Cover Me Up

by heythereanna

"He's handsome in an undeniable James Dean way, a magnetic charisma flickering in his gaze with a touch of the outlaw that he clearly is. Shaggy blonde hair that had seemed to always fall just right, eyes so blue that she could drown in them, hands calloused from hours spent gripping the handlebars of a motorcycle, and lips tasting like cinnamon whiskey." AU Jax/Brooke

2. You're In My Blood Like Holy Wine

Title: Cover Me Up
Author: heythereanna (Anna)
Pairing: Brooke/Jax
Rating: MATURE; Language, Adult Content
TW: Strong language, rape, alcohol/drug use. Please read at your discretion.
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, even though I wish I could take Mark Schwahn's position and remake seasons four through eight of One Tree Hill. Kurt Sutter, however, is a god and his work is untouchable.
Author's Note: I can't thank everyone enough for their fabulous reviews, but I hope that this chapter is just as thrilling for you all. Thank you, and enjoy!

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Church: a building used for public worship, regardless of denomination, race or gender.

To most Charming residents, that's always been the firm definition of it. It's where his mother would drag him and Clay on holidays when they needed to keep her perfect mask of a happy family on for the town to see. It's a hated place to him, a place where he had known he was supposed to sit all prim and proper as if nothing was wrong in his life and sing along to the boring ass hymns that he didn't know the meaning to. He had hated the pompous sermons, hated the fact that every time he was there he had to sit with the other SAMCRO families and act as if their fucked up souls were still able to be saved. He'd hated the looks that they'd get, as if they somehow belonged there less than the more financially fortunate souls.

As they'd grown into young men hell bent on following in their fathers' respective pasts, it had become the building that he and Opie used to sneak behind when they'd dashed out of class, smoking Gemma's Marlboro lights and drinking malt liquor that they'd persuaded prospects to buy them. The pastor, on one of his many drunken sprees from drinking too much wine throughout his service, used to say that it would be the church where misfits like Jax and Opie would marry their future wives someday, women that would surely put them on a more righteous path. He'd laugh his head off, cackling like a hyena at the thought of becoming some goody two shoes suburban husband that forked money in the collection plate and loved only God and his family. It had been far fetched to say the least, even more so when it was against the back of that very church that he'd lost his virginity to a crow eater at the tender age of thirteen - and also caught chlamydia for the first and thankfully last time.

But Opie had gone on to marry his wife, Donna, there the day he'd turned seventeen. He and Brooke had stood in the wedding, dutiful best friends to the bride and groom. After being lost for so long, the two men had stood at an altar with those good women that the pastor had preached about, those women that might make them the men that they were born to be. They'd made it through the wilderness, they joked when they were waiting on their women, and now they got to build the lives they were dreaming of - with or without the club.

They had no idea that two years later Opie would be burying his wife in the cemetery three blocks away, and Jax couldn't have ever imagined that neither of them would ever see Brooke's face again.

And so as he sits the long mahogany table with his fingers running over its beautiful etching, he's thankful to everything holy that the thought of church has taken on a whole new meaning. It's where the he gains inner peace, understanding, clarity, knowledge. It's where the gavel rules the club, where brothers sat side by side and honored their regal history as the Redwood Originals. It's where Jax knows his place, knows his purpose, even revels in it. It's where he clears his mind of all doubt, where he knows he's exactly where he belongs.

And on this fateful morning, three hours after he'd found out that Brooke had been found at death's door in her own home, he desperately needs some sense of direction. He needs something bigger than him, something stronger than the ache in his chest. He needs answers to the questions he's too afraid to say aloud. He needs a savior to listen to his silent prayers, to be on his side one last time. He needs certainty, sanctity. And most of all, he needs faith. Faith that she can make it through this. Faith that her strength is enough to carry her through. Faith that when the phone rings it won't be to deliver news that will take him out at the knees. Jax needs a higher power to guide him because everywhere he turns...she's all he sees. The scenes around him have become the endless tirade of images that fill his mind, his lines between hallucination and reality blurring from heartache - and the whiskey, of course.

His bedroom is the worst. Fuck, he'd had her on nearly every surface other than his bed in this room. She'd been insatiable from the first moment that he'd stripped her bare and taken her as gently as he could because he'd been scared of hurting her - but fuck if she didn't turn into a hellcat from that moment on. Her crying out his name with his face buried between her thighs, her body trembling on his bedroom floor because he'd needed her so bad that he couldn't make it to the bed. Her shoving him against his desk and tearing his clothes off of him after a crow eater had gotten too close, riding him until he was the one groaning out her name for the whole club. Her hands pressed to the steamed up windows, leaving prints in the glass as he hiked up her cheer uniform and took her from behind in nothing but her bra and that sexy little skirt; jealously leaving hickeys all up and down her bare shoulder because a football player had looked at her a little too long for his liking, marking his territory deliciously. Making love to her on a lazy Sunday afternoon, the sweat coating their skin as they found their ecstasy together - realizing that there'd been a difference, a huge fucking difference between fucking her and making love to her. Her tangled up in his arms, her hair perfectly mussed and a sleepy smile on her features as she rises from his bed in nothing but his favorite flannel, teasing him until he had chased her down and dragged her back into the bed with him.

There's traces of her all over the club too. He sees her dancing barefoot on the bar, the sultry glint in her eyes reminding him how lucky he is to have a girl that's the perfect combination of danger and desire. He hears her call her pocket with absolute certainty before she sinks a combo shot, her body leaning over the edge of the pool table with what he can only describe as the grace of an born outlaw. He keeps an eye on her as she drinks Opie under the table, leaving her drunken smile tasting of tequila and a freshly inked tattoo on the inside of her hip. He finds her seeking solemn solace from the commotion of her life in her favorite spot, curled up on the roof and breathing in the smell of heat lightning as it ripples through the air. He glances at her in his favorite armchair, curled up with her sketchpad and a look of determination on her face that no one could match. He watches her behind the bar in one of his t-shirts and shorts, grabbing them both a beer before hopping into his lap. He eavesdrops on her arguing with Gemma about coming into her son's life with intentions of stealing him away, swelling with pride as she holds her own against the queen of the bikers and puts her mother in her rightful place - out of their way. He's mesmerized by every move his illusion of her makes, every memory that seeps into his specter.

All he sees is Brooke. His Brooke. Irresistibly fucked up. Unforgivably passionate. Fiercely loyal. Brilliantly beautiful. Incredibly gentle. Relentlessly tough. Impossibly hard headed. Ridiculously kind-hearted. Steel strong willed. Simple yet complicated. Carefree yet weighed down by her burdens. Brooke. Brooke. Brooke.

As the thoughts get more vivid with each turn, he knows all he wants is to be at her side because this can't be how her story ends.

Fuck that. It can't be how their story ends.

It had taken the strength of Tig, Chibs, Opie and Bobby to pull him off of his Dyna when he'd heard his mother whisper that she'd been savagely beaten within an inch of her life. The second that Gemma had let it loose, it had been like someone had dropped a pick up truck on his chest. All he could think about had been getting to her, regardless of whether or not Elliott and Victoria wanted him there. This had been Brooke they were talking about so carelessly, not some crow eater who had gotten a little too fucked up and let some dude rough her up. This had been his Brooke, his mind had screamed as hands had yanked him right off of his bike and onto the pavement. As streams of profane insults flew from his lips, he had thrashed against them in a madness that none of them could understand. They had to be out of their minds to think that he wouldn't go running to his woman - because she'd always been his, been the girl he'd once been prepared to spend the rest of his life with, the one that he'd lay down his life for in an instant. The woman who had, and always would, be everything to him.

