Jackson and Rosalie Teller's House - Bathroom

Rosalie came into the bathroom as Jackson showered; his fists were against the wall, his body leant heavily upon them, the water trickled down his body, taking Clay and Opie's blood away, down the drain. She perched on the toilet lid, and reached down for the blood-stained clothes on the floor with her one good hand. She thought passively about whose blood that could be. She watched Jackson turn off the water, and step out. It wasn't his.

"Rough night?" she asked him, flatly, in lieu of good morning, my love.

Jackson dried himself off a little, and told her, "Clay got shot. He's in critical condition at St Thomas."

Rosalie choked down the word 'good'. Clay had paid her a little visit yesterday, stood at the bottom of her bed as she'd slept. He wanted to help facilitate their great escape. He demanded the letters with a thinly-veiled threat: if she didn't hand them over, she and Jackson would not make it out of Charming. Rosalie hummed, and asked Jackson, flatly again, "who did it?"

"I'm not sure," Jackson lied at first, and then assured her, "I'm still getting out, Ro. Deal with the Irish goes down today."

"And then what?"

"Then I put my goddamn family in a car and we drive the hell out of Charming," he scorned at her dismissive and lethargic demeanor.

"Just like that, Jax?" she asked with a dark smirk, and tossed his bloody t-shirt into the laundry basket; out of sight, out of mind, "you change your clothes…wash off the blood-"

"Yeah, Ro, just like that," he snapped back. He checked himself for the lack of sleep, the frustration, the stress, and the curdling fear all stewing inside him, and he consciously adjusted his attitude. He crouched down before her, and whispered, "look…I know it's not gonna be an easy shift, I'm not delusional, but I also know that you're not clear right now."

Her face twitched, like that one word was the spark to ignite the kindling of her own troubled mind, and she seethed back, "I'd argue that I am the clearest I have ever been."

He shook his head, weakly, and implored, "trust me, babe. Rage feels that way. Have Phil and Elyda help you pack. I'll be back tonight."

She hummed something resembling a response but then she stopped him from leaving, rasping, "Jax. Tell me you love me."

He turned to face her completely, and he told her, "I love you, Rosalie...do you love me?"

She couldn't look at him as she said it, "if I could stop, I would. I love you, Jackson."


Local Grocery Store - Charming

Rosalie's first attempt to get the box of formula off the top shelf was a little dicey. She made a pseudo-crash mat at the bottom of her cart with her jacket, so she could toss the box quick if her next plan turned out to hurt like a bitch. She braced herself and then reached up with her one good hand, but someone else materialised inside the empty store and took the box down for her. It wasn't Kurt, the very elderly cashier, he was still on his 9th or 10th cigarette break of the morning. Rosalie turned to face her savior and huffed out, weakly, "what do you want?"

"You looked like you were struggling," the man said, with a small smirk at her reaction. He placed the box of formula down into the cart and asked her, "and it doesn't matter what I want, Rosalie, the question is what do you want?"

"I want the strange man handing out Nutty Bars, and picking up hospital tabs, to leave me alone," Rosalie replied, quietly, "you should go, right now, please."

"I want to make this right, Rosalie," he insisted, "I am deeply sorry that you got wrapped up in this. It never should have gone down the way it did."

"Why are you sorry? I don't even know your name," Rosalie snapped back.

He acknowledged his apparent lack of manners, and handed over his business card and he told her, "night or day. You can call me for anything. I'd offer to carry this out to your car, but perhaps the men that follow you around everywhere could make themselves useful for once."

Rosalie wasn't aware that she had a protection detail on her, a revelation that only made her more anxious. She glanced down at the business card of Miguel Galindo and she reached out and stopped him from leaving, touching his arm, gently. She vocalized what she already knew to be true, "it wasn't Lobo retaliation, was it?"

Miguel shook his head.

"You can tell me...who did this to me," Rosalie said, more than asked.

Miguel nodded once, and asked, "would you like me to tell you?"

Rosalie shook her head, and told him, "no."

"The offer stands, Rosalie. No expiration date," Miguel reminded her, and then put his shades back on, and walked out of the store, picking up a candy bar on his way out.


Jackson and Rosalie Teller's House - Bedroom

"Another vacation?" Gemma quipped, after surprisingly choosing to knock lightly before entering.

Rosalie was packing up suitcases, a lot slower than she'd liked. She glanced over her shoulder and replied, sarcastically, "yep. The first one went so well."

Gemma came closer, to ensure that Phil the Prospect wouldn't hear them, although, hearing anything over his munching was damn near impossible. She informed her, "Clay was shot last night."

"I know," Rosalie replied.

"By Opie."

Rosalie's attention was officially caught. She looked up at Gemma, her heart thundering away in her chest, and muttered, "w-what? Why would Opie do that?"

