Episode 9: Turas
Gemma stomping out Jax's soft side
"Mrs. Teller." Jax's teacher greets her with a smile and a handshake. "Come in, sit." She gestures to the only other adult sized chair in the bright classroom and Gemma sits, crossing her legs and looking about.
"You said on the phone we needed to talk." Gemma cuts right to the point and the teacher's features freeze into a forced smile. She shuffles papers for a moment, flinching.
"Yes," She says firmly. "About Jax."
"What about my boy?" Gemma asks, trying not to get defensive.
"Jax is a great student." The teacher leads. "He's a smart kid, always thinking outside the box. Very creative. Articulate. Always offering up his thoughts and opinions."
"But." Gemma says flatly.
"But we've been having some issues with him and the more, how do I say it, sensitive boys." She says slowly and Gemma wonders if it would be wildly wrong to start laughing.
"Sensitive boys." She repeats, arching an eyebrow.
"Well you see, Jax has a certain… Thing he does." His teacher says slowly, fiddling with her pens. "Most of the boys, when someone steals whatever toy they're playing with, or sits in their chair, or does anything to upset them, they cry, they tattle to me, or they pout. Jackson-"
"Fights." Gemma doesn't mean for the pride to be evident in her voice, but it is.
"Well, yes." The teacher's brow furrows at how Gemma knows that. "He never gets a teacher, he never cries, he just fights to get back the toy, his chair, pencils, whatever it is."
"And why is this a problem?" Gemma asks, leaning forward onto the desk. The teacher looks shocked.
"Mrs. Teller, your son is getting in fights with other children!"
"From what you're telling me, I'm just seeing my son holding his own against children that are stealing his things or doing other bad things." Gemma leans back and folds her arms, a triumphant sneer on her face. "Is that so wrong?"
"You cannot be telling me you condone your five year old using violence to get his way." The teacher is aghast and Gemma rolls her eyes.
"Don't get all dramatic. Jax isn't violent, he's just not one of those watered down, sissy boys that everyone seems so hell-bent on protecting these days." She declares. "My kid is protecting himself. I fail to see how that is so wrong."
"We cannot accept violence in our schools." The teacher is trembling now. "Jackson is a sweet boy and I think that with a little parenting and guidance, we can stop this behavior before it gets out of hand."
"Out of hand." Gemma echoes, distain creeping into her voice. "And tell me, what does that look like?"
"Jackson is incredibly smart and articulate. I can see that this behavior, it's more a whiplash response. If allowed to continue, I can only see him becoming more and more violent." The teacher admits and Gemma thinks of Jax, running to hug John and Piney, fearless of the guns and knives that his father and uncles carry on themselves.
"Are you telling me I'm raising my child wrong?" Her rage flares up and the teacher cows instantly.
"No, of course not, no, I'm just, I'm saying," She takes a deep breath and tries to gather some of her composure back. "I am worried about your child and his behavior. If Jax doesn't learn to settle things through peaceful resolution, there will be serious issues down the line."
"Or," Gemma says bitingly. "You could teach kids not to steal other kids toys. My son will continue to do whatever the hell he damn pleases, do you understand that?" She glares down at the teacher, who is wide eyed in awed fear.
"Mrs. Teller-"
"Don't Mrs. Teller me." Gemma snaps, getting up. "My son will never be some sensitive child." She sweeps out of the room, a smirk on her face.
"Look in to arresting the guy whose family has been trying to shut down the MC for two decades."
Jeremiah Hale was a powerful man and he liked everyone to know. It began with his name. Judge Hale. That's how he expected everyone to address him, in the courtroom and out. It was how he introduced himself to new people. If he wrote a column in the newspaper, that's how it got credited. Some even joked that it would be the name on his tombstone and he really didn't see a problem with that.
He held sway in the courts. He held sway on the City Council. He held sway on the school board. No matter where you looked in Charming, the touch of Jeremiah Hale was evident. He had worked to build it up, investing here, investing there, smiling, shaking hands. It was a perfect little oasis, a gem, and it was all his.