He'd fought and struggled against their hands right up until Clay had gotten into his face, preaching about how this couldn't cross state lines and that if it really had been tied to the shit in Charming it needed to stay in Charming. He'd attempted to reason with Jax, reminding him of old demons that lurked in the past with solemn words that stung like a slap. "You are the last person that girl wants to see right now, and you know it." Clay had hissed in his face like the devil he knows, and it had cut him down at the knees.

His body had buckled beneath him and he'd sunk to the ground in defeat, staring up at the sky as his brothers tethered him to that moment. If only he'd never made her hate him, he'd thought to himself as he had to be pinned to the pavement. If only he'd been there in New York with her, he could've protected her from whatever hell had knocked on her door. He could've made sure that none of this had ever happened to her, if he had only been there.

No one had been prepared for the anguished howl that had filled the air as Clay had pulled him from the pavement, buried his face into his arms and held him upright. For the ragged and visceral sobs that had escaped his lips bounced off the deafening silence of his brothers like a sucker punch, the ones that he's sure will haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life on this earth. But it hadn't even come close to what he's begun to feel, to the chaos that's slowly taking over his body and mind and soul. No one can understand it, he tells himself, not one. These men have given their all to the club, placed their blind loyalty in the creed of the Sons. They can't possibly grasp what sort of hell he's in because they've never felt the depth and the strength of what it had felt like to be loved by a woman who had been worth giving it all up for ten times over - and that alone is what Brooke Davis had always been for him. A woman to destroy his entire life for.

And since no one understands it or comprehends it, he makes friends with the bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him. He's not bothering with the glass at this point, it's just a waste of time pouring it when he plans on leaving himself at the bottom of the bottle. He's made his way through half of the bottle in the three hours since he'd found out, staring at the landline on the wall. He's begging it to ring, for Elliott to give him some kind of update as to what's going on. Hale hadn't known specifics, just that Brooke had been found in her home on the brink of death and that they'd rushed her into emergency surgery, and ever since Jax has been spinning out. The visions are getting worse as he drowns time with his favorite poison. He contemplates switching to hers - tequila - because the whiskey can't reign his darkest thoughts in anymore. Gone is the nostalgia, the precious memories that he's kept tucked away in the back of his mind, and in comes the gore.

Brooke, with a crimson halo around her head. Her limbs splayed out like a broken doll. Her porcelain skin marred with bruises and gashes, her bones snapped like twigs. Her chestnut waves that used to fly free in the wind snarled and matted with blood. Her golden green eyes filled with a pain no one should ever experience. Her screams echoing against empty air as she had realized that she would die alone. Her relief when the darkness finally came for her, pulling her down where not even he could reach her.

Jax squeezes his eyes shut as if trying to rid his mind of his fears, but they only get worse. He remembers his dream, remembers the love that had swept through him when he'd seen her face, and he can't help but wonder if it had all been some kind of sign, some kind of higher power telling him to get to her and protect her from what had been coming.

"You couldn't have known, Jax."

Opie hovers in the doorway to church, watching him dutifully. He hadn't slept at the club that night, probably having been pulled out of whatever pussy he'd dove into the night prior to forget his own demons. He's sure that Gemma or Piney had tracked down the man he considers blood, because they know no one else will get through to him. Unlike the rest of the club, Opie knows firsthand what it's like to watch the woman he loves die at the hands of something he couldn't have even predicted, and Jax smirks at the thought. His best friend in this world is his very own guide to the torturous future he may have to walk through, God help him.

The hulking biker shuts the door firmly, lingering there for a moment. He turns and runs his fingers along his beard, walking to the table and sitting down beside him. He lights up a smoke as his gaze tracks on table. The two of them sit in silence for what feels like forever, right up until Jax feels the weight of the words he hasn't said crushing him like an anvil. Jax doesn't meet his childhood friend's gaze, pulling a swig out of the bottle. His eyes drop to the table, red from silent tears and the cigarettes he's burned through, and he can't bring himself to look up. Opie's different from anyone else in this place, and not simply for his own jagged history. He isn't one of the guys who hadn't known Brooke outside of her being his old lady, the ones that had told him to bury himself in crow eaters and forget about the girl who'd left him standing in the dust waiting for her to turn back for him. Opie had known her for as long as Jax had, loved her in his own brotherly way, respected her and the good that she had brought out in his best friend. He knows what Jax had lost all those years ago, what he can still stand to lose if Brooke doesn't make it.

"Y'know, I actually dreamed about her last night." Jax manages to choke out, shaking his head and he swallows another shot of whiskey. It's his very own brand of Hail Mary's. Take a sip, smoke a cigarette, and pray to whatever holy force that's cradling Brooke in its hands that they'll keep her safe. He keeps hoping that it'll numb the pain that's coursing through his body, but deep down he knows it's no use. He won't feel an ounce of relief until he knows that she's still breathing out there in the great unknown that is her world. At least it is to a guy like him. "I close my eyes, and she's upstairs in that bed with me again, like we were still just kids dreaming about a future where we'd actually make it out of this town. It's been ten years since everything, and..." He pauses, shaking his head as he finally raises his eyes. "And it's still killing me not to hop on my bike and ride till I get to her."

He smiles, a rare sight in itself, as he puts his cigarette to his lips and inhales deep. "I remember the first time you got pinched with her." Opie says with a soft smirk, shaking his head. "You two got caught trespassing in the quarry on the fourth of July, you were lighting off enough fireworks to put the town's celebration to shame. Said you wanted to show her somethin' that shined as bright as she did." He laughs, sighing as he eyes Jax. "How old was she?"

He grits his teeth, his jaw tightening. "Fifteen."

"Fifteen." Opie takes the bottle from his hand, taking a pull from it before he begins to speak. "Everybody thought that she was just some pretty little rich girl that we dragged onto our side of the tracks. But at fifteen, she had the balls to break a San Joaquin sheriff's jaw in not one but three places after he put his hands on you in a way she didn't like."

"Get to the point, Opie." Jax snaps, too buzzed and exhausted from his sleepless night to beat around the bush.

"I'm saying that for better or worse, your girl has always been underestimated, and not just by the club. That girl has been a fuckin' freight train for as long as I've known her. She's as tough as they come, shy only of your mother, and that's fuckin' saying something." Opie nods, the expression on his face nothing short of nostalgic. "If anyone can pull through this...it's her. And soon enough, she'll be back here where we can keep a close eye on her. Oswald won't let her stay out there without protection."

Jax doesn't speak, the bottle pressing to his lips again. He lets the liquor coat his throat, feels the burn all the way down into his gut. Clay's words are ringing in his head as he tries to figure out what he should even do. What if she didn't want him there? What if she still blamed him for everything? What if she still hated him as much as she had when they'd buried Donna?

What if they're all wrong, and she does?

"Why the hell would she even come home to this shit show after what I put her through?" He murmurs against the glass, and the silence that falls upon Opie's stony expression is all he needs to know that he's not wrong.