"Because Clay killed his father. Piney's dead. Clay put a shotgun to his chest," Gemma took no pleasure in telling her that. She watched the woman's expression crumple and she added, "he killed him because he thinks he had the letters."

"No," Rosalie told her, with teary, guilt-ridden eyes, "Piney didn't…he never even saw them."

"I know," Gemma said, firmly, and rubbed her arm affectionately, "but Clay will do anything to stop that truth from leaking out. He's the one who tried to have you killed, Rosalie. Clay hired those men that came after you."

She didn't let Miguel Galindo tell her what she already knew. She didn't want to hear it out loud. She wasn't going to let anything stop her from leaving this poisonous town, especially Clay. The John Teller letters would twist Jackson into knots, pull him down into the Club, entangle him for life, to right all the wrongs put in motion since his father's absence; it was a long, long list. Vengeance. Against the man who had tried to take her life. Take a mother from her children. Take a baby...she had to leave. Clay tried to kill Rosalie. That truth seals Jackson's fate. And it seals hers right beside him.

"How do you know that?" Rosalie uttered.

"He took money out of our safe to pay them off. I confronted him. That's why he did this," Gemma explained, gesturing to her multi-colored, beaten-up face, "Clay will keep on hurting everything and everyone that gets in his path…until he gets those letters."

"He threatened me yesterday; told me Jax and I wouldn't make it out of Charming unless I gave them to him."

"Cause he's already read them. The copies. He knows how dangerous they are," Gemma told her, and implored, "where are the letters, Rosalie? I give them to Clay, we put this to bed. I'm out of options. This may be the only way we get out of this alive."

"And if we do that, get out of this alive, then you know Jax and I are leaving."

"He needs the truth, baby," Gemma said, "you can't hold on to it all, and lead him down whatever path you want. It's not fair. He needs to make his own decisions. If he decides to go...so be it."

The last of her resolve wavered. She wanted Jackson to be with her by choice; a shanghaied husband wasn't part of that rosy family picture she'd painted in her mind. If she was so sure of the outcome, so certain that she would lose everything if he knew the truth...then what was the point in fighting the inevitable. She could love him. But she couldn't save him. She confided in Gemma, "they're in the storage unit, towards the back, underneath a stack of boxes. Old TM receipts."

"Okay."

"Gemma," Rosalie said as she turned to leave, "tell me you love me." And tell me this wasn't all a lie. Tell me that some part of this family...some small part, meant something, meant what it was supposed to mean. Tell me I wasn't always so, so wrong.

"I love you."

It's not enough.


Teller-Morrow Automotive Repair Shop

Chibs wandered over to his daughter as she pulled up in the forecourt. He chapped on her window, snapping her out of her daze, and opened the door for her. He jerked his head towards the clubhouse and told her, "Jax's inside with Gemma. We're heading out soon, kid. Business calling."

Of course he is, she thought to herself as she got out of the car, and commended Gemma for waiting no time at all.

"I'm looking for you, actually," Rosalie told her father, "I wanted to apologize."

"What the fuck for?" he laughed, and leant against her car, casually.

"Betting on the wrong horse," she said, cryptically, "look, when you get back home from your...business, there's an envelope underneath your bed, big brown packet. There's copies of letters inside, letters between Maureen Ashby and John Teller."

"What the fuck are you sorry for?" he reiterated, seriously.

"For not telling you sooner. That's what," Rosalie hit back, emotionally, "the story I cooked up in my head was...wanting to keep you out of it. But really...it was never mine to be a part of. Keeping this all to myself...was a mistake. It was selfish. I could avoided some stuff happening, if I'd just told someone sooner."

"What's in these letters, Rosalie?"

"The truth," she said, "about your President."

Chibs' phone started ringing, and she quickly wiped rogue tears burgeoning from her eyes. He checked the caller and grimaced. He demanded, "I have to take this. You come by my house tonight. You tell me everything. Not this vague waffle. Everything."

He waited for her nod before disappearing back towards the office to take the call. Gemma and Jackson came out of the clubhouse and clocked her arrival. Rosalie could tell by the look on Jackson's face that he now knew...everything.

"You should have told me," Jackson drawled, his voice peppered with hurt.

"I was going to," Rosalie said.

"Everything," he added, starkly.

"When you got out, you were so eager to leave, I just…I was afraid it would push you back in. I'm sorry," she said.

"Everything that happened when I was in Stockton."

Rosalie's heart plummeted through the floor, and no amount of excuses, or technicalities, or reason was going to wipe that look of betrayal from Jackson's face. Her gaze drifted over to Gemma and she sighed out, "oh, you timed that fucking well."

"No more lies, baby," Gemma said, in her greatest Mother Theresa tone.

"Where are the letters?" she asked her, "did you bring them to Clay?"

Gemma shook her head in response and wore a look that screamed, 'I needed to exercise loyalty to my own flesh and blood first. Of course, I came straight to my baby boy, Jackson.'

