**I own nothing you recognize**
Tara groans as the opening strains from the latest song the local DJs are overplaying emanate from her clock radio, jolting her out of a dream where she and Jackson had been riding the Dyna down the PCH towards points unknown. By the time the words start, she's given up on reclaiming the wind in her hair and the salt in the air, and resigned herself to familiar, landlocked, Charming. Great.
She leads a lonely life…
Oooh, she leads a lonely life…
With a small smile, Tara rolls to one side and switches the clock radio off. Her existence has been far from lonely ever since she's returned to Charming, so despite being too-familiar and at least eighty miles from the ocean, she has to admit the town has its perks. Arguably, she has fewer friends, but Opie and the club are practically family, Donna's turning out to be what she hopes will be a lifelong friend, and Jackson, well…
Turning onto her back, Tara uses this- the first morning she's woken without him by her side since the day of JT's accident- to truly revel in just how much her life has improved since he'd returned to it. Even if she factors in the occasional arguments, the confrontations with Melissa and David, the absolute insanity the past week and a half have been… it doesn't even begin to touch the way she feels when her three favorite words slip past his lips, especially when he whispers them as he slips inside her. She'd gone several years without hearing them from anyone and it's as if Jackson's taken it upon himself to make up for it, all on his own. Not that she's complaining.
Smiling to herself, she settles a bit deeper into the pillow and brings to the surface the memories of his fingers trailing over her body, his lips following them… the already hazy remnants of her recent dream fading completely. Jackson's been absent from the pillow beside her for one night, is all, but she can already feel the effect separation is having on her as the familiar throbbing settles between her hips. God… if someone had told her a year ago that just one night away from her boyfriend would have her aching for his touch, to be near him, she'd have rolled her eyes- probably laughed at the notion. After all, she's strong, independent, something Jackson had mentioned just the other night; and even now, she doesn't need him so much as want him… right? Right?
Tara pushes away the thought that comes right after that one- the reminder that she'd told Jackson himself exactly the opposite- as well as the notion that, perhaps, this level of intensity isn't altogether healthy for a couple of teenagers. What really isn't healthy, Tara reminds herself, is anyone going through life with the knowledge that there's probably nobody that truly loves them. If she's going to have to make a choice between the two- loveless and unable to fill the void with too many shallow friendships, or probably a little too wrapped up in the one person that truly understands her- well, it isn't really a choice, at all. Besides, she's spent the other half of her time back here proving just how much she doesn't need a boy to handle her shit- she hadn't depended on Jackson to deal with Melissa Rourke's bullshit, though she'd expected him to own his part in the whole mess and prove to her just how much she didn't matter as far as he was concerned.
Jackson and Opie had also helped locate her father, done some of the heavy lifting- literally and figuratively- Tara wasn't able to do herself, but she'd been the one to call the shots. She'd liked it, truth be told; liked being able to tell the guys what she'd been thinking and what she thought should happen next, liked how the sight of a clubhouse full of Sons- listening, rapt- made her feel. Tara's well aware that she'd never have been able to to hold court over SAMCRO without Jackson… but isn't that part of what makes them- smart and streetwise, respectively, separately- exceptional, together?
In any case, Jackson had insisted on spending Tara's first night with her father back in the house curled up next to her, for which she'd been grateful after an evening that had hearkened back to the days immediately before JT's accident. She'd made dinner, her father had shown up to eat it and then retreated to the living room to watch TV; the only difference was, he'd had a glass of whiskey clutched in his fist. That's a development Tara had expected, especially after finding him out cold at her mother's grave, but it still hurt to see him willingly throwing away weeks of sobriety with each casual sip.
Rick had been largely silent since the moment he'd set foot back in the house after that night at the clubhouse. Tara still isn't sure how he'd managed to pick up the Cutlass, what time he'd been released, or what he'd done all day that day; she just knows he'd walked in clutching a paper bag at dinner time and had shot Jackson a look that was likely meant to remind everyone present how unimpressed he was with their relationship. Nothing was said about the accident, the confrontation at the clubhouse, his days of absence… and Tara's just about at the point where she doesn't care if they ever talk about it. The whole thing's been exhausting and she's more than ready to just be a teenager again... albeit one with no mom, a drunk for a dad, a biker club as a surrogate family, and the most attractive boy she's ever seen for a boyfriend. In that vein, she'd reluctantly declined Jackson's offer to climb through her window for a second night in a row- and he'd taken some convincing, too- she supposes things have to go back to normal sooner or later.
As if to remind her of what normal currently is, Tara can hear her father rustling about in the kitchen, early for a holiday. Groaning, she rolls out of bed and searches for a pair of gym shorts to slip on underneath her oversized t-shirt, then pads out into the kitchen to find her father sitting at the table, clutching a mug of coffee.
"Morning…" she ventures, as she retrieves and fills a mug of her own.
"Looks that way," is his reply. Okay… Christ, she'd forgotten what a dry sense of humor her father had. Except, of course, she can't tell if he's joking right now, or if he's just being an ass. Cautiously, she regards him from her position at the counter; he's now tightening his boots, expressionless. Looks like Rick Knowles, Resident Asshole is a pretty fair assumption when it comes to his response, earlier.
Rick finishes tying his boots, then stands, draining his coffee.