The door opens before he can think of anything else and he practically shoots out of his chair as he sees Gemma standing in front of them. She holds his phone in her hands as Jax's wide eyed gaze lands on her weathered features, her lips pursed and her eyes glassy.

"Tell me she's alive." Jax's voice breaks, the only words that come out being the thought that's been coursing through his mind for the last three hours. "Tell me she's out of surgery."

"Oswald hasn't called yet, Hale says his flight leaves in an hour. Chartered the first flight he could get. But I went up to your room to clean, y'know...trying to get the worry out of my system and all that shit." Gemma says quietly, walking into the room and standing beside her son. She pressed the phone into his hand, her own folding his tightly around it. "...but I found this, tucked under your cut. It looks like there was a voicemail left last night after you'd passed out. I had Juice do a little digging, turns out...well, it turns out it's a New York number. Manhattan."

Jax feels his heart stop in his chest. He doesn't know anyone in New York, except...

Brooke.

"Did you listen to it?" Jax asks softly, his thumb hovering over the pin pad.

Gemma shakes her head, reaching out and cupping his cheek. "No, baby. Not my place."

He feels the dread dig its claws into his chest again. He nods slowly, mustering up all the strength he's got to open his ancient flip phone and page down to the voicemail. It's almost two minutes long, and he feels fear creep up his spine. He can see her again, but this time she's in a coffin, her body stiff as a board. She's frozen in time, her mangled features pieced together for the mourners and her hands folded on her chest like she's praying for salvation.

If that image is the one that'll come true, this will be the last time that he'll hear her voice. All he'd have left of her would be one voicemail, one tiny little voicemail that's one hundred and eight seconds long, and he finds himself praying that it's something he can hold onto if he needs to.

He presses down, putting the phone to his ear, bracing himself for the worst.

"Hi, Jackson."

Two words and his heart is in his throat, tears filling his eyes, his free hand covering his mouth. The entire world around him fades away as he listens to Brooke's raspy tone, his knees nearly going weak from the sound of his name on her lips. Jesus fuck, has he missed her.

"I don't even know why I'm calling, really...I was heading out tonight, and I found this old picture of us on your first motorcycle...and I just..."

He knows exactly what snapshot she's looking at, knows right where his copy of it is - back of his nightstand drawer, tucked underneath his carton of smokes for when he really misses her. He's memorized every inch of it, right down to the frayed ink on his t-shirt and the way her eyes are lit up like it's Christmas morning. He can practically see her right next to him as he hears her pause, hears the way her breath hitches in the back of her throat and knows that it's the sound that she makes when she's about to cry. As he waits with bated breath, Jax isn't sure if he's even breathing. He's too focused on committing the contents of the message to memory, too focused on the melody that his her voice to worry about keeping himself alive.

"I don't know who I am anymore, or how I got here. And I miss who I used to be, who I was with you..."

How long had this been before she'd been attacked? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Jax feels his will begin to crumble as tears slip down his bearded cheeks, his free hand dropping to the table and steadying his body as he struggles to stay upright. He should've been awake for this, he chastises himself. He should've been there for her the way that he'd always claimed he would be, not passed out from too much whiskey and not enough thought. He should've been there to tell her to come home, that he's still here waiting for her to show up on his doorstep. The should have's and could be's surround him like old friends finding their way to the table, and what if joins their forlorn presence as she starts to speak again.

"I want to have a home again, you know? And real friends, you know...the kind of friendships we used to believe in. I miss that, and I miss you, and I guess I just...I miss all of it."

Jax can't hold back the sob that he chokes out of his strangled lungs. I miss you too babe, he silently responds as his chest feels like his hearts being cut out of it. He thinks of all the things he would have said to her.

I miss you so fucking much, Brooke. Just come home.

Come home to me, babe. We'll figure it all out together.

I love you. I've always loved you. Let me love you through it all.

Let me protect you.

If he'd have just picked up the mother fucking phone.

"Ten years ago, it all seemed so clear and so simple...but I don't know what's going to make me happy anymore, and I just..."

The line goes dead, and he's left with an painfully unfinished ending. He's trying to muster all of the strength in him as he sets the phone down on the table, but her voice is in his head. His hands pull at his face, roughly wiping the tears from his wounded gaze. Vengeance fills his heart, anger throttling his lungs, and regret pulls at his body like a siren calling to a ship. He wants to kill anyone that had a part in laying a hand on her, and in that moment he knows they'll die slow and bloody.

Jax needs to get to New York, and he needs to get there as fast as he possibly can because she misses him. He needs her to be alive, needs her to be okay because a world without Brooke Davis in it just doesn't make any kind of sense. Because maybe, just maybe, her world doesn't make sense without him in it either. And a maybe from the girl he's loved since he was fifteen is enough to get him across the country any day of the week.

"You said Elliott's flight leaves in a half hour, right?" Opie asks from across the room. He glances toward Jax as if to give him permission to considering his idea without a word needed.

Gemma nods slowly, running a hand over her perfectly coiffed hair. "From his hangar at the air field, the private one on the other side of town. Just him. He's keeping the ice queen at home with Tristen in case there's issues here again."

Jax looks to Opie, his gaze focused for the first time since he'd found out. A smirk spreads across Opie's lips, and he knows that they're both thinking the same thing.

She raises an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest as she looks between the two men. "Why do I get the feeling you two are about to do somethin' real stupid."

They make it to the tarmac with five minutes to spare, the two bikers hitting speeds upwards of 120 as they scream through town like drag racers just looking to get chased down by the law. The cops don't even bother with them and neither does airport security - the cut wields as much power to get them out of trouble as it does to get them into it. They ride straight into the hangar and block the plane, much to the pilot's dismay, and Jax is off his bike and stalking towards the cabin door before he can actually think about what he's doing.

More importantly, before he remembers that Elliott Oswald is not somebody he should be fucking with.

The normally calm businessman barrels out of the plane like a bat out of hell, his eyes wild and his fists clenched. "What in the hell do you two think that you're doing? Don't you know where I'm trying to get to, what the fuck is going on?!" Elliott roars at the top of his lungs. His hands launch out at Jax, grabbing him by his shirt and slamming him into the side of the plane without so much as a warning shot. His grasp is just as formidable as it's always been, his blue eyes filled with rage. "She is my daughter, Jackson. This happened to my daughter. The club has no reason to be in this, not even a litt-"

"I'm not here for the fucking club!" Jax screams back, shoving him off as Opie comes running up behind them both. "Jesus Christ, Elliott. It's Brooke. You really think I wouldn't be here? For her?!"

"She hasn't been back to visit in ten years because of you, so I can't imagine she's going to want you there now." Elliott seethes, shaking his head. "Not after Donna. Not after the shit you pulled. Not a chance she even lets you near her."

Jax doesn't hesitate to grab his phone out, whipping it open and putting the fateful voicemail that's led him to where he stands now on speaker. Brooke's voice radiates through the airplane hangar, her heart wrenching words hitting her father hard enough to make tears form in his eyes.

"...and I miss you."

He doesn't say a word, not until the voicemail plays through. He silently puts his phone back into his pocket while choosing his words very carefully, trying to keep himself calm. "She left that last night while I was asleep. Couple hours before she was attacked." Jax murmurs, placing his hand on the man's shoulder. "I don't know if she wants me there. I got no fuckin' clue. But you're out of your mind if you think that I'm not going to try to get to her. I owe her that."

