*All characters taken from Sons of Anarchy were created by Kurt Sutter/FX. I do not claim any ownership over these characters.

This story is for entertainment purposes only.*

This chapter contains previously aired storyline closely linked to Season 5. You have been warned.

A Mark, A Scar, and A Tiny Heart: Chapter 2

There are times in the course of a life when a person becomes acutely aware of themselves in a particular moment. Maybe the moment feels familiar, like it's happened before. Déjà vu. Maybe the moment feels strange, like watching the television on mute. And sometimes, the moment is just that – a moment. A finite point in time and space when feelings and thoughts cease to matter. All that exists is the moment. And a moment can change everything...

She was hardened; he could see that from where he stood. The small lines that framed her brow were slight but noticeable. Her hair was shorter, just brushing her shoulders. The Tara he knew had hair hanging to her lower back. As she rounded the corner, he caught sight of her arm and the scar that stretched from wrist to elbow. An old wound, he thought, five years at least but maybe more. What the hell had happened?

"Are you kidding me?" She spat the words at him full of venom and hurt, but he held her gaze without flinching.

"Tara."

"No. No way. No fucking way. You are not here right now. You are not. Do you hear me, Jackson? You are not here." She had moved closer to him, within an arm's reach. Her mouth was a tight line and her eyes bore into his. But she stopped herself from pushing him back, back far enough to reach the door. He hung his head low, unable to meet her eyes. The concern read on her face now. There was a reason he was here, she could see that through her anger. Something had happened, something terrible enough to pull him from Charming and land him on her doorstep.

"Jax." Her voice was softened and concerned, barely above a whisper. And that voice like an echo of the past pulled at a place so deep he thought no one would ever reach. His words were like fire, flames licking his throat as he choked out, "Op's dead."

Before she had time to think, she closed the gap between them. Throwing her arms around him, she pressed her lips to his ear, "he loved you most." She felt his body cave into her, and she held him as tight as she could. Her weak hand stroked his hair, and her strong arm carried his weight.

Her words were like a needle, slowly stitching at the edges of the hollow inside his chest cavity hidden somewhere behind his ribs. He had driven four days, trying to put distance between himself and the mess he was responsible for. He would tell her initially he hadn't known where he was going, but she wouldn't believe him. He'd have to give her the truth because she deserved all his truth: a few days after Opie's death he had called in a favor to find her. His grief had shaken loose this old hurt, and getting to her had consumed him. And now as he buried his face into her neck, he knew he had been right to come.

She held him as he sobbed through garbled apologies to a dead man. She held him as his arms tightened around her and she felt the muscles in his back slacken. She slipped her hand under his cut and rubbed in slow circles. He felt warmth rising inside him again as she drew the cold from his bones. The needle's pace quickened.

How long she held him, he wasn't sure. Long enough for him to be still. He finally raised his head, arms still tight around her. She placed a hand on his cheek and without thinking, or from habit, or perhaps because he needed to, he kissed her palm. She looked away, but only for a second. When her eyes came back to his, he finally found the words.

"I'm getting out."