"I took a run out to Vegas for today, the Market's gonna start carrying some hippie organic line and someone's gotta bring all the display shit back here. For me, it means holiday pay and a free overnight in Vegas. For you, well…" her father's voice trails off as he regards her, coldly enough that she has to fight off the urge to shiver. "Guess you can head over to the Teller's, spend Thanksgiving with your family, right?" Christ, she hadn't even given Gemma a real answer when she'd invited her earlier- mainly because she'd wanted to feel out her father first. As shitty of a dad as he's turning out to be, nobody deserves to be left alone on Thanksgiving, not even Rick Knowles. The topic hadn't stood a chance with Rick seeming to operate on the notion that silence was the best policy, and now, well… the loathing is apparent in his voice, and Tara can only manage a word in response.
"Dad…"
She's answered only by the slamming of the kitchen door and the rumble of the Cutlass, seconds later.
Jackson pulls the Dyna into the St. Thomas parking lot Thanksgiving afternoon and backs in next to a row of black and chrome; there are enough bikes here to represent all the members of SAMCRO, plus some from other charters, she thinks. Shit. If all the guys are here, that means Tara was probably expected to make an appearance hours earlier, knowing Gemma, never mind that she hadn't even been positive she'd be able to attend a few hours ago. She's broken out of her train of thought by the sound of another bike tearing into the lot- Opie and Donna. Thank God, she's not the only one who didn't make an appearance at the Teller house to help the Old Ladies prep.
They wait for Ope and Donna to dismount at the other end of the row of bikes, and fall into step with them as they cross the parking lot. Donna's beaming at them, and Tara can't help but break into a grin herself, despite the fact that she's settling into nerves about arriving at a SAMCRO dinner without having offered to help.
"What?" Tara has to ask, and Donna's smile only intensifies, but she can't seem to stop the blush from forming on her face. "What?" Tara repeats.
"It's my first SAMCRO event," Donna admits, her ruddy cheeks flushing even further. "I'm finally going to meet everyone and I'm nervous as hell- unfortunately, what I do when I'm nervous as hell is smile like an idiot…" she trails off, glancing up at Opie, who shrugs a bit, then pokes at the tip of her nose with a large finger.
"You don't look like an idiot. And besides, you know Pop," he offers. "Oh, and Jax and Tara…and you've met a few of the others, too." Donna's already shaking her head furiously, the dark ends of her hair swishing against her cheeks.
"That doesn't mean shit and you know it. All the Sons in one place is… it's a whole different animal. And Jax's mom and all the Old Ladies, too?" Tara gives her a small smile in sympathy.
"You didn't go over to the Teller's this morning to help out?" Donna's face blanches a bit.
"Hell no! I mean, can you imagine? Meeting Gemma Teller for the first time on her own turf? Where she's got nothing to do but order me around?" Donna shudders, and Tara, Jax, and Opie burst out laughing; Jax is the first to recover.
"I see that even though you haven't met my mom, you've already got a pretty good idea of what she's like." Donna reddens, again, and glances up at Opie.
"Well, Ope filled me in a little… and I'm sorry, that was rude of me, Jax. I'm just… God-"
"Donna. It's fine," Jackson placates her, a bit. "I know my mom; I know how she can be. Thank God I was born a boy, she does so much better with men." At this, Tara rolls her eyes. Sure, Gemma Teller is one of the most intimidating people she knows- even more so than half the felons that inhabit SAMCRO's clubhouse. But she's also doing her best to treat Tara like the daughter she'd never had; she's trying, Tara has to give her that.
Tara doesn't have any time to voice this aloud before they cross the familiar threshold of St. Thomas, the electric doors swishing open. This time, however, instead of heading back to JT's room, they turn left- down the long hallway that had housed Tara's father- and then right, towards the chapel and the large rooms the hospital used for meetings. The one they enter is significantly larger than the one Unser had taken her to that morning about a week ago- though it seems like eons had passed since then- and is packed to the brim with Sons, some of whom she doesn't recognize.
"Jackie Boyyyyy!" Chibs' customary greeting sails over the din and he practically launches himself at Jackson as he goes on the attack, landing several pokes to the chest and light slaps to the face before surrendering and pulling Jackson into one of those man hugs the guys seem so fond of. Jackson socks Chibs in the shoulder before he moves on to Opie, going straight for a back-slapping hug this time, then takes a small step back as he gestures at Donna. "And who's the lass, Ope? Yer old man said ye'd been chasin' afta someone lately- don' tell me she let yer big ass catch up wi' her?" Donna's smile is genuine, and Tara knows that Chibs' goofing around has put her at ease, a bit.
"Chibs, this is Donna. Donna, Chibs. He's Scottish, if ya can't tell." Donna extends her hand and Chibs takes it, but instead of shaking it, lifts it to press a brief kiss to its back.
"Pleased t' meet ya, Donna." Then, to Opie, "Ach, I ain't been ta Scotland in years. Ireland more recently, but ye can see how much good the luck o' the Irish did me." He gestures at his scars, sheepishly, before winking at Donna. "Y' keep his big ass in line, alrigh'? Lad needs some a tha', just like Jackie, here; yeh wouldn'ae believe how much shite he's grown outta since Tara came back to Charmin'." Jackson punches Chibs again, halfheartedly, as he folds Tara into a hug, then steps back a little, his face growing more serious. "I trust everythin' went okay wi' tha old man?" She nods at him, and shrugs.