Except for the bikers that rumbled down Main Street, that drew rowdy crowds to the bars on Saturday nights, that swaggered into stores and shops and restaurants. The 'protectors' of Charming. The Sons of Anarchy.
"Can't anyone enjoy a nice quiet Sunday brunch with their family after church?" He demands loudly in the diner. The noise of motorcycles is rising to a crescendo and though they can't see them, they will be able to soon.
"Dear." Mary Hale mutters out of the corner of her mouth. She's staring down resolutely at her pancakes while their young sons kick their feet and glance at their father anxiously.
"No, I'm sick of it." He declares, anger rising. "We get out of church, good, god-fearing people and want a meal with our families." He looks around at the patrons of the diner, some of whom are meeting his eye and nodding, other's who turn and look away, more interested in their hash browns than his statements.
"Dad." Jacob's voice is small. "Can we just eat?" He turns to his youngest son and frowns, opening his mouth to give a lecture, but then the noise of the bikes cuts off. As couple moments later, the door above the diner jangles cheerily and in walks a large family.
Family is a term that can be used loosely. There's a father, with a small blond boy clinging to his hand. There's a mother, her belly rounding into a growing bump. But then there's more, there's tall men laughing, arms slung around scantily clad women, grinning and talking loudly.
"Diana." John Teller pauses at the woman sitting alone, his son yanking on his arm. "How are things?"
"They're going good." The little old lady's face crinkles into a smile as she looks up at him.
"Your knee feeling better?" John asks and the concern in his voice is real.
"Oh, the surgery went fine dear. Just recovering, a little slower than I want." She assures him, waving a hand.
"Well if you need any helping planting those flowers this spring, you give me a call, ok?" Gemma asks and Diana shakes her head.
"No, you shouldn't be kneeling either dear." She rests a hand on Gemma's large belly.
"That's what I've got them for." Gemma jerks her thumb over her shoulder at the men sliding into the large booth with a sly grin.
"You let us know if you need anything, alright?" John covers Diana's hand with his own and smiles at her. She smiles back and nods before John shepherds Jax into the both, squished between him and a short man who rubs Jax's head until the boy laughs and fights him off.
"Why am I the only man in town that sees past this mask?" Judge Hale growls and Jacob and David both sit up a little straighter, hoping to get a peek at the man they've heard their father rage about for so long.
They don't look awful, Jacob Hale thinks to himself. They look happy. Happier than his family, with his quiet, ailing mother, his plotting and scheming father, and his brother that only too happily follows after his father.
John is laughing and playing a silly game with Jax, jumping white pegs over each other until only one remains. Jax childishly wants to sword fight with them and John goes along, pretending to be mortally wounded when Jax jabs him in the shoulder.
Gemma is ordering for everyone, chiding the noisy men and smiling apologetically at the waitress, one steady hand on Jax's shoulder to keep him quiet. The waitress laughs when Jax asks sweetly for extra bacon and Gemma reminds him he can hardly finish a plate as is.
Jacob suddenly wishes for that cozy warmth, the affectionate squeezes and teasing. He looks back at their own table. His seething father, fearful mother. No love between them. His mother glances up and sees his downcast face. She offers him a tentative smile.
"Eat your breakfast, Jakey." She says quietly. "You'll be hungry before lunch if you don't."
"Ok mama." He says quietly, tearing his eyes off of Jax and his family, eating his sausage.
"Mark my words, they will go down." His father is still muttering, shaking his head in distaste at the sight of all the leather, studs, beards, and tattoos. "Who do they think they are, frequenting a family establishment?"
"Dale." John rises from the end of the booth to shake a short, plump man's hand. "How are you?"
"Better now." Dale says seriously. "Thanks for helping me with that, uh, problem."
"Of course." John says warmly. "Any time."
