious for anyone to see, but of course no one ever really looked at Juice Ortiz.

More's the pity.

They were, at the moment, cleaning out Clay's garage. She had paused to admire his tools. Everything was clean and shining and in its place. Just how she liked her workshop.

"Hey, Clay," she called into the house.

He ambled out to the garage and Juice slipped past him inside. He hadn't been able to look Clay in the face all day, and he'd largely managed to avoid him except for a brief conversation earlier in the hallway.

Clay watched him go with a distracted frown before he turned his attention to her. "Hey, Ollie."

She jerked her chin toward the pegboard. "You taking all these tools with you to Ireland?"

"Fuck no. You want 'em?"

Her mouth twisted. It felt kinda shitty to take a man's tools just before you helped ship him off to prison, but he sure as hell wasn't going to need them in there. "The socket set's nice. Too hard to travel with, so I haven't had one of my own since I was a kid."

"Yeah," he said. "Take it. Take the drill, too. I'm sure you can find a use for it."

She had a drill, but she smiled anyway and grabbed it to pack.

"Tell me somethin', Ollie," Clay said. He propped a hip on the counter and she tilted her head in his direction. "How'd you get to be a mechanic? Don't take this the wrong way, but it's not all that often you see chicks workin' on cars. And you're good at it."

"Um." She wanted to make a comment about traditional gender roles and bullshit assumptions based on them, but she decided to let that slide for now. "My grandpa," she said. "He"—she laughed, and her eyes sparkled with genuine humor and affection at the memory—"he had a D-Phil in Shakespearean Lit from St. Andrews, in Scotland, but he quit teaching to open a car shop. Classics only. I was the only grandkid, so he taught me just about everything I know. He died when I was ten, and after that my dad took over."

"What the fuck's a D-Phil ?"

"Oh. It's what they call a Ph.D. You know, a doctorate."

"Your granddaddy went to school long enough to get his fuckin' doctorate in fuckin' Shakespeare, and then he gave it all up to fix cars?"

"It was his passion," she said. "Well, his other passion. Cars were his first love, Shakespeare his second. Even though, he always bitched, Shakespeare was English."

"Ha!" Clay said, a bark of a laugh. "Sounds like he and Chibs woulda got along."

"Yeah. Scots, man. They're a breed apart."

"Truth," he said. A brief silence fell and he watched her as she worked. Then, his voice sober and his face furrowed, he said, "Ollie, listen. I know we've had our differences—"

"You're the reason I'm in this cast, Clay," she said, calmly.

He flinched. "Yeah. What happened there is on me, and I accept that."

She lifted a brow. "Good to know." She put down the box she'd just packed and fixed him with wary eyes. "Your point?"

"I just want…I wanted to tell you I think you've been good for Juicy. He seems happier with you. Steadier."

She blinked but said nothing. He hurried to fill the silence.

"That boy's like a son to me."

"Have you told him that? It's something he might like to hear."

He frowned and looked away. "Just now. I shoulda told him sooner, and I shoulda treated him better." He hesitated. "Take care of him, Ollie. Look after him.

Her smile was brief and humorless. She went back to packing. "That's what I do, Clay." Another pause as she met his gaze again. "That's what anyone does, when they love someone."

He opened his mouth to reply, but the doorbell interrupted him. She tensed. It had to be Eli. He frowned and she followed him into the house. Juice was in the hallway. He had his hands buried in his cut to hide their shaking and his face was an agony of regret. He wouldn't look at her when she touched his arm, but she grabbed his hand anyway and held on.

It was Roosevelt, as she'd predicted. He confronted Clay about the gun, which he admitted was his, but he claimed Gemma as his alibi. He didn't mention Olivia or Juice, who had also been there all day, and she wondered if they'd be spared from having to look Eli in the face and lie to him. She hoped so. As much as she disliked Clay, it had been hard enough lying to him all day. And Eli was smart enough to know Clay wouldn't use his own gun to kill anyone, much less a guy like Damon Pope.

Gemma's voice floated from the living room. She said Clay had gone out for a few hours earlier in the day and had taken the gun with him. Stunned silence followed, and then the click of bracelets as Roosevelt read Clay his rights.

