Let's check in on some of our other friends around Charming town, shall we?
Thanks as always for your comments and reviews. :) They delight me.
scared dogs will bite
and cowards cut and run
and sun, it burns your skin
it comes natural to be so cruel
to be an asshole to someone as good as you
Matt Nathanson, "Earthquake Weather"
Life settled into a rhythm after that. Olivia was back in Charming, home, and she still worked at TM. The guys gave her shit about being a big New York City artist now, and too good for them, but she took it all in stride and gave as good as she got. Gemma, too, made some noise: would Olivia be leaving them again? Maybe moving to New York permanently?
Olivia mostly ignored that. She didn't have much time for Gemma being Gemma.
Juice was glad she was so happy. She laughed maybe more than he'd ever seen, and there seemed to be a sort of glow around her, like an aura of contentment.
Her work. Opie. Being in the same town as Tara again.
Juice couldn't help but wonder if he added to or detracted from her current mood. He tried staying away from her after their encounter over cupcakes and milk, but she wasn't having it. She would track him down. Drag him out of his computer cubby and over to the garage. They would talk while she worked, her about a new project idea or something she was working on in her house, him about…nothing. Until she started peppering him with questions he couldn't dodge, and then he became the chatterbox.
They never talked about Opie or Yvonne. They didn't purposefully avoid the topic, but they'd known each other so long that they could each steer the conversation without too much trouble or attention. An outsider would never know something was missing.
But Juice knew. She saw through him like a goddamn pane of glass, and every time he mentioned Yvonne she got this look like she knew exactly what he was thinking and exactly how honest he was being.
Not very.
Technically they weren't living together; Yvonne still had her own place in Stockton; but she spent most nights at Juice's. When he got home that night, about three weeks after Olivia's return from New York, Yvonne's car was in the driveway and the house smelled like spices and frying things.
"Hey, babe," he called as he hung his kutte on the coatrack. "Somethin' smells amazing."
She appeared from the kitchen, spatula in hand, and flashed him her big grin. "Empanadas. They'll be ready soon."
"Awesome," he said. He stepped closer for a kiss, but she leaned back and waved him away, her nose wrinkling.
"You smell terrible! What have you been doing?"
"Oh." He made a face. "Long story."
Digging up a dead body and leaving it like a present…
Maybe something he could've told Olivia, but not Yvonne. She liked the status of being involved with a Son, but she didn't like all the mess that the club came with. He tried to keep her separate from it, partially because he didn't want the guys to think she was his old lady (he wasn't ready for all that yet), but also because he didn't want her involved in the illegal side of things. Even so far as knowing about it.
"Go take a shower before dinner," she said. "I'll hold it for you."
"Thanks," he said. "Probably a good idea."
"You'll spoil everyone's appetite like that." She gave his ass a light smack with the spatula. "Too bad I've got hot grease on the stove. I'd join you."
He tossed a grin over his shoulder. "I don't know," he said, his tone teasing. "After what happened last time…"
"That was an accident! And your fault!" she said, trying to look stern even as she giggled.
"My fault? How was it my fault? You knocked the shampoo off—your shampoo I don't use shampoo—and then I tripped over it, and then—"
She was full-on laughing at the memory, but she waved the spatula to shut him enough. "Enough, enough! I remember what happened! I walked funny for a week."
He winked at her, his grin bigger than ever. "Play your cards right maybe you'll walk funny all this week, too."
"Hhmm," she said, low and thoughtful. "But not because you drop me in the shower, I hope."
"Nahh." He sidled closer, but she waved a hand to stop him. He reached for his belt; his smile turned wicked. "I could show you—"
"Juan Carlos!" she said with a shriek of laughter. "Do not get your dick out in the living room! Shower!"
"Alright, I'm going. Maybe after dinner, though?"
Her head tilted as she pretended to think it over. "Deal. Now hurry, Juan Carlos!"
She almost always called him Juan Carlos, rarely ever Juice, and never just Ortiz. Which was fine. Yvonne was Ecuadorian, and she despaired of ever teaching him Spanish, but she enjoyed pronouncing his name in her accent—and he had to admit he liked hearing it. He liked how she spoke Spanish in bed and cooked him amazing food and was there when he got home. He liked that they didn't fight and things were just easy.
So different from Olivia. Peaceful.
Why was he even thinking about Olivia? He had a gorgeous woman in his kitchen cooking him dinner and promising him sex and he was thinking about Olivia.
"You're a fuckin' moron, Ortiz," he told himself as he started the water. "And if you're not careful you're gonna fuck this all up."
He showered fast and got dressed, then shoved his old clothes in the washer; they'd stink up the entire hamper like they were, and he wanted all memory of today's grave robbing shenanigans gone.
He passed through the living room on his way to the kitchen and paused. Something was different. His eyes narrowed as he did a survey of the room, and when he got to the low shelf by the doorway he stopped short.
"Yvonne!" he called. "Hey, babe?"