"Hey, you coming to the picnic in the park next weekend?" Gemma asks and he gives a little half shrug.
"We're thinking about it."
"Well bring Patsy and the kids." She encourages. "We're making burgers."
"I'm sure she'd be delighted." He says and a second later, Diana cries,
"Oh, John!" She stands up, her purse swinging, wiggling her finger at him. "You didn't have to pay my bill."
"You have a good Sunday Diana." He says, grinning and waving.
"You're too good." She's beaming.
"I don't get why dad hates these guys so much." Jacob says lowly to his brother, watching as John fends off Diana's attempt to pay him back.
"Because they're criminals." David says back harshly. "And criminals deserve to be behind bars."
"I think they look nice." Jacob observes, watching John pat Dale's back and walk Diana to her car. When he reenters the diner, he kisses his wife's head and pulls Jax onto his lap, talking quietly to him.
"They're white trash." His father says sharply. "Never forget that. Let's go." He drags them out by the hands and John Teller doesn't even seem to notice the glares that are thrown his way.
Kerrianne
"Kerrianne!" The name breaks through the hazy morning light like a shock and she groans, wanting desperately to roll back over and hide her face, but she knows better. "Get up!"
"I'm coming." She grumbles, even as she's pulling the covers up a little tighter over her shoulders. She closes her eyes and tries to settle back into the bed, but the sound of a sharp rap on her door makes her groan even louder.
"Do not make me come in there young lady." Her mother's tone has crossed from annoyed into stern territory and she knows if she pushes it, she'll get, in succession, annoyed, stern, frustrated, angry, outraged, furious, and then freezing cold punishment. So she rubs her eyes and swings her legs out from under the comforter, sitting up wearily.
A couple more blinks to clear her hazy vision and then she's fully awake, shivering in the slightly chilled morning air. She gets up and stretches, her elbows and back popping as she does. She leaves the window cracked open, walking into her bathroom.
She observes the messy nest of her hair with faint amusement. There's no controlling it, there never has been. Her mother use to comment ruefully that she'd gotten her thick hair and her father's wildness. No comb could stand the test of time against it.
She splashes cold water on her face, jolting her senses and mind. She looks into the mirror, carefully inspecting her face for any blemishes. Her skin, nearly the same tone as her mother, remains unblemished.
"Filip's skin." Her mother had once said proudly, as teenager years arrived and her friends and classmates grew angry red bumps.
"Ma," She had laughed. "I look just like you!"
"Aye." Fiona had gently brushed her hair away. "You do. But your da, never knew what zit was a day in his life! Best skin I'd ever seen. Just like you." And then they had grinned at each other before sadness set in and erased that.
She shakes her head to clear the past from today and brushes her teeth. As she does, she wanders around the bathroom, glancing out the small window. Dreary skies overhead, a slight chill in the air. She smiles as she leans over the sink to spit. Ireland.
She gets dressed for the day, throwing on jeans and a tee shirt, with layers over it. She grabs her favorite stocking hat as she walks out of her room. Before she can shut her light off, she pauses, turning back to her mirror.
Tucked in the crack of the life side is an old, crinkled photo. It's a dark haired man, in the middle of a giant belly laugh. In his arms, beaming, in a little girl in a cream dress. An Easter Lily is clutched tightly in her hand.
Easter, when she was 7. She remembers it like it was yesterday. a memory, tucked away for a rainy day. Her pretty dress, brand new. Her da, plucking an Easter Lily from the alter when they walked up for communion and presenting it to her with a wink. Her ma's scolding and laughter. When she thinks of happiness, she thinks of shinning shoes, new dresses, the voices around her raised in a Catholic hymn, and white Easter Lilies.
She briefly kisses the tips of her fingers and presses it to image, right over her father.
"Miss ya, da." She whispers.
"If you're not down here in two minutes young lady, you're not getting breakfast!" Her mother's tone is quickly slipping towards angry, so she grabs her bag of books and runs.