Juice pulled away and sank to the floor, his head cradled in his hands. She knelt next to him. He resisted at first, but finally he gave up and collapsed against her. They were still and quiet as Clay was led away, and all she could do was press a kiss to the side of his head and hope all of this would be worth it.

There was a long silence from the living room after they left, and finally Gemma appeared in the hall. She stepped closer, but Olivia pulled Juice to his feet and tugged him toward the door.

"Ollie—"

She spun around, her eyes spitting fire and her cheeks flushed. "No, Gemma. Don't start. You don't have anything to say to either of us right now. I think your family has done enough damage for one day."

"I would have left Juice out of it if it were up to me," she said after a moment, her voice weary.

She opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shut again. There was nothing she could say right now that would make any difference. She was too furious for coherence, the type of rage that could do a fuckload of damage, and she was afraid she might accidentally spill Juice's secret. Instead she took his hand again and smiled up at him, the expression incongruously soft against the anger in her eyes.

"Let's go," she said, gently.

In the driveway he helped her fasten the helmet, and as he leaned close she studied his face. His eyes were bleak and stunned, but when he started to kiss her, she gave a quick, sharp shake of her head.

"Not here," she murmured.

He glanced back and saw Gemma in the garage, one hand on her hip and the other arm wrapped around her stomach. Olivia's look was clear: it had nothing to do with any secret they were or weren't trying to keep. It was, in that moment, more about keeping what was theirs theirs, without anyone else's opinions or influence. For the first time he fully understood why she was so resistant to being his old lady, and after everything that had happened, he couldn't blame her.


She managed to get food in him once they got back to her place: tomato soup and a grilled cheese, the most soothing meal she could think of. She added a cup of chamomile tea, but he made a face and asked for beer, so she switched it out and drank it herself.

He stared down at the scarred wooden table—reclaimed, because damn if she was going to spend a fortune on furniture—and traced the initials that had been carved in long ago. She ate the last bite of sandwich and sat back in her chair to sip her tea. They were quiet. Birdsong filtered through the open window and the occasional car drove past. She was content to let him mull it over, and as long as she had her eye on him he couldn't get up to too much trouble.

"How long do you think he's got?" he said at last.

She shifted in her seat. "The Irish want him alive. Maybe they'll be able to arrange some kind of protection."

He raised his head and fixed her with a long look. "You really think so?"

"There's a chance. The IRA has connections everywhere." She set down her mug. "Come on. I've got an idea."

"What kind of idea?" he said, but he followed her down the hall anyway. She stopped at the bathroom and pulled him in after her.

"You need a bath."

"Do I stink?"

She laughed a little. "No. Not that kinda bath. More a 'forget all your worries for twenty minutes' kinda bath."

She had avoided the bathroom as much as possible since the attack. No long baths, just quick showers. She did her business and got out, and the door was always locked behind her. Now she left it open as she tugged his shirt out of his belt.

"Babe—"

"Trust me," she said. She helped him strip and started the water. He stood in the middle of the small room and stared at his feet as she dug through the cabinet above the toilet. "I know I've got some bath stuff in here that doesn't smell too girly. Ah! Here we go. Frankincense and myrrh bath beads."

His face scrunched. "You mean like what the Wise Men brought Jesus?"

"The same. People talk about how unpractical those gifts were, but think about it. They'd been living in a stable for like three months. Air freshener was probably greatly appreciated."

She dropped the beads in the tub and as they melted a warm, spicy fragrance filled the air. She lifted a brow at him. "It doesn't work unless you get in."

"Oh." His movements were slow and jerky, like a windup toy running out. He slid into the water and closed his eyes a moment. "It does feel pretty good," he admitted.

"Told you," she said. She leaned down to kiss the top of his head.

"You could get in with me," he said.

A brief frown flashed across her face. "I—" She broke off and bit her lip a little.

"It's okay. Never mind. I'll just—"

"No," she said with a twist of her mouth. "No, don't be silly. Give me a sec to wrap my cast and I'll be right back."

She disappeared down the hall. He ran his fingers through the water and listened to her putter around in the kitchen. He took in a deep breath and sank. He opened his eyes, but the oil stung and he screwed them shut again. It was quiet beneath the water. Warm and peaceful. Part of him wanted to stay under. Float away and forget. Even as his lungs started to burn he didn't surface, and it was only when he heard Olivia's voice that he pushed himself up again.