"Everything's back to normal, I guess. He's drinking some, but not like he was before." Chibs pats her shoulder.
"Aye. Jackie 'as worried about yeh when ye wouldn'ae let him stay, an' I cannae say I disagreed. There's only so much I could do from ou'side. There ain't no shame in havin' someone ta protect yeh, just rememba tha', alrigh'? Yeh feel uneasy at all, yeh let Jackie go on and stay, ye hear?" Tara nods, but fixes her eyes on Jackson, who's pretending to be enraptured by something across the room. She pokes him as Chibs takes his leave and he reluctantly meets her eyes, a hint of pleading in his own.
"You asked Chibs to come… do what, exactly? Watch the house?" He shuffles a bit, and mumbles his reply.
"Sorta." That's it? Sorta?
"Jesus, Jackson, and he sat out there for how long? All night? The poor guy didn't sleep all fucking night because you don't trust me to take care of myself?" Jackson's jaw tightens a bit, but Opie's the one who responds.
"It ain't that, Tara. He stopped by the house after he left yours, said Rick's picked up drinkin' again, which ain't a surprise based on how we found him the other night. God knows what he'll do if he's half-plastered. I was the one who suggested Chibs, though; Jax thought I was gonna drag my ass out to sit in a lawn chair and watch your house." At this Donna backhands Opie in the chest.
"You two need to relax and let Tara take care of herself. She knows if her dad's getting out of control or not." Tara rolls her eyes.
"And he's not. He's been straight up boring for the last two nights-" Jackson cuts her off, then, clearly frustrated.
"It isn't all about your dad, Tara," he hisses, clearly trying to keep their conversation quiet as a few of the Sons notice them just inside the door and head their way. "Clay's in jail, but we're still not a hundred percent sure he was acting on his own. Until the club has a chance to grill him, until all this shit is behind us, I just…" he shrugs and looks away from her briefly, before refocusing and drilling those bright blue eyes into hers. "I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you because of your old man… or mine and his club." Christ, what is she supposed to say to that? Jackson seems to read her thoughts, then, and shakes his head. "Now isn't a good time to have this discussion. I know you can take care of yourself, and I trust your judgment, I promise. The rest we can work out, later."
Otto and Bobby are on them, then, and Jackson and Opie greet them as Tara lets her eyes wander the room. Sons are milling about, chatting, and the whole thing would look the picture of the average Thanksgiving gathering if it weren't for the abundance of black leather. She chuckles as she considers the fact that, given they're in a hospital, none of them are allowed the customary cigarettes, weed, or free-flowing booze she's used to seeing at a SAMCRO party. Also conspicuously absent are either of the elder Tellers, a situation that's remedied at the exact moment Otto and Bobby excuse themselves for a smoke and the three teenagers move further into the room.
Piney's the first to notice him, Tara thinks- Jackson's just begun chatting with Kozik and Opie's introducing Donna to Jackson's Uncle Jury and a couple of the Indian Hills crew that had made the trip. Piney's normally inscrutable face, however, breaks out into a wide grin and he whistles, bringing the room mostly to attention. Most eyes focus on the source of the whistle, but Tara turns, follows Piney's gaze to the doorway to see JT- sitting completely upright for the first time since they'd left him in the TM office the afternoon of his accident.
He's in a wheelchair but free of the oxygen, the IV, and the other accoutrements of the ICU. Christ, they'd even let him put on a t-shirt for the occasion- one bearing a Reaper, of course- though his kutte is draped across the back of the chair, and his legs are encased in a hospital-issue blanket that has a pair of black slippers peeking from beneath it instead of JT's customary boots. Still, his face is living proof that he couldn't be happier to be here, be whole, with his family, both blood and leather. Gemma had evidently been the one to wheel him down here, and she's grinning, maybe even wider than JT himself, as she hovers behind him, her hands just grazing the handles of the chair.
Piney doesn't say anything, but he must have gestured towards the door, because one by one, every biker in the place thumps on the nearest surface, be it a table or the wall. As the thuds grow louder, the Sons send up a raucous cheer that has JT grinning, his dark blue eyes twinkling as he holds up a hand to again bring the room to silence.
"I just wanna say how much I appreciate you all bein' here, and forgoing the company of some of our lovely ladies-" hoots and hollers fill the room- "to eat Thanksgiving dinner in a damn hospital."
"It ain't about the ladies, and you know it, Teller! It's the three wise men- Jim, Jack, and Jose!" someone shouts from the back, and a shout of agreement erupts. JT shakes his head ruefully.
"Well, once we're done eatin' and I'm back up in my bed, you all can set a meet with any of those three… back at the clubhouse. Just watch it while you're here, or my Old Lady's apt to kill ya herself." True to form, Gemma takes over.