Elliott looks between him and Opie, eyeing the towering giant of a man warily. "What's he here for? To be your bodyguard?"

Opie steps forward, gruffly clearing his throat. "We travel in pairs when there's shit happening. He's not goin' anywhere without me, and trust me - it ain't because of you, Oswald. I'm more afraid of your daughter than I am of you."

Jax shoots him a warning look, shaking his head. His gaze moves back to Elliott, pleading with him at this point because nothing is beneath him right now. "Look, I'll be honest with you. If you don't let me on this plane, I'll just ride out. But it'll be in my cut, on my bike and probably with two more guys for my own protection because it'll take me at least three days to get there." He reasons, gesturing to the leather vest he dons. "That's nothing but blow back for you and for her, and that's the last fuckin' thing I want to do to either of you. So please...just let me on the goddamn plane. Let me try. Let me show her that I can be there for her like I should've been ten years ago."

The old man is quiet for a moment as his eyes search Jax intently. He knows how protective Elliott is over his eldest daughter, how much bad blood lingers between them from everything that had led to this, and he can't blame him for questioning his intentions. He would too if it had been his kid that had gotten caught in the crossfire of club business and then some. He'd rain hell on anyone that did a fraction of what he's done to Brooke to his son.

Elliot's gaze is unflinching, eyes narrowed. He shoves his finger in Jax's face, Opie's presence clearly not meaning a damn thing to him. "You don't say a word on the flight. You don't make a single sound. And when we get to the hospital, you come in plain clothes - no cuts and definitely no weapons. You and your guys don't do a damn thing until she wakes up. You read me, Jackson?" He snarls formidably, and Jax swears it's the first time he's ever seen Oswald look like his daughter.

He doesn't say a word, just follows quietly as Elliott turns towards the plane with Opie trailing behind him. There are no snide comments, no looks between him and his shadow. He doesn't have the strength to say or do anything more as he walks into the cabin, immediately sitting down and closing his eyes. He prays for sleep to drag him down, but not for darkness. Not this time. He searches for the end to his exhaustion because he knows she'll be there - and he can't say the same thing about the end of this flight. All Jax can do is pray, beg everything holy that she can just hold on until he gets there, until he can be the man she'd needed when she'd called him.

"Hold on, babe. Just hold on a little longer for me." He thinks to himself as his mind gives in to a deep slumber, and the familiar fragrance of honey and vanilla is there waiting for him when he finally does.

- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –-

She's not sure of where she is, but she knows for certain that it's not real life.

When Brooke wakes up - if she's even really waking up - she can't remember how she'd gotten there in the first place. Her before is hazy, a muddled mess of broken memories that are strung together too carelessly for her to comprehend. And yet, despite her lack of clarity on her arrival, she knows exactly where she is when her hazel eyes flutter open to the afternoon sunshine. She's laying in the meadow that she'd drifted away in hours before, the one on the outskirts of Charming that she used to disappear to when she had needed to get some distance from her privileged life. Brooke blinks slowly as she takes in her surroundings, her unharmed body curled up on a broad chest as she lazily rises from her midday cat-nap. She's about to ask questions, but as she turns her chin up to look at the man she's wrapped around like ivy she realizes that she really doesn't want to know how she got here.

Jax.

His brow is furrowed with determination and focus as he looks at the journal he holds in his hands with an intensity she knows well. He absentmindedly scratches at the pages with a commitment that she's never seen him put into his school work, his body all the while enveloping hers in a way that only he knows how. His lips graze her forehead as she gazes upon him, her small hand reaching up and lovingly stroking the rough beard that covers his cheeks. Time has been good to him, darkening his blonde locks and leaving small wrinkles from unbridled laughter and deep thought. He's handsome, the kind of handsome that could stop you in the street if you were actually paying attention, but he's different from the last time she'd laid eyes on him. He's so completely serene as they lay in each other's arms that she wonders when he'd last been this peaceful before this moment.

Had it been with her, when he would fall asleep with her head resting just above his heart and their world complete with the youthful glow of first love? Had it been that long since the man that lays beneath her had been this untroubled, since the chaos of his life had been calmed with a steady hand? Brooke can't help but feel pride surge through her, that her soft touch had been gentle enough to make into the utterly unburdened man stripped bare before her very eyes. She stays quiet for as long as she can, watching him in rapture until she can't keep to herself any longer.

"Is my big bad biker journaling?" She says with a sleepy giggle as she crawls up his chest, trying to get a peek at the book in Jax's hands. Her eyes glimmer with mischief, with a playful happiness as she reaches for the small book in his hands. "C'mon, let me see. I won't judge."

But Jax isn't the least bit caught off guard. He rolls her onto her back and tosses it towards his nearby pack with a deep laugh, smirking down at her as he cups his cheeks in his hands. "Not a chance, darlin'." Jax teases as he leans down for a kiss, capturing her lips with his own. He tastes like nicotine, his signature smell of bike grease and sandalwood filling her senses as she savors being loved by him. His hands remain on her cheeks, cherishing her as he nuzzles close. His nose nudges against hers as his smirk spreads into a grin. "Have I told you how good you look when you wake up?" He murmurs against her lips, his tongue skating along her bottom lip teasingly.

Brooke's hands slide up his back, his neck, and finally making their way into his long blonde hair. She loves that he keeps it long, loves that he's still the renegade outlaw that she's always known him to be, but she loves pushing it back so she can look into the eyes that she knows all too well. She gets lost in them as she looks up at him, sinking willfully to the bottom of his ocean blues as she studies him longingly. "Mmm, I think I could stand to hear it one more time. It has been ten years or so since I've heard it, and unfortunately we all can't age as unfairly as you have." She replies coyly, giving him another soft kiss. Her fingers reach up, tracing his bearded jawline and up to his eyes. She loves getting lost in his embrace, forgetting about everything that surrounds them. It's the most natural thing on earth and she thinks that's why she loves him so damn much. Everything about him makes her want to just melt into him, and even after all this time he still feels like the home she's always longed for.

Jax chuckles softly against her lips, leaning back once more. His blue eyes are inquisitive, skating over her features as he re-familiarizes himself with them. It feels like he's taking an inventory of the changes in her beauty and she blushes ever so slightly beneath his inquisitive gaze. "I think you're even more beautiful than you were the day I met you, Brooke Davis." He murmurs, his thumb gently stroking one of her dimples. "Wrinkles and all."

"I've got wrinkles now, huh? So much for even more beautiful." Brooke chides, pouting petulantly. She juts out her bottom lip for the full effect. "You've got them too, you know. And I think I see a few gray hairs in this mane of yours."

"Careful, you know I love it when you're sassy with me." Jax murmurs into her ear, and she doesn't even bother to stop the anything but childish giggle that slips from her lips when his hands slip down to her waist and give her curves a good squeeze.

"You love it when I'm anything with you." Brooke retorts as she leans into him.

It's simple moments like this that do it for her. Here she is, transported from her world of constant pressure and choices, laying under a tree with the man that makes her world stop and her most difficult decision is whether or not he can make her climax before the park ranger come back. Jax is her calm, her simple, her everything. He is her good man in a storm, but for now it's so peaceful around them. There's no motorcycle club, no looming threat of court cases that had yet to be filed, no thoughts of the two distinctly different worlds that they come from, no businesses to handle. It's just her, Jax and the sound of the leaves above them rustling in the breeze. She thinks she may never want to leave here, wherever here is.