"How many did you take out before you gave them to Jax?" Rosalie asked her, clearly. You can't hold on to the truth, and lead Jackson down the path you want him to go down? Right? Well, Gemma can. She can do whatever she damn well pleases.

Gemma scoffed back, and felt Jackson's heated gaze dart back her way. She smirked, swallowed a few choice words for the girl, and then said, "that's cute…why'd you tell me where they were, if you knew I'd do that?"

"Because you taught me too damn well," Rosalie snapped back.

"Anything else, ladies?" Jackson scorned, interrupting their stand-off, "while we're at it?"

"No. We're all caught up," Rosalie seethed, as Jackson ushered her away from his mother.

"I have to kill Clay, Ro," Jackson asserted.

"I know you do," she replied, sadly. It was inevitable.

Chibs whistled from across the forecourt, and hollered out, "Jackie! Time for the meet. We got to go, brother."

Jackson gestured back, and then took Rosalie's face into his hands, and he assured her, "I kill him and then I come get you and our kids and drive us out of this poisonous town. I promise you." He kissed her in a manner that backed up said promise. Rosalie kissed Jackson like it was the last time she ever would, and then she returned to Gemma.

"Look at that," Rosalie said, as the two women stood side by side and watched them drive away, "I fucked another man, and he's still leaving you."

As far as parting words go, they were petty, sure, but they felt so damn good to say.


Stockton State Prison

Ezekiel Reyes wasn't expecting a visit from his lawyer that day, and so late in the day, but he welcomed the break in monotony. He picked up the telephone, and spoke to a cagey, worn-out version of the woman he'd come to know.

"I'm moving on. So, I've passed your case on to my boss, David Rosen. You probably won't need him. But he's there if you do. It's all the same information, so...no paperwork, you won't be left hanging or anything," Rosalie explained poorly through the glass. She was pawning him off on someone else.

Ezekiel stared back at her, analytically, and asked her, "moving on? Where are you going?"

Rosalie breathed in, pensively, and then told him, honestly, "to be determined."

"When are you coming back?"

"I'm not," she said, definitively, "David can be a bit of a goofball, but he's an amazing lawyer. You'll be in good hands."

"Why are you telling me this?" Ezekiel asked.

"Um...professional courtesy?" Rosalie replied.

"No. Seriously."

"You are my last loose end?" Rosalie snapped back.

"What's going on?" Ezekiel asked, and gestured to her heavily bandaged arm, "what the hell happened to you? For real. And why are you running away?"

"I'm not-"

"You are. I'm beyond caring whose desk my case sits on. What happened to you?"

Rosalie scratched her brow with her thumb and then looked back at his genuinely concerned expression. The room was empty, apart from the two of them, so, she decided to unload on her former client, "my...my father-in-law, Clay, he hired the Galindo Cartel to take me out. Because...I found some old love letters that heavily implied he had it out for Jackson's father, that he killed him. Seems like maybe there's a bit of truth in there, huh? That's what happened to me...but on the plus side, those hit-men weren't actually going to hurt me. They were CIA. They were going to debrief me, put me and my children into protective custody...so...I did this to myself."

"Not seeing how any of that is your fault," Ezekiel said, and deduced, "you're going into Wit-Sec now?"

"No. No. I'm not."

"Teller took care of Clay?"

A tight smile appeared on her face and she shook her head. She told him, "no. He can't. The CIA are subsidizing Jose Galindo's entire operation. They need the money from selling coke and big guns to do that. They need the Irish hook-up, and there's no Irish without Clay."

"So?" Ezekiel scorned, "fuck 'em."

"My sentiments exactly. But, if it doesn't all go through as planned, a pending RICO case goes forward, taking down every member of the Sons of Anarchy, my husband and my father included. So...Clay lives on. And...Jackson has to stay."

"How do you know all this?" Ezekiel asked. There were a lot of moving parts in play.

"Miguel told me," she said.

"Who?"

"Galindo. His daddy's the Cartel leader."

"Why the fuck is he on your speed dial?" Ezekiel asked, incredulously.

"He's having a guilt trip about what happened to me. Wants to make it right somehow."

Ezekiel shook his head, and told her, "no. You should tell Angel."

"And say what?" Rosalie smirked back, "your former fling needs an exit strategy?"

"Yes. He would help you," he assured her.

"It's okay. I already got one," Rosalie said, and looked down at the new message on her cellphone. She put it away, and told him, "keep your head down, yeah? You're gonna do great things, E.Z. One day real soon. I'm glad I got to know you."

"Wait. Rosie," Ezekiel begged before she hung up the phone, "look, I'm just looking down from my barbed wire tower, right, and this is just the opinion of one idle criminal, but please do not get out on Galindo's dime. He's full of sympathy and grandiose penance for his sins now, but that'll change overnight and get spun into him doing you a favour, and then you owing him for his kindness."

"That...is a risk I'll have to take."