"It took me a goddamn hour and a promise to help with some fundraiser to convince the administrator to let us have this room for the afternoon. I also had to promise to make sure no contraband came into the hospital, so watch yourselves. Last thing I need is that bitch breathin' down my neck for the rest of John's stay here. Other than that…." She steps forward to allow several Old Ladies behind her into the room, bearing platters of food, "Happy Thanksgiving." The men send up the traditional SAMCRO round of applause again, and this time, the thuds are so loud Tara thinks she might feel the vibrations in her chest. Gemma catches sight of Tara and Jackson in the center of the room, and pushes JT towards them. Shit, looks like Gemma's on a damn mission, and that's never good. Thankfully, as they roll to a stop in front of her, JT wastes no time taking Tara's hand and greeting her his way.
"Hey, darlin'. Things goin' okay with your old man?" She smiles at him and clasps his hand between hers.
"Yes, thank you. He's back on his whiskey, but he's been pretty low-key. He did spring a surprise run to Vegas on me this morning, though. That's why we just got here… I'd have invited him, but who knows how that would have gone, and…" Shit, she's rambling, giving excuses before Gemma even has a chance to open her mouth. However, Gemma just raises an eyebrow.
"That why Jackson didn't bring you over this morning like I told him to?"
"Jackson's right here, Ma," Jackson himself says, rolling his eyes. "And yes, that's why I didn't bring her over. She called after her old man left for the day and we came straight here." Gemma seems to consider this for a moment, then turns her attention to Opie and Donna.
"And who is this?" Gemma seems to look Donna from top to bottom, and then back up again, her lips curling in the familiar smirk Tara often sees there when she knows she has the upper hand in a situation. Donna's smile, by contrast, is almost blinding, and based on what she'd said in the parking lot, Tara knows she's nervous… hell, petrified. Opie doesn't respond and Tara jabs him with an elbow.
"Ow- uh, Gemma, this is Donna, my girlfriend. Donna, Gemma Teller- Jax's mom." Donna's hand shoots out lightning-quick, and Gemma takes it with a hint of amusement just as Donna begins mumbling.
"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Teller. I- I've heard a lot about you." Gemma quirks an eyebrow again.
"Yeah, I'll bet. And call me Gemma, sweetheart." She releases Donna's hand, and narrows her eyes at Opie. "Next occasion like this, you bring her to the house beforehand, you hear me? We ain't got too many old ladies at the moment- least not with both the prospects bein' single- and the ones we do have are practically useless…" Her gaze darts to the buffet table. "Jesus Christ, Precious, I said the hot dishes need to go on the other end of the table, in the chafing dishes…" her voice trails off as she darts off to continue dealing with a buxom bleach blonde holding a large container of mashed potatoes. JT grins up at Donna and winks, which seems to set her a little more at ease.
"Don't mind her. She's always like that at parties- if she ain't tellin' someone what to do, she doesn't know what to do with herself." Despite his words, JT shifts his gaze to Gemma and his smile becomes affectionate. "I think she's a little out of her element here in the hospital. I told her to go ahead and have it at the house or the clubhouse, like usual. I won't be able to eat much, anyway, and I know the guys'll be missin' their liquor and shit… but she wouldn't take no for an answer." Tara shakes her head as he finishes.
"That's because it isn't a true holiday without your family. We couldn't have Thanksgiving without you." JT blinks up at her and it's a long moment before he nods.
"You just remember that come Christmas, darlin'. You're always welcome here, regardless of what your old man has to say about it." Tara feels tears spring to her eyes, and she's grateful when Jackson bends to hug his father, obscuring JT's vision as she blinks and wills the tears away.
The afternoon is as large a departure from last Thanksgiving as Tara could have imagined. Last year, she and her aunt had made breakfast and then spent the afternoon at the movies, an activity designed, Tara now realizes, to help her forget the fact that her father hadn't bothered to call. She supposes that her aunt had probably loved her in her own way- after all, she'd spent nearly seven years making sure Tara was taken care of; Tara had just never been able to shake the feeling that she would have felt just as close to some foster parent, which was probably helped along by the fact that her aunt liked to remind her occasionally what a sacrifice she was making taking care of her.
Today, though, she's surrounded by smiling faces; sure, none of them would have made the final cut in that Norman Rockwell painting, and sure, few of them are blood relatives… but Tara's learned by now that blood doesn't always run thicker than water. JT's at the head of the table- even if it's not the Reaper table- Jackson's at her side, Clay's in jail, and she feels lighter than she has in weeks.
As if to remind her he's there, Jackson seizes her hand under the table and gives it a squeeze, resting their joined hands on his knee. Tara turns, slightly, just enough to take in his profile as he talks and jokes with Ope and Kozik across from him. Honestly, she doesn't know if she'll ever stop marveling at how his every feature appeals to her- today, it's the straight line of his nose, the sharp angles of his jaw that draw her in; he's as beautiful in profile as anyone she's seen in the pages of those teen magazines the girls in class are always tucking into the pages of their textbooks. The difference, of course, is that he's hers. She's thinking about what she knows lies under the white t-shirt he's wearing today and absently counting the days since she'd last had her hands on him, when he breaks into the crooked grin that has made her heart race from day one of being back in Charming; the corners of his lips brushing a strand of hair that's escaped that soft place behind his ear she loves to kiss. Others may claim the Teller smirk is his signature, but the smile is rare enough- he seems to reserve it for Tara, some of the Sons, and his family- that she can't help but feel like it's her secret, her own, personal view of the Real Jax Teller.