"But I really love it when you go all bossy on me. Like..." Jax pauses, his lips moving from her ear to along her exposed collarbone. He trails warm wet kisses along her skin as he doesn't waste any time, his hands reaching for the button of her jeans as they slide down her hips. "...strip you naked and fuck you right here under this oak tree kind of love."

Brooke clamps a hand over his mouth in faux shock as she stifles her laughter, unable to hide the thrill that fills her. "Jackson Nathaniel Teller, we are in public. We're far too old for that." She chastises, lowering her hand with a bemused smile. She loves the way he is with her, all light and laughter. She wonders sometimes if that's the way he had been before her, or if it's been saved until she came along.

His lips silence her in a deep and meaningful kiss, the kind that no one would expect from the bad ass biker heir apparent who isn't supposed to be tied down to anyone one woman. But Jax isn't an ordinary tough guy. Never has been and she prays he never will be. He's hers, all hers, and he knows exactly how to get her where he wants her.

He tilts his head every so slightly to the side when he looks down at her, his fingertips stroking over her unbridled waves lovingly. He pauses for a moment, almost hypnotized as he hovers over her. "I swear...every time I look at you, I still see that fourteen year old cheerleader who's way too good for me." He murmurs, smiling wistfully. His fingertips graze over her jawline, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "You could turn into nothing but wrinkles and gray hair and love handles and I'd still see you like this. You'll always be that girl to me, even when you're old and gray and chasing our grandkids around the front yard. Because I know you, Brooke Davis, and I'll always see you the way I did the first time I laid eyes on you."

There are no words left. Tears spring to her eyes, products of absolute adoration, and she melts into him in the afternoon sunlight. He's said everything that she could have and more, Jax's arms wrapping around her and his lips devouring her whole. She wants to say it, that she loves more than she thought possible and that she doesn't know how she lived without him all these years, but the only thing that she finds is her hands shoving off his cut and pulling his shirt over his head.

He pulls back for a moment, looking down at her as if to tell her that he feels it all too. It's like breathing, the way that he knows what Brooke craves in that moment. Jax doesn't speak, doesn't breathe a word. He lets his touch take over the conversation ask he cups her cheeks and kisses her so hard that her lips deliciously bruise, and she lets go of all restraint as her hands slide along his bare chest to head south for his belt buckle. His hands pull off her tank top and his eyes light up with a fire that only she can sate, the tell tale half moon smirk tugging at his lips as he looks down at her voraciously. Brooke grins as they begin to undo each other's jeans, pent up lust taking over them both. She wants him, badly, and she's going to take him.

She can just faintly hear a beeping in the background as Jax kisses her neck, a strange clattering of metal breaking through the air as his hands run along her naked skin. Her head falls back against her shoulders as he nips at her earlobe and unhooks her bra, distracting her from the noise for just a moment, but she's almost sure she hears inaudible yelling as Jax begins to pull off her jeans.

"Did you hear something?" Brooke pants out as she looks around them absentmindedly. All she can see is trees and tall grass and wildflowers, not a single soul that could be creating the ruckus interrupting them.

Jax grins down at her as his body pushes her back against the ground, his hands sliding up her sides and into her long locks. "Here? We're the only people for miles, Brooke." He laughs as he leans back down into her. His lips silence hers, tongue exploring at will as his hands run along the top of panties. "Stay here with me, babe..."

But she hears another voice before she can truly get lost in him, her eyes shooting open to the world around them that's completely disappeared. Because she's not in Charming at all. She's not even awake.

Brooke's lifeless body lays on an operating table as they work on her punctured lung and ruptured spleen, and her mind is yanking her back to darkness because the anesthesiologist has just given her enough of a sedative to keep her under for a few more hours so the surgeon can deal with the most recent complication, and she longs to go back to her personal slice of nirvana as soon as they drag her out of it.

"...I need 20 cc's of epinephrine and a crash cart! Come on, Brooke, don't you give up on me now..."

- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –

"I'm sorry, Miss Gattina. I don't know anything more than I did twenty minutes ago. The surgeons are working diligently on your friend, I'm sure someone will come up with an update soon..."

She's always hated hospitals.

Her father had been a plastic surgeon here in New York, the kind that had never seen his family because he'd always been too busy dealing with his exclusive celebrity clientele. On the rare Take Your Child To Work Day, she'd be able to sit in the gallery and watch him work on them too. It hadn't exactly been the best thing for an eight year old girl who had body images to see, horrified as she observed her father jamming in suction wands and removing fat from a patient's waist just to inject it into another part of their body. She's almost positive it's the reason why she'd asked for liposuction, breasts implants and a tummy tuck for her thirteenth birthday - which he'd of course been happy to do. He threw in a nose job when she'd been under sedation, just for kicks. Couldn't have the daughter of a plastic surgeon looking like a homely whale, could he?

She hates them even more since the last time she'd been wheeled into one, when the roles had been reversed and it had been Brooke at her side and her in the hospital bed. She'd overdosed in their old apartment in the village where she'd been squatting for the last month before that or so, since she'd been fired from a shoot by Victoria's without Brooke's approval. She'd lost her world and had found herself hooked on crank, barely able to function, and a bad batch had sent her straight into the twilight zone. It had been a miracle that her former boss had walked into the apartment on that day with her latest boy toy in tow, even luckier that he'd been a former addict. He'd hauled her unconscious ass into a freezing shower, managed to get her awake enough for the paramedics to get a dose of narcan in her. Brooke had paid She'd saved her life, and Rachel's been trying to pay her debt ever since.

Rachel wonders morbidly as she stands in the waiting room of Cedars Sinai in her evening gown covered in Brooke's blood, if she finally has.

It had been a stroke of luck that she'd even come home when she had. She had chosen not to go home with one of the entertainment lawyers that had been chatting her up, one of the guys with too much product in their hair and not enough personality for them to really interest her in anything other than meaningless sex. She had too much work to do on the press event for the men's line, not to mention a conference call with their Paris office in four hours; coming home had just made sense at that point. And so maybe an hour and a half after she'd noticed that Brooke wasn't on the balcony anymore Rachel had taken a car home, only to find the door cracked open and Brooke...

Dead. Or at least, that's what she'd thought Brooke was when she'd been standing in their doorway frozen in fear.

She shivers as she sits back down in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, gazing down at the stains of red on her delicate palms. She'd nearly collapsed when she'd seen Brooke on their living room floor, a sight so heinous that she'll never forget it for as long as she lives. Her dress, the one that she'd taken hours to choose for that night, torn from her broken body. One shoe on her foot with the other a few yards away, her limbs splayed across the wood so awkwardly that she had looked like a marionette doll whose strings had been cut. Eyes closed tight, jaw ever so slightly open in surprise. Blood coating the floor, the hue so dark that it almost looked like ink pooling around her head like a halo. She hadn't even been sure if Brooke's head had been the source of the brackish blood that had soaked into her dress when she'd slid onto the floor next to Brooke and waded into the crimson monsoon. She'd desperately felt for some sort of pulse, struggling with her phone as she'd called for an ambulance. They'd been there in moments, most likely because of the address and Brooke's name, and they'd raced her to the hospital with a full police escort and Rachel in the shotgun seat.