"Right here ma." She says, sliding into her seat at the breakfast table. Jimmy is there for once, reading the paper and mostly ignoring her.
"Eat quick or you'll be late for school." Her mother orders quietly, sliding eggs onto her plate. Then she turns and dishes up Jimmy, going back into the kitchen to get orange juice and milk for them. Kerrianne scarfs the food down as fast as she can, one eye on the clock.
"Kerrianne." Jimmy folds down the paper and stares at her. She swallows egg and clears her throat.
"Yes?"
"I'm going to be out of town for the next couple days." He announces and she stays still, frowning slightly. "So behave for your mother."
"Of course." She says quietly and he nods, satisfied. She glances at her mother, mystified, but with a short jerk of her head, she's warned not to press it.
"Run along now child, school bells are ringing." Fiona mutters and she nods, pushing away from the table and pulling headphones out of her bag.
"Oh and Kerrianne?" Jimmy says mildly and she turns, hesitating in opening the door.
"Yes?" She asks unsurely.
"Have a good day at school." He flips the paper back up and she relaxes.
"Bye, I love you." She whispers to her mother, kissing her cheek. Then she bursts outside and onto the street. She pauses on the steps, sticking her earbuds in, then sets off down the street, bobbing her head to the music.
She's always loved music. Church music, Irish music, trashy European club music, all of it makes her heart soar. Today she skips to something pop and upbeat, mouthing along to the words as she walks to school.
One song ends and she glances down to see what's next when she falters. It's a version of the lullaby her father once sang to her. She usually skips it, unless she's in the mood to cry, but today it doesn't bother her.
She's outside, she's free till she walks into the schoolyard, and she's happy for once. She turns her face up towards the sky and beams. Today, for whatever reason, feels like a good day.
She sits through school and class, tapping her pencil distractedly against the side of her desk. She's restless, anxious, in a way she can't describe. Deep in her gut, she knows something is happening, she just doesn't know what. When school finally lets out, she decides not to mingle with friends in the courtyard and instead hurries home.
When she arrives, she sees a black van parked hastily on the curb and all the excitement dissipates into pure fear. Yanking her earbuds out, she races inside, crying,
"Ma! Ma!"
"Kerrianne." Her mother is in the kitchen, calm but tense. "Go upstairs. Pack your things."
"But-" She keeps opening and closing her mouth but no sound is coming out. "What?"
"We're leaving." Her mother says flatly. "Go. One bag. Small. Pack your things, Kerrianne. Now. Go!" She jumps at the order and scrambles upstairs. She shoves her favorite jeans and sweatshirt into a bag, trying to find her warm socks and her favorite earrings. She whirls around the room, gathering everything stopping to catch her breath, looking around the room in panic.
What's she forgetting? She grabs her stuffed unicorn she's had for as long as she could remember, her iPod, her brush, all those things. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she looks around once more. On her way out, she snatches the photo of her and her father.
"Ma, what is going on?" She demands, as she's pulled into the van. Her mother, carrying several of her own bags, simply gives commands in a low voice to a dark haired man, who nods and starts driving. "Ma, where are we going?"
"Your father is in Ireland." Her mother admits and for a minute, the stress lifts off her face to show Kerrianne happiness. "We're going to see your father."
Fiona meaning 'fair, white'
Her father had a cruel sense of humor, that damn man. He demanded that his only daughter be named Fiona, after his mother. The fact that his mother was a short, quiet, white woman and his daughter was a tall, vocal child with the dark skin of her mother was lost on him. He gave his daughter a name that she would have no use of.
Fiona. She became accustomed to the way that on the first day of school, during roll call, when Fiona was called out, every teacher would glance towards the pale-skinned Irish girls and she would have to raise her hand and claim the ill-fitting name.
It followed her up through the years, her strange name. Sometimes, ignorant people would laugh and ask her her real name, something that sounded more African. They'd ask if she'd taken the name Fiona to make things easier on everyone then asked why she picked it. It made her want to rip her hair out and scream.