As if he's heard her thinking, Jackson glimpses her watching him out of the corner of his eye and sends a brief wink her way, the edges of his smile widening just enough. Completely oblivious to the pie being passed down the long table, Tara keeps her eyes on him and can barely hide a grin of her own as she slides her hand from under his and further up his leg. His expression doesn't change until she crosses what she knows is the hem of his boxers underneath his jeans, but even then, she probably wouldn't have noticed unless she knew what to look for. What does cause him to falter, however, is the moment her hand reaches his lap and molds itself around the telltale ridge of him. He flat-out stops speaking altogether when she squeezes him, and he closes his eyes for a moment as he swells in her hand.
Tara smirks to herself and skims her hand back down Jackson's leg to rejoin his; she chances a glance across the table at Opie, Donna and Kozik, all of whom are looking at Jackson oddly. He shifts to adjust himself and this time, only Ope notices; he rolls his eyes and kicks Jackson under the table.
"Jesus Christ, you two…" With Donna and Kozik exchanging a confused glance, Jackson yanks his hand from under the table and makes a point of glancing at his watch. Subtle, Jackson… Tara can't help laughing, however, and is still laughing when he takes her hand and yanks her upright, making sure to pull his shirt down before pushing in their chairs.
"Shit. We got somewhere to be. You still up for hanging out tomorrow?" Jackson doesn't stop to hear Opie's answer or Donna wondering where they could possibly be going on a holiday and with Tara's dad out of town; he just pulls her behind him to the head of the table, where JT is poking at a piece of pie with his fork. He frowns, slightly, as they approach.
"What's up, son?"
"Nothin', we just got to go; some shit came up." Tara can practically see the moment JT's expression changes from one of concern to one that's all too well-knowing. He merely shakes his head as Jackson bends to hug him, again, and points his fork at his son after he's released.
"I'll send one of the prospects by Tara's with a few plates of leftovers. You see that Rick gets his hands on one of 'em, you hear me?" There's a pause, then, "As in, don't eat everything in the goddamn house like you do ours. Alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, I got it, Dad." Jackson turns to Gemma and bends to hug her, largely ignoring the incredulous expression on her face before dropping a kiss on her cheek. "Love you, Mom." A pleased smile flickers across Gemma's face and she hugs her son briefly before reaching for Tara and murmuring in her ear as she pulls her into an embrace.
"Don't think you've gotten out of our little field trip to the Doc, sweetheart. There's been a lot of shit going on, but we're makin' time for this, and sooner rather than later." She releases Tara, and notes Tara's beet-red face with an air of satisfaction.
After that, everything is a bit of a blur as Jackson leads her by the hand out of the conference room, down the hallway, out the door, and across the parking lot- stopping only to sit sideways on the Dyna and pull her bodily into him, groaning as he finally fuses his lips to hers. He kisses her hungrily, his hands drifting to their familiar positions at her jaw and in her hair, and Tara can't resist settling between his thighs and pressing against him. One of his hands moves to the small of her back and draws her into him even further, settling their hips against each other and beginning a rhythm that does nothing but increase the ache she's had since this morning. This triggers a thought and Tara pulls back slightly to whisper against his lips.
"Jesus, Jackson. How long have you been like this?" He groans and busies himself with her neck, pausing between nips and suckling kisses to breathe his answer into her skin.
"Since the other night… when you tortured me… and the next morning… when you tortured me." Tara giggles at the memory of Jackson in her bed, trying to cop a feel and getting shut down due to Tara's abject terror of the creaky old bedstead in her room, her father down the hall, and her utter inability to remain silent every time Jackson brought her to a climax with his fingers, his tongue, or his-
And suddenly, his hand was dragging hers to the part in question, forming a half-sheath of her fingers and moving them, together, over the bulge that seems to have grown impossibly harder since they'd left the table. God…
"I need you now, Tara… we need to get the fuck out of here and find somewhere to be alone or it's gonna be too late and we're doin' this right here." Jesus, with the way he looks right now- near-desperate, face flushed, soft lips moistened and pupils blown- the parking lot is sounding better and better. Still, indecent exposure doesn't seem like a good way to spend the holiday, and she squeezes him again before asking, simply-
"Where?" He sucks in another ragged breath before dragging her hand away and pressing his lips to her ear.
"Anywhere. Your house, my house… though they're both halfway across town…" he trails off to suck her earlobe into his mouth and Tara shivers as she presses her hands to his chest to look up at him.
"I have an idea."
The late November sun is low in the sky when they arrive at the cabin; Tara knows it's further than Jackson had wanted to drive, knows they could have easily gone to her house since her father's not going to make an appearance until tomorrow some time… But their first visit here had been on her mind since it had happened and the thought of leaving Charming in the dust was all too appealing.
They're barely off the Dyna before Jackson's mouth is on hers, his tongue invading and setting up a delicious rhythm that has the ache that had set up residence this morning sharpening, the need overtaking her until she's pushing him backwards down the short path. Her lips only leave his as they stumble up the shallow front step, but find purchase again when his back hits the front door. Then, her fingers are fumbling blindly with the buttons of the flannel he'd donned for the ride up here, her body pressing his against the door, his fingers curling into her hips and drawing her even more firmly against him. She has to tear her mouth from his and step back a little to find the final three buttons, but he reclaims her almost instantly and spins them so that she's against the door; finally, she gives up and simply yanks the plackets apart, sending the buttons pinging against the door and rolling away on the porch floor.