Brooke's been in surgery for nearly nine hours at this point. She'd been rushed straight to an operating room when they'd arrived, not even bothering to send her to the emergency room. The doctors normally wouldn't tell her a damn thing, not without family present, but she'd pulled every string she had at this hospital through her father to make her the point of contact on Brooke's case. She knows that Elliott is in the air, that he'd chartered a flight from Charming's private airport as soon as she'd called him. She knows that he's not bringing Victoria or Tristen, which was probably the single best possible move since the women of Brooke's family had a tendency to fly off the handle - and because Victoria is, for lack of more delicate sensibilities, a raging fucking bitch on wheels. But she has no idea if he's truly flying alone.

It's no secret that Brooke had always been hung up on her first love back home, the one who she keeps tucked away in her box of boyfriends past - well actually, boyfriend - singular. Had Elliott called him and told him the news? Had he been the second person today to say the fateful words out loud, that someone had tried to murder his daughter? Because there's no other option to describe what had happened at this point other than that. Someone had tried - and almost succeeded - to kill Brooke. Someone had left her like that without a care in the world, and when Rachel gets her hands on them...

She'll kill them all.

Brooke's personal effects had been bagged after being entered into evidence and they now sit beside her. She'd always been a terrible snoop and this situation has been no different, but for good reason. There had to be a reason for Brooke to get beaten into a pulp, something that had been worth almost killing her for, and so of course she'd taken a look through the brunette's things. Nothing had stood out, really. Cigarettes (despite the fact that Brooke had sworn up and down that she'd quit), a couple hundred in cash, her phone, a tube of her favorite lipstick, a roller ball of her signature perfume - nothing out of the ordinary.

Well, almost nothing.

The picture that Brooke had been staring at earlier had been tucked deep in the folds of Brooke's clutch, a small secret that not even Rachel had known about. She'd examined it as she'd waited for news on the surgery, trying to keep her thoughts in a place that definitely isn't her normal go to - positivity. She'd looked at Brooke's smile, noting that she'd never seen her so relaxed and natural. Everything these days looks so forced, the picture of perfection to everyone that doesn't actually know the fashion mogul, but this...this smile had been an elusive one, because it's one of pure happiness.

Rachel bites down on her lower lip as she slides the picture back into the purse, willing herself not to cry. She blames herself for this, but she'll never admit that to anyone. She should've been there, should've stayed with her. She'd known that Brooke hadn't been okay when she'd left the party, but no. She'd just thought about getting fucked by yet another Wall Street douche. Brooke would make some smart ass quip about it. Classy as ever, Raye. Was this one even legal? You've always liked your meat a little too rare.

And a thought hits her like a mack truck. She may never hear Brooke make another loving insult again, and it might be all her fault.

"Miss Gattina?"

She looks up to see a police officer standing before her, jolting to her high heeled feet with a start. "Yes, that's...that's me." Rachel's voice is timid at best as she wrings her hands again.

"I'm so sorry for everything that you're going through..." The officer trails off, clearly uninterested in her pain. "And I'm sorry that I gotta do this, but I have to ask you to change out of your dress."

Rachel's floored as she looks at the cop, who looks greener than the carpet she stands on. The rational part of her brain gets it, that they need her dress for evidence because it's coated in Brooke's blood. The logical thoughts come through, that they're going to check and see if Brooke had gotten a piece of whoever she had fought like hell to get off of her. Her intelligent mind is there, she knows it, but all she sees is red and all she can be is silent.

"Ma'am, do you understand me?" The officer repeats, and the rookie's tone sets her off immediately. "The dress. It needs to come off and be processed for evidence."

"Excuse me?" She snarls at the young man, her blind rage taking control. "And who exactly has an extra set of clothes for me? Where exactly can I change out a couture gown and four inch heels which probably cost more than you make in a month?!"

The officer's bewildered to say the least, his eyes going wide. He doesn't understand the bull that he's just waved a bright red flag at, stuttering over his words as he takes a step back from her. "M-Ma'am, I'm going to need you to calm down. I'm sure I can rustle up something from the nurses for you to be comfortable in before you go home an-"

"Go home?!" Rachel hollers at the top of her lungs, getting in the cop's face without a second thought. "My best friend was just beaten within an inch of her life and you expect me to leave the hospital to get out of my dress, simply because the NYPD is asking for it? Are you out of your goddamn mind? She could die in that surgery, she could die!"

She doesn't understand why he doesn't get it, how he doesn't understand that this is the last piece of Brooke that she has right now and may ever have again. She doesn't know how the cop, someone who witnessed horrible things happen to good people every day, doesn't comprehend what she's feeling because isn't that what her tax dollars paid for him to do?

Rachel doubles down as her eyes narrow, putting her foot down with every ounce of privilege she's got in her petite body. "You can pry this handmade design off of me when Miss Davis has made it out of surgery, do you understand me?"

- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –-

It's quiet when they enter the hospital, dead quiet, and it unnerves Jax as he all but runs through the halls of Cedars Sinai to get to the surgical waiting room. There should be more movement, more people running around trying to figure out a way to save lives so that he can imagine that they're doing it to save hers. Maybe then he'll actually sit still for more than thirty seconds, or perhaps even just complete the simple act of breathing.

He and Opie had followed their patron's instructions, dressing down to the basics. Their cuts had been left on the plane, their side arms too, but they had both refused to take off their ankle holsters despite their host's protests. Someone needed to be carrying after what had happened to Brooke, and it isn't as if Elliot carries around any firepower. She needed to be protected at all costs, even if it meant pissing off hospital security. What were they going to do, try and restrain them? Jax would love to see them try.

The rage and the hostility that he's waiting for ripples through the air as the elevator doors open to the waiting area, a voice cutting through the air like a knife.

"...do you have any idea who I am, you stupid mother fucker? Do you have any idea what I could do to your career? Get your mangy underpaid paws off of me before I call my attorney and have your district sued for every tax dollar it's worth!"

They're greeted by the sight of a fiery red head who looks like she's about to rip the head off of the police officer who's trying to restrain her - unsuccessfully, no surprise. She looks out of place, the ripped gown that covers her frame coated in blood and her hands dyed an unmistakable shade of crimson, but her fight is what makes him smirk. She reminds him of...

It sets in as soon as he makes the comparison, realizing that this has to be the woman that Elliott's been on the phone with every hour on the hour. Hale had said that it was her best friend who had found Brooke, that the woman arrived home from a party that they were both at only to find her crumpled on the floor, and she looks the part. With the six hour flight time and the three hours of surgery time before that, he's amazed that she hasn't changed out of the clothing she'd found her in - but it's clear from the two officers that are trying to reason with her to remove the dress that it's by choice.

Elliott sighs, confirming Jax's suspicions that the woman before him is attached to the woman they're all there for. "Meet Rachel, Brooke's best friend and business partner." He huffs under his breath, standing back as Rachel lands a slap on the cop's face so loud it rivals a whip cracking through thin air.

He likes her instantly.