Because if she was going to pick a name, Fiona would've been nowhere near the top of her list. It would've been so far down it would've been impossible to pick. Fiona, the damn name, the one that didn't suit her at all.
Fiona, meaning fair and white. They had done a class project once, where they had looked at the meanings of their names. She had stared down at hers in a mixture of exasperation and amusement, finally understanding why she hated the name so, why it fit like a too-small jumper. It wasn't her at all.
For Fiona, she is not fair. She is not some delicate princess, waiting for a white knight to rescue her from her tower. She doesn't need a man to slay her dragons. She is a wild warrior woman of old, gnashing teeth and pure strength.
She carries a gun like it's a pack of gum, palming it in her hands and leveling it at a man's head with hardly a blink of her eyes. She knows how to shake her hips, seduce a man, and leave him gasping for air as she saunters off. She's not fair, she's as dangerous as they come and anyone stupid enough to not believe it will understand afterwards.
She is not white. She's proud of her dusky skin and her curly hair, even if it's untamable on it's best day. She looks just like her mother and even though the woman is dead and buried, when Fiona sees her face staring back at her in the mirror, she has some comfort in knowing that a piece of her mother lives on in her.
Fiona, the girl with the wrong name, who wears her strength and fearlessness like a cloak, wishes her father could see her now.
Chibs not wanting his daughter to leave Ireland
Is he a bad father? That's the question he mulls over as he sips on the same Irish brew he use to as a young lad. He's been by no means perfect. Hell, if he was, his daughter wouldn't have a 'step-father' that raised her.
But his girl, she knows how much he loves her. How hard he fought for her. How there were things he couldn't control and they were ripped from his arms, not willingly. He didn't want to leave them. It wasn't his choice.
But now, he has everything he's ever wanted. Fiona and Kerrianne, in his grasp, safe from Jimmy, ready to get on the next flight out and flee Ireland and the Real IRA and violence. They could come home to Charming.
He'd need a bigger house. One with big windows, so Fiona could get all the sunlight California has to offer, away from dreary Ireland. Kerrianne would have a whole wing of the house and anything she wanted. He would shift heaven and earth to get her what she wanted.
But even as he lets himself sink into the daydream, he cuts himself off. It is not possible, he knows that. It will never happen. Fiona and Kerrianne, they can't go and he can't stay. They remain anchored where their hearts are.
Sure, he could ask Clay for a transfer. He's almost sure that it would be granted. Though SAMCRO wouldn't like it, they'd respect his need to stay in Northern Ireland and be the one to put SAMBEL back on track. But it's club over family and he knows his duty.
And then there's Kerrianne. She is wildly beautiful, even he can't deny that. He can still see a little bit of that cautious child she once was, so hesitant and mild, loving all forms of music, content to listen for hours. He can see in her eyes a fraction of the love and admiration she once stared at her father with. His daughter, his heart.
Her home is here, in Ireland, much like his once was, those years ago. She's a child of Ireland, grew up in its hills and valleys, loving the mournful song and bloody history as much as he did. He knows what it's like to be ripped away from home, to have no say in the choice. He knows that pain, when all you want to do is run to safety and familiarity and you can't.
He won't place that burden on her. He won't have her hate him for stealing her away from the only home she has ever known. It might kill him, but he has to leave his girls here, where they belong. Fiona is a fierce enough warrior that Kerrianne will be safe with her.
Maybe that makes him a bad father. But he has dreamt of this since the day Jimmy took them and left marks on his face as proof. He has been thinking about this since then, going one way, then the other. Keep them. Leave them. Keep them. Leave them. And he knows, deep down in his soul, that he must be the brave one, the strong one, and tear himself away from them. Because he is her father and that means protecting her no matter the cost.
AN: Ok so I lied, I do like season 3, mainly because I love Ireland and Chibs and his girls and the whole works. Tell me what you love please?