Finally, finally, Tara's able to push the shirt off his shoulders- he has to drag his hands away from her hips to shrug out of it- and it's no more than clearing his fingertips before she's pushing her hands up underneath his white tee and seeking the skin she'd been imagining having her hands on since the dinner table, earlier. Jackson's mouth is hot and hard on hers, kissing her with urgency… until he's pulling away, that damn smirk back on his face.
"Hold that thought," is all he says, dropping to his knees before her, his nose nudging her t-shirt up past her navel so he can brush his lips across the skin there. She's milliseconds away from fisting her hands in his hair and drawing him in further when he dips his head away from her. Seconds later, he's standing, dangling the key he'd retrieved from underneath the mat between two fingers. He reaches around her to the lock, trailing his fingers on her hip, then unlatches the door, slipping a hand behind her to prevent her from falling into the cabin completely.
The door barely closes behind them before Tara's hands venture back to where they'd left off- underneath Jackson's shirt- but he merely chuckles as she lifts it over his head.
"I thought I told you to hold that thought…" He drops a kiss on her lips, drops his t-shirt on the floor, then brushes past her to crouch before the fireplace. She watches for a moment as a shaft of orange sunset glances off his hair, still unruly from the ride, then moves behind him to watch the muscles of his back play under his skin as he arranges the firewood in the hearth. She can't resist trailing her fingers across his shoulders and down his spine, smiling to herself when progress on the fire slows considerably. Tentatively, she leans forward to press a kiss between his shoulder blades, then near the center of his back, then just above his waistband before snaking her arms around him to find his fly. Again, he halts her progress, shifting to his knees to dig the ever-present Zippo from his pocket and uses it to light a newspaper he'd rolled from the stack on a nearby table.
As the paper flickers and catches, setting the surrounding kindling ablaze, Tara sits next to him and draws her knees up to her chest.
"You know… the way I remember it, you were the one that needed me now. I never took you for someone who'd say something they didn't mean, Teller." She chances a small smirk, which is returned almost instantly as he rests his chin on his shoulder, the firelight setting up a warm glow on the near side of his gorgeous face.
"I always need you, babe," he says, quite seriously despite the way his lips are curling. She shakes her head.
"That's not what I meant and you know it." Unconsciously, Tara pouts her lips just a bit; by the time she realizes what she's done, Jackson's eyes are fixed on them, so she sucks the lower one between her teeth and keeps her eyes on his. When he speaks again, his voice is husky, strained.
"I've needed you since I was six and found out Tara Knowles was the only kid in school who wouldn't laugh at me if I cried. I've needed you since I saw you in Ope's truck the first day of school. But that's not what you meant either, is it babe?" Silent in her anticipation, Tara shakes her head, again. "I've also needed you since you called me this morning when I was in bed, and it got worse all day… so much that I wanted nothing more than to take you right there in the parking lot."
"And I need y-" His mouth covers hers before she can finish her thought and he's suddenly insistent, guiding her backwards onto the rug spread out on the floor before the fireplace. She stops him, then- pressing a hand to his chest- and he draws back, eying her quizzically. His confusion evaporates as she tugs her t-shirt over her head and reaches to undo the front clasp of her bra; but now, its his hands that still hers.
"Let me," Jackson says, simply… and she does. A flick of his hand is all it takes to loosen her bra, and both of his large hands smooth over her shoulders, causing the straps to fall down her arms. She's hardly extracted them from the loops when he's looming over her and guiding her back to the floor, as gentle now as he was forceful, earlier. Tara practically growls in frustration; she doesn't need gentle- gentle is for early mornings and soft beds, but here… There's nobody around for miles and she just needs… more.
If Jackson's surprised when she sits up and pushes against his chest again, he doesn't show it, just sits back on his haunches and watches, a note of amused approval on his face, as she tosses her bra somewhere near the place his t-shirt had landed earlier. Then, she's standing, hauling him to his feet as well before she can think too much about what she's doing, practically attacking him with wet, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become erratic until he drags his lips away to trail down her neck. The moment he seizes her nipple with his teeth is also the moment she loses control, fumbling with his belt and tearing open his fly until she can yank his jeans and boxers down his legs and take him in hand. He shudders, and in that moment her decision is made.
Tara sinks to her knees and helps Jackson step out of the jeans pooled at his feet before trailing a series of kisses up the inside of one thigh, brushing against him on her way to the other thigh and back down again. His fingers twist in her hair almost harshly, but go lax as she abandons his thigh and sucks just the tip of him into her mouth. The groan that tears out of his throat twists into words she doesn't understand, so she looks up the hard planes of his body and into his eyes. They're wild, almost desperate, and close briefly as she moves to take in more of him.
"Tara…" he manages, this time. "Stop." She barely has time to deflate, panic a bit that he doesn't want this, want her, before he's dragging her to her feet and sliding her jeans and panties over her hips. "It's been a little while…" he says, breathless and reaching for her, "…and I want it with you- I mean, with you."