Jax laughs darkly, shaking his head as he approaches the woman, who manages to get another shot in at the cop before he gets to her. He tries to intervene, doing his very best to keep a cool head as he gets in between her and the police officers. "Woah there, darlin'. This isn't making anything better, and-"

The left hook that collides with his cheek sends him spitting with rage as he looks back up at her with pure violence in his eyes. The shot bounces off him like rubber, but that doesn't make him want to rip her head off any less. He holds his hand up to a rabid Opie that comes barreling in after him, who looks like he's just aching for a fight. "Listen, Rachel-"

"No, you listen." The redhead snarls, her finger in his face. She's not mincing her words, not in the slightest, and her fury is palpable. "My best friend is fighting for her life on a surgical table right now and the only reason why I can figure out why she received the kind of beating that she did is her past. So don't you dare come in here like some goddamn biker savior or whatever the fuck you think you are, because you are the reason that this even happened to her. So unless you know why Brooke was nearly killed, you better shut your fucking mouth and get back on that elevator before I have you thrown out of this hospital."

"That's enough, Rachel."

Elliott finally steps forward, his steeled tone enough to shut the woman up indefinitely. She bites down on her lower lip, tears filling her eyes as she shakes her head. His tone's wounded her, but not nearly as much as the sights she's bore witness to before their timely arrival. "Elliot...they...they want my dress. Because..." She falters as she looks down at the ruined fabric, her voice breaking as she looks back up to the men before her. "Because it has Brooke's...it's her..."

Opie dives in front of her just as the redhead nearly collapses to the floor, her body giving way to the pain, the exhaustion of what she's been forced to endure. He shushes her softly as agony wracked sobs escape her lips, the sound echoing through the halls and filling the quiet space that he'd resented only moments prior. Rachel's gasping for air as he holds her in his arms, her makeup streaming down her face. She looks broken, shattered even, and Jax has to tear his eyes away before he breaks down again too.

She finally calms down about a half hour later, when every tear has been shed and she finally lets Opie help her out of her dress - but only after she makes the officers bring her a change of clothes from her home. They're all waiting impatiently for there to be some sort of news from the surgical floor when she finally comes back from a shower in one of the residents' offices. She doesn't say anything for a while. She just stares off into space, curls up on the sofa beside Elliott and pulls her knees to her chest. She meets his gaze when Elliott goes to get a cup of coffee with Opie, the two of them left to their own devices as he paces back and forth. Jax can't manage to sit still, not now. All it does is remind him that he's absolutely helpless. He doesn't know how to read a medical chart, much less wield a scalpel, and so he burns a hole in the floor of the waiting room while the doctors work on the girl he thought he'd marry someday.

"How did did this happen to her?"

She finally speaks, and Jax pauses his movements. Rachel's voice is quiet, reserved, and she bites down on her lower lip as soon as his eyes meet hers. She looks lost, broken, and even a little guilty.

And yet, he really doesn't give a damn.

He turns to her, his eyes clouded with anger. He shrugs snidely, his face creased into a grimace. "I don't know, but you should. You're her friend. They told me you were with her. You should know more than I do, so shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Yeah, well before today I didn't even know that you existed. So you can shoulder the blame just as much, because you weren't around either. And you can quit being such a fucking dick while you're at it." She spits out venomously. Her anger matches him punch for punch, but the weary gaze is no match for sigh that follows shows the exhaustion, the iron walls that she's got around her heart coming down just enough for him to see how much she's hurting.

"You know a couple years ago, I was in a real shit place. Brooke's mom fired me after I came high to a shoot, without Brooke's permission of course." Rachel murmurs, her fingers running through her dampened hair. She smiles softly, morbidly even, as she pulls her knees a little closer to her chest. "I started shooting crank, went off the grid. Nobody came looking for me, except for her. She ripped me out of this hellhole in Greenwich Village that we used to rent and sat with me through every single day of my withdrawal, like she was some fucking nurse or something, and when I came out of it she was there for me. So after the divorce...I was there to be the emotional crutch that she needed. I just thought that the drinking, the aimless wandering, that it would help her get to the other side." The redhead pauses, shaking her head as she wipes the tears from her eyes. "She seemed okay last night, right up until she ran out on the balcony for a smoke. That...that was the last time I saw her. I thought she'd just needed to get out of there, I was...I was preoccupied."

Jax sits down beside her, leaning his elbows against his knees. He doesn't quite know what to say, his eyes lingering on Rachel, who shifts uncomfortably under his watchful eyes. He had known that she'd gotten divorced, but he had no idea that she had gone off the rails - but heartbreak always had a way of ruining the best people. He's thrown off balance by her words because he knows he doesn't deserve to be there. He knows he could've called, could've reached out prior to finding out that she'd been put in the state she's in. He should've checked on her, should've done everything in his power to make sure that she'd been okay. And he didn't, and it's something he'll live with for the rest of his life.

He still doesn't really know why he's done all of this, why he'd gone running to a woman he hadn't seen in nearly ten years and used everything in his power to keep her close to him. Maybe it had been because of her history, because he's always love her. Maybe it was just the urge to do something better for this world instead of causing chaos and death wherever he went. Or maybe, just maybe, he's meant to. He had always been a believer in destiny, in fate. Maybe there's a reason that she had called him right before it had happened.

"What time was that?" He asks quietly, skating over everything but the timeline. "When she went out for a smoke."

Rachel shrugs, true honesty on her features. "I'm not sure. Probably close to midnight."

He can see her again, the wind blowing through her hair as she'd left the voicemail for him. Jax can see the pain in her eyes, hear the regret in her voice, feel the need in her words. His eyes slip shut as it goes on repeat in his mind, smiling briefly. "She called me last night." He utters with a certain weight to his words, his lips tugged into a semblance of a smile. He reaches into his pocket and hands her the phone, leaning back against the squeaky plastic cushions as she calmly takes it and brings it to her ear.

It's Rachel that goes silent this time, the pause hardly unnoticed. She's speechless as she listens to the message, her eyes closing as she smiles at the sound of Brooke's voice. She looks wistful, nostalgic even, before she hands the phone back to him without a word.

Jax takes it, flipping it back and forth between his hands in an effort to keep moving as he speaks. "I think...I think it was right around then. That voicemail...it's why I'm here. I wouldn't have come otherwise, I know I'm not a part of her world anymore. I lost that right a long time ago."

She leans over to her purse, opening it up and slowly pulling out what looks to be a photo. She looks down at it, the same sorrowful smile on her lips. "This...it was in her purse, hidden beneath her things. She'd always been the best at stowing away shit and this...was no exception." She offers softly, before she looks back to him. "She usually keeps it in her closet in this little box filled with stuff from her past. Letters, concert tickets, movie stubs, all sorts of crap that no one would ever think to hold onto. I caught her looking through it tonight, I thought she'd put it all back. But this one...she had it with her." She hands it to him as tears spill down her cheeks, and he takes it from her hand as gingerly as it's offered.

Air whooshes from his body as he's greeted with the image she'd talked about on the phone, his eyes skating over the photo that he could practically draw from memory if he had really wanted to. He runs a hand over his shaggy blonde locks as he struggles for the right words to say, utterly lost in his own thoughts. She'd had their picture on her, close enough to pull out if she needed to see him. She'd needed him when she'd called him, desperately so, and he hadn't even been awake to answer the phone. His eyes slip shut as a tear breaks through his own walls and slips down his cheek. "I didn't know...I didn't know she still had this before today." His voice is just above a whisper as he cradles the picture in his hands.