"What are you doing?" she said.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

"Underwater?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "Not like I could've drowned myself anyway. Doesn't work like that."

"I know full well how it works, Juan Carlos."

He flinched. She never called him that.

She smoothed the plastic wrap around her cast and tucked the ends in before she yanked her clothes off. She stood there, naked and furious, and for a minute he thought she might not get in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean anything. Come here. Please?" He held out a hand and finally she took it. He helped her into the tub and she sat in front of him, his legs around her and her head against his shoulder.

He pressed his lips to her temple. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Don't apologize," she said. "I know you're sad and depressed. I know you feel like you did the wrong thing today, and honestly I can't help you with that one. I don't know what the right thing actually was, if there was one. I do know how hard all of this has been. But, Juice, try to remember something."

He trailed his fingers down her arm, dripping warm, silky water onto her skin. "What's that?"

"You can always come home to me. No matter what happens, you can always come home."

He buried his nose in her hair and tried to swallow back the tears that threatened. "I shoulda warned him. I almost did, when we talked earlier. He told me I was like a son to him. That he loved me. I'm shit, Olivia. I should've just said fuck it and grabbed you and grabbed him and we all coulda made a run for Belfast."

"One big happy family," she said.

He shifted and his body was slippery from the bath oil. The glide of skin against skin was momentarily distracting for both of them, but he shook his head and tried to focus. "I know it would've been weird. I know how you feel about him. But I couldn't leave without you, and if I stayed here—"

"It wasn't an option, Juice. I mean, yeah, I guess it was, but then what? You help Clay Morrow smuggle Irish guns into the US? I thought you wanted to be done with that."

"I did. I do. I just…"

"I know, love," she said and turned her head to kiss his bicep—the only part of him she could reach from this position. She bit her lip, and when she spoke again her voice was hesitant. "What do you think Clay would have wanted you to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean if you'd gone to him after Jax told you his plan. What would he have said?"

He shrugged and the water rippled. "I don't know. He—he probably would've gone to Ireland a day sooner."

Her mouth quirked. "No doubt."

He knew that wasn't what she'd meant, though. "He would've told me to do it. I mean, yeah, he wouldn't have hung around to get arrested, but he would have told me to do what Jax wanted so I could get back in."

She tilted her head. "He wouldn't have asked you to go to Ireland with him?"

"Maybe," he said. "But he'd have to know I'd say no. I've got ties here."

"Yeah?" she said, her voice soft.

He pulled the pins from her hair so that the long braid tumbled down. He wrapped it around his hand and tugged not enough to hurt, but just so she could feel it. "Yeah," he said.

She let out a breath and twisted around to face him. "Juice, I want you to promise me something."

He let go of her hair and moved her until she was in his lap with her legs wrapped around him. She raised a brow and his lips curved. "Anything. And not just because you're naked and on top of me."

She let out an exasperated sigh, but her mouth twitched as she tried to smother a smile. "It's important, Ortiz; pay attention."

"Believe me, Gable, you've got my complete and full attention. I am at attention."

"Um hum. Don't need to tell me." She smacked his chest and rolled her eyes. "No, okay, I'm focused." She cleared her throat and her expression stilled.

"Juicy, listen. If it ever comes down to it and you have to choose between the club or me—"

"You, Liv, no question."

"No," she said. She squeezed his upper arm. "I need you to promise the opposite, Juice. You'll choose the club. If it's the difference between life or death, like this was, you choose life. Do you hear me?"

"I don't understand," he said.

"You're not going to throw your life away in some misguided—albeit noble—effort to save me, Ortiz. Got it? I mean, let's say Jax found out I'm trying to help Tara leave. What do you think he would do?"

His eyes widened. "He wouldn't kill you!"

"No? You sure about that?"

"Olivia—" He broke off and glanced away. There was a deep crease between his brows and his lips were pursed. "You gotta understand, Liv. I've spent the last nine years of my life—two as a groupie, one as a prospect, and six as a full patch member—thinking this club was the center of the universe. Nothing else mattered. I didn't need anything else."

He paused to swallow around the lump in his throat. When he looked at her again, tears stood in his eyes. "I get it now, though. I might need them, but they sure as fuck don't need me. They never have." He gave an angry jerk of his head. "No one does."