No more words are said as she sags against him, as he parts her with nimble fingers and strokes the spot that's been aching for him, to some extent, all day. His other hand cups her naked breast, rubs her nipple with a rough thumb and the sensation is almost too much. Her breath is coming in hot puffs against his shoulder as she takes him in hand and strokes him once again, and then she's almost whimpering as he backs away yet again, this time to sift through his jeans pockets.
The condom is open and rolled on almost before she can blink, and then his lips are back, kissing her with a force unfamiliar to them… but not unwelcome. They're moving away from the warmth of the fire, then, Jackson's body pressing against hers, but not firmly enough; actually Tara doesn't know if anything will be enough… her back hits the plank-covered wall next to the fireplace and Jackson's hips set themselves against hers, dipping at the knees and pressing her against the wall harder with each thrust. Even that's not enough, and, instinctively, she hooks a knee over his hip; there, the angle is a little better, and Jackson must agree, given the way he buries his face in her neck and groans in relief. Despite the fact that he has her naked and pushed up against a wall, though, she just needs more, and the words leave her mouth before she can stop them.
"I need you to fuck me, Jackson." Now his face does register surprise, something she's sure has to do with the fact that it's not a word she says often, and never in description of them, what they have together. She's not sorry, though; they've spent a few months solidifying their love, this body-and-soul connection she can't imagine having with anyone else, and dammit if her lust-addled brain can't come up with a better word to describe just exactly how she needs him, or how much.
As quickly as surprise crosses his face, it's replaced by fierce determination, tempered only by the faint edges of his crooked grin. Then, he's lifting her other leg, encouraging her to wrap herself around him as he lifts her briefly- adjusting himself- and lowers her onto him, pinning her against the wall with his chest. The sensation of him filling her is finally everything she's been wanting, and Tara can't help dropping her head back against the wall as Jackson begins pulsing into her, his thrusts becoming more and more forceful with each moment that passes. She rolls her shoulders and he takes the opportunity to catch an errant nipple in his mouth, scissoring it between his teeth before releasing it with a pop and dragging his mouth across her chest to the other. That one, he sucks, hard, before nipping it, and the jolt it sends to her extremities is enough to bring her to the edge, her eyes flying open to take him in, once again.
His eyes are closed, the dusky smudges of his lashes resting on his cheekbones, his plump lower lip playing over her nipple, the edges of his hair brushing tantalizingly against the slope of her breast. Beads of sweat are beginning to appear on his forehead and as she shifts her focus over his shoulder, once again, the painted Harley Davidson mirror near the front door catches her eye. They're perfectly framed within it, and she can just make out the rolling muscles of his back, the flexing of his toned ass as it moves rhythmically below her crossed ankles… he shifts, thumping her harder against the wall, pressing deeper than she thinks he's ever been- touching a part of her she hadn't known existed before this moment- and suddenly, she's gone.
The sensation washing over her is coming from deep within, this time; his hands are on her ass and lower back- nowhere near her center- and somehow her orgasm is radiating in waves through her body from some central point until she's trembling against him, unable to control her limbs, much less the sounds coming from her throat. She's vaguely aware of Jackson slamming into her twice, three more times; then she can feel his knees nearly give way as his entire body jerks and drives her against the wall one final time, biting her shoulder and groaning her name as he shudders and stills.
They stay like that for a few moments, breath settling, pressing kisses to the places their heads have settled- his on her shoulder, hers at his crown; then, Jackson's clutching her to him and crossing to the couch where he collapses at long last, Tara draped across him.
"Holy shit…" is all he seems to be able to muster. She smiles, then, her lips brushing his cheekbone as she states the obvious, what they hadn't taken the time to say before.
"I love you, Jackson…" His fingers trail lazily over her back for a time before he responds.
"And I love you." He pauses a moment before chuckling to himself, then falls still again, except for his fingers, which continue their movements.
"Well, go on…" she murmurs in his ear.
"Hmm?"
"Spill it. What are you laughing at?" Again, a short huff of laughter comes against her shoulder.
"It's just that I thought about this all the way up here, imagined laying you down in front of the fire, showing you how much I love you, over and over… and that's not really what happened." Tara raises her head and finds she only has enough energy to rest her forehead against his, peering briefly into his blue eyes before closing hers.
"It was exactly how we needed it to be, don't you think?" He nods a bit against her forehead. "I mean, Jesus, Jackson, I've never felt… that, before." He kisses her gently, formulating his response for a moment before replying.
"I meant it before when I said I wanted to take you right there in the St. Thomas parking lot. I just… I just want to make sure you always know I love you. It's so much more than the sex, to me."
"To me too," she's quick to reassure him, "and no matter how it happens, or where it happens… I want you because I love you. It's always about love, when it's us, so it's always making love… even when its probably better described as fucking." He tilts his head up sharply, then, the smirk on his face once more, his eyes insolent.
"Damn, Knowles, I never knew you had such a mouth on you."
"Sure you did, Teller. And if you don't watch it, it's gonna be on you." She's kissing him before he can make his retort, and eventually, all he can seem to manage is to withdraw himself from her, gently, and pull the afghan on the back of the couch over them both as they drift off, exhausted but happy.