"Look, I don't know the first thing about you other than that there's a handgun strapped to your ankle and that your friend looks like he might murder anyone that gets near you. I don't know what you did to her, what she did to you, any of it. All I know is that Brooke has a box of shit in her closet filled with shit that connects back to you like some fucked up unrequited love letter." Rachel says quietly, reaching out and placing her hand on his. "But even with that...Jax, I think you might have just as much of a right to be here as any of us do. I know she's not just mine, not just Elliott's. Her past is a part of her, one that she doesn't talk about - not because she's forgotten it, because that woman forgets nothing. Not dinner reservations or vendor phone numbers or when I forgot to switch over the laundry." She laughs, bitter and soft. "But I think maybe...maybe it's because it's too painful to remember. Maybe...maybe because she regrets not seeing it through."

The sincerity surprises him as he weaves his fingers through the redheads', nodding ever so gently. He can't look at her, can't bring his eyes to meet hers. The smart mouthed quips die on his tongue as he struggles to breathe, a jagged sob building in his chest. "I've loved her for as long as I can remember. She's...she's everything. And you're right, I should've been there. But when she came out here, when she got married...I thought she was better off." Jax shakes his heads as the tears start to fall again, grimacing. "I can't lose her now, not when..."

"Not when you know she was thinking about you right before it happened." She murmurs with a knowing smile, nodding in return. Her gaze steels as she sees who looks to be a doctor round the corner, dropping his hand. Her voice is as quiet as can be, but the viciousness of her words shows her true intent. "When you find the fuckers that did this to her...you tear them to pieces. Do you understand me?"

He doesn't smile, he doesn't snap. He just rises to his feet with a nod of his head, his words barely above a whisper. "Believe me, they'll wish they'd never be born."

"Miss Gattina?" The doctor approaches them hesitantly and Jax can't say he blames him. Rachel's got a mean right hook.

The two of them turn on a dime, and Jax doesn't brush off Rachel's hand when she squeezes his so tight that she's cutting off circulation. He knows the fear in her heart because he feels it too, maybe enough for the both of them. There's no give to the doctor's face, no bloodied scrubs. There's no outward show of good or bad and that's what scares the shit out of him, because bad means...bad means that the love of his life is dead before he'd ever had the chance to repair what they'd broken.

"I understand that you're the medical point of contact for Miss Brooke Davis," The doctor says quietly, his eyes lingering on Jax. "I'm pleased to inform you that she made it through her surgery."

Relief rushes through him. He wants to say something, anything, but he doesn't want to get in the way. He'd meant what he'd said. He isn't there to step on anyone's toes or get in the way. He's there because the girl he loves, the girl he's always loved, is somewhere in this hospital holding on for dear life and he's never been more proud of her. She'd pulled through, somehow and someway, and he thanks every higher power he can think of that she's still on the same earth as him.

"Where is she?" Rachel asks softly. She's smiling wide, brighter than he ever thought possible, and she's let go of his hand. "When can we see her?"

There's something about the way that the doctor doesn't smile back that bothers him, but he tries to push his worries down as the doctor begins to speak because Brooke is alive. She's alive, an that's all that matters.

"While Miss Davis has made it through the procedure, there's a litany of injuries that we're still tending to. She's breathing on her own, which is quite honestly miraculous with her injuries. But there were a number of complications during the surgery and she needs time to rest and recover. But I want you to understand that short unconscious states are common in patients such as her case, of which I've already updated the police upon-"

"Common? Exactly how often do you get cases like hers?" Rachel snaps, and Jax shoots her a look that tells her to shut the hell up. She relaxes somewhat, sighing softly. "What have the police been informed of before we were?" She says quietly, her tone notably more pleasant.

The doctor glances again at Jax, his mouth pulling into a grimace. "In my professional opinion? There was more than one assailant, most likely three. From what I can gather from her massive internal injuries and the broken ribs...frankly, it looks as if she was held up and beaten by a man at least twice her size. "

He starts dreaming up scenarios in his head to keep himself from running out of the hospital and hunting them down. He'll match every move they made ten times over, work them over like punching bags before bringing them out to the tallest building in this city and hanging them out for the world to see. Maybe he'll use strips of the dress Rachel had been wearing, the one coated in Brooke's blood. Would it be strong enough to hold the weight of a human body?

"But...there were also other injuries that we found upon further observation that we should talk about."

He plays the game again, thinking of the best way he can kill them as he tries to remain calm. An ice pick to base of the skull. A gunshot to the back of the head. A butterfly knife to the jugular. A bad batch of crank to the vein. No, they're too quick and easy. He wants it slow, drawn out, pain like they've never felt before.

"When can we see her?" Rachel repeats somewhere around him. He can barely hear her, too focused on his own vengeance.

A shiv to the kidneys. A set of hands wrapped around the throat until the neck breaks. A serrated knife sawing off every appendage that makes someone a man. A can of gasoline poured on bare flesh and a lit match. That's better. That's real savagery. That's the grotesque revenge he's looking for.

The discomfort on the doctor's face is clear as he shifts awkwardly under Jax's murderous gaze. "Miss Gattina, there were also other injuries that we found upon further observation that we should talk about."

No, no, no. Jax's face pales and his hands clench so hard that his nails create little crescent wounds in his palms. Please, let it be anything other than what he's thinking. Let it be anything but that.

He'll gut them like pigs with a rusty knife and leave them to die in an abandoned warehouse, chained up like dogs. He'll let the infection seep into their bodies, let it eat them from the inside out. He'll sit there and watch them suffer, watch them plead for death. And when they're close to it, when they're knocking at death's door, he'll have Chibs stitch them up and pump them full of antibiotics. And when they're finally well, when they've gained back their full strength...he'll do it all over again. And again, and again, and again until he's finally had his fill.

"If you don't tell us where she is," Rachel begins, advancing on the doctor. "I swear to God I'll-"

"Rachel," Jax interrupts, shaking his head when his eyes turn to her. He lets his hands relax, leaning over a pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head. She's looking up at him in confusion, trying to clutch his arm to keep him there. He smiles somberly, his gaze skating between her and the doctor. His voice is quiet but stern as he tries to keep himself composed. "Talk to the doctor, and when I bring Elliott up here...focus on that she's okay."

He lets go of her hand and turns away, because he knows what the doctor needs to say. There's a reason he doesn't want him there, why Hale had seemed to be holding his breath when he'd told him how Brooke had been found. There had been details missing, bits and pieces, and as he stalks through the hospital he finally understands why.

Because when a woman's been raped by three different men, you don't talk about it in front of someone who would clearly tear the world apart to find the bastards who had committed that kind of atrocity.

He barely makes it to the elevator before his body gives out beneath him, bracing his frame against the wall of steel box before the doors slip shut. He can hear her voice in his head again as he tries to get a handle on himself while clutching the railing of his makeshift cage.

Hi, Jackson.

He slams his hand against the emergency button as he lets go of all restraint. Mangled sobs choke from his body as his legs give way, slamming to the floor of the elevator. He can hardly breathe as tears stream down his face like rivers and he doesn't want to. He wants to die, wants to be the one that's been beaten within an inch of his life. He wants to take away every ounce of pain from her, to carry it with him because she shouldn't have to go through this. He wants to take her place, but there's no mercy for him as he howls with sorrow, her voice screaming in his ears.

...and I miss you.