"Juice—"

"Don't. I know what you're gonna say. I'm not saying they're not my friends, or my brothers, but that's not the same thing. Clay was the last person left who needed me, and I fucked him over today. What does that make me?"

"An idiot," she said in a thick voice.

He drew back and stared at her. "Well, I mean, yeah, but—"

She shut him up with her mouth, her lips hot and honey-sweet. The water danced as she wrapped an arm around his neck and pressed her body tight against his. She was soft and warm and slippery from the oil, and his hands slicked down her back almost of their own accord.

"I need you, Juice," she said when they came up for air. "Do you hear me? I thought my life was fine before. Yeah I kinda wanted to find a place where I could settle and stop running, but other than that I was okay. I had my car and my work and some friends here or there. What else did I need?

"Then I met you and it was like—I don't know. I'm not a fucking poet. You know when you've been craving a specific food, or you've had a certain song stuck in your head forever, but you can't name the song and you can't figure out what the food is? Then you eat it or you hear it and it's like, 'Oh. There you are. How did I not recognize you before?' It's so easy and so right and you can't even remember what anything else used to taste like."

She shoved furiously at the tear that made its way down her cheek. "I don't want my life without you in it. You're under my skin and in my blood and I smell you in my hair and hear your voice in my head. I need you, Juice. And if Jackson Teller ever makes you choose between that fucking club and me, you choose the club because I'd rather…be somewhere else…and know you were safe and okay than have to put you in the ground."

He gaped at her.

She sniffled and her eyes flicked away. "I've never said anything like that to anyone before." She sounded supremely grumpy.

He couldn't have been more surprised if she'd hit him over the head with a two by four. He knew exactly what she meant because it was everything he had all jumbled up inside his head and couldn't make into words. He wanted her. He loved her. He needed her. And he had no idea how to reconcile all of it with the commitment he had to SAMCRO.

"I don't know if I can promise you that, Olivia," he said at last.

Her jaw tightened and her throat worked and after a moment she gave a short, wordless nod. "No, I get it," she said. "It's too much. I should—"

She started to get up, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back down again. "Now who's the idiot?" He kissed her forehead and brushed her damp hair back from her face. "I'm not promising you that, Liv. In the past six months I've betrayed my club. Killed a brother. Sold out one of the few people who still believed in me. You're the only person I haven't fucked over, and I came real close to it a couple times. I'm not ever—ever—going to choose SAMCRO over you. Get that?

"I'm done acting like there aren't options. There are. There's gotta be. If it ever came down to it, we'd think of something else. That's what I'll promise you. We'll think of something else."

He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. His fingers had gone pruny and the water was getting cold, but he didn't care. She held him with one arm, her other elbow propped on his shoulder, and they stayed like that for a long time.

At last she pulled away, and this time when she rose he let her. She stepped out of the tub and stood on the bathmat as the water dripped off her body. He watched with a dry mouth while she ran a towel across her skin. She tossed it over the bar and sauntered into the hall.

He was still in the tub when she stuck her head around the door. "You coming to bed, or were you planning to stew a little longer?"

He jumped up so fast he almost slipped. "On my way! Don't start without me!"

Her laugh floated from the bedroom. "Too late for that, sugar."


Here are my notes for the last three chapters:

27: Yay, time for s6. C beats up J etc.

28: Okay, no, time for s6. See longer notes.

29: Yay! Done with s5 on to s6! C beats up J and see longer notes.

30: NO FOR REAL THIS TIME S6 GODDAMMIT

Every time I thought I was done w s5 I remembered something important I had to cover. The moment when Juice betrays Clay here is, according to a really good interview I read with Theo Rossi, the huge turning point for Juice. I had sort of maybe forgotten the importance of it in my rush to get to the betrayal near the end of s6 (which I think was another sort of turning point, and just as big in its own way), so I was glad to read that so I could go back over it. Of course, it was huge for show-Juice because it meant he'd burned the last bridge he had left, betrayed the last person who loved and believed in him. Our Juice has a safety net. Which, duh, is the whole point of me writing this fucking story!

Also, the story Olivia told about her grandfather is based on someone I actually know. He had a PhD in English Lit and gave up teaching to open a classic car garage. *shrug* Made him happy.