Jax awakes to a cold fireplace and an even colder front side. It takes him a moment to come to the realization that Tara's warmth is what's missing; he sits up to scan the main room of the cabin and sees no trace of her. Reluctantly, he gathers the afghan around himself and creeps down the small hallway- the bathroom is dark, as are both bedrooms. Still, he pokes his head into the one they'd practically fallen into the last time they were up here- the old, hooked bedspread is missing, but no Tara. The smaller bedroom is empty as well, and- beginning to panic a little now- Jax makes his way back out to the front room. The small kitchen nook is empty, and he's about to sink down onto the sofa and commence freaking out when he sees it- the back door's cracked open the tiniest bit, the door itself wavering in the breeze eking its way through the crack. Jax pushes through it, not bothering to close it behind him, and sighs in relief as he spots her.
Tara's wrapped in the bedspread, reclined on the huge old rough-hewn redwood swing in the middle of the flagstone patio, facing nothing but the copse of trees that eventually give way to the lake beyond. The thick A-frame creaks a bit as the swing sways slightly under her weight, and she smiles but doesn't look at him as he rounds the edge of the frame.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Her eyes are focused on the sky, the millions of stars above them seeming to actually fucking twinkle, but he pays them only a moment's attention before focusing on Tara, once again.
"Beautiful,' he says, simply, and now she does look at him, rolling her eyes when she sees where his gaze is trained.
"Don't be a cliché, Teller. I'm trying to share a moment with you, here." She's smiling, though, her sarcasm just a part of who she is, part of what he loves about her.
"Ain't a cliché if you mean it, Knowles. But you're right. It's beautiful. Now let me under that blanket with you- this one's got holes and I'm freezing my-"
"Clearly," Tara deadpans, looking pointedly at the part of him the afghan didn't reach.
"Hey!" he returns, feigning hurt. "I don't recall you having anything negative to say a couple hours ago." She appears to consider this for a moment before nodding and shifting so that the end of the blanket's draped over the back of the swing, and reaches an arm out in invitation. With a little difficulty, he's soon pressed against her back, both their heads resting on the arm of the swing, the blanket pulled over top of them both. Now that things are set right, Tara back in his arms, he tucks his chin over her shoulder and murmurs in her ear.
"This something you do often? Get up in the middle of the night to look at the stars?" He can see the corner of her smile as she snuggles back into him.
"Not recently…" She's silent for a while, before she says, at a near whisper- "Doesn't it seem like there are about a million more stars out here?"
"Probably just because we're away from all the lights- even Charming has enough streetlights and shit to dull some of the fainter stars, I think." Now it's clear she's working something out, her jaw tightens briefly before her voice comes through the dark.
"Maybe it's just Charming, Jackson. That town has a way of dulling a lot of things." A shard of dread knifes its way through his insides, then, but she's speaking again before he can think too hard about what she meant. "Did you know that the closest star we can see, besides the sun, is over eight and a half light years away? It takes eight and a half years for even light- the fastest moving thing in the universe- to reach us. Even if we could travel there by spaceship or something, it would still take a few hundred thousand years. And still, there it is. We can't visit it, touch it, or feel its warmth, but we can see its light, almost nine years after it's given to us." Jax isn't at all sure what she's getting at, but his mind is instantly back in that place of dread; he tries not to think about Tara somewhere where he can't touch her like he's doing now, and tries to keep his voice even as he responds, his lips pressing briefly against her ear first.
"How do you know all this stuff?" He's relieved when her voice in return is warm, fond as she remembers.
"My mom used to take me out at night, sometimes, when my dad had a run that kept him out late. We'd sit in the backyard just like this… okay not just like this-" they laugh, together, for a moment before she continues. "She liked looking at the stars, especially after she got sick. I think it gave her mind something to do after she had to stop working. Anyway, she had this encyclopedia of the stars, and she'd point them out to me, tell me about them. Sirius, the one I told you about just now, it's just one that I remember. Probably the only one, actually, but the knowledge of how that all works, just how big the universe is… it's always amazed me." He smiles against her shoulder again.
"You amaze me." They're silent for a few minutes before he wonders, aloud, "why didn't you wake me?" Jax can see her smile again, and is relieved they've moved into more familiar territory.
"You looked worn out. I figured since it was my fault, the least I could do was let you sleep for a little." When would she learn that there's practically nothing on this earth- hell, in the universe, come to think of it- he wants more than her, including sleep? He considers saying just that, but keeps the mood light, instead.
"Yeah, well, you did practically attack me… and then order me to fuck you." Even in the moonlight, he can see the flush creeping up Tara's cheeks, can't help but kiss it, though it requires an angle he's not sure his neck should be making.
"An order you complied with far too easily for it to have been much of an order at all, Teller." Tara pauses, seeming to choose her words carefully before turning to face him, a smile he knows he's seen before gracing her lips. "And now… I think I'm ready to try things your way." His way? Then, it all comes together- the smile she's giving him, the way she correctly interprets his thoughts, and the way her hands drift down to stroke him- so that she doesn't even need to say it for him to understand what she's getting at. But he lets her whisper it to him anyway; lets her drive out the last, remaining, splinters of dread about what's to come of them years down the road so he can focus on the here and now.
"Make love to me, Jackson."
And with the swing swaying underneath them and several million stars at his back, he does.