She poked her head out of the kitchen and made a face at him. "What? I'm busy."
"Nothin', it's just—where's that sculpture? The one that's usually on the shelf over there?"
Her scowl deepened and she disappeared back into the kitchen. Juice frowned and followed her.
"Yvonne?" he said again. "Seriously, where is it? Did you just move it?"
"It's on the back porch," she said, stabbing at the empanadas floating in the grease like they'd personally insulted her.
"The back—? Yvonne! It's metal! It could rust out there!"
"It hasn't rained in over a week, Juan Carlos. Calm down. I don't understand why you like it so much anyway. It's a big pile of junk. It's ugly!"
He stared at her, his jaw hanging open. "It's not—it's not ugly. It's…" He cleared his throat and looked away. "Besides, a friend made it."
"Sí, I know exactly which friend made that thing, and I don't much like having it in my house."
His jaw clenched, but when he spoke again he tried to keep his tone even. "It's not your house, Yvonne. It's mine. You don't like the sculpture, fine. We can talk about it. But don't just move my stuff around without asking me. Especially somethin' like that."
Her voice followed him through the kitchen to the deck: "The only reason you have that ugly thing is because she made it! It's not even art, Juan Carlos! It's junk!"
He went still when he saw it. It listed to the left, and two of the metal bars dangled oddly. "What the fuck happened? It's broken!"
She glared at him from the doorway, one hand on her hip. "I hit it with the vacuum cleaner! It was an accident, I swear. But what does it matter? You can hardly tell the difference!"
He spun on her with fury in his eyes, and she fell back. "It matters because it's mine!" he said. "Why were you vacuuming anyway? Since when does the place need vacuuming?"
Juice kept his house immaculate; always had; and sometimes Yvonne even complained that there was nothing for her to clean. He always told her not to be silly—he wanted a girlfriend, not a maid—but she still insisted on dusting (non-existent dust) and straightening (already straightened) things from time to time. He'd asked her not to move anything, because he was very particular about it, and she respected that. Until now, it would seem.
"I spilled something and needed to clean it up," she said in a sulky voice. "I didn't mean to hurt your precious sculpture. I'm sorry, Juan Carlos."
"Goddammit, Yvonne!" He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She didn't sound particularly sorry, but yelling at her was pointless and made him feel like an asshole.
"Whatever," he said. "If it was an accident it was an accident. I just wish you'd told me." He frowned and rubbed a hand over his scalp. "Maybe I can get Liv to take a look at it; she might be able to fix it."
"Of course she can," Yvonne muttered before she turned and stomped away.
He followed her and shut the sliding glass door behind him so hard she jumped. "What the fuck does that mean?" he said.
"Nothing." She fished the nearly burnt empanadas out of the pan and set them on a paper towel. "I know you're dying for an excuse to talk to your preciosa Olivia."
"What the hell, Yvonne? If you've got somethin' to say, just do it," he said as his brows drew together.
"I don't. It's nothing." She messed with the empanadas a minute before she slammed the spatula down on the counter and jerked around to face him. "How much time do you spend with her, Juan Carlos? How much time do you spend watching over Tara because Olivia asked you to? Does Jax even know you do that? Don't you think he'd like to know?"
"It's none of Jax's business! And it's not really any of yours, either. Am I takin' time away from you to keep an eye on Tara? Do I spend time with Olivia instead of with you? No! So what the fuck does it matter?"
She sighed and slumped back against the counter, her arms around her middle. When she spoke again she sounded sad and tired rather than angry. "You're here. You're here right now, standing in front of me. I thought it would get better. I thought you would—get over her, move along. But she's all you think about! Always! Her sculpture, her best friend, conversations you had with her! She calls you from New York, crack of dawn, and you jump! She could probably call right now with a—with—the paper, it slices—and you would go!"
"A paper cut?" he said with a confused frown.
"Sí, paper cut! Don't you laugh at me!"
He held up his hands. "I'm not laughin', sweetheart, I swear." He sighed and shuffled closer. "Yvonne, baby, I'm with you. Not Olivia. She's the first girl I ever loved, so yeah—I think about her. I worry about her. She's had a lot of shit in her life. I just wanna make sure she's happy."
"She has an old man now, Juan Carlos, and it's not you! Maybe let Opie worry about her, and you worry about me!"
He rested his hands on her hips and tugged her against him. She came, reluctantly, and he put on his most contrite face, including the big puppy dog eyes. "I'm tryin'. I really am. You don't want me to hang out with her anymore, I won't."
She huffed out a breath and ran both hands up his chest. "No, bombon, I'm not saying that. I know she's your friend. I just worry you love her more than me." She stuck her lower lip out in a pout and blinked up at him. "And you do love me, don't you?"
"Yeah, Yvonne," he said, easily. "Of course I do."
She kissed his neck and tilted her head thoughtfully. "You should make me your old lady, Juan Carlos. Officially! That way everyone will know. She'll stop looking at you."
He scowled and stepped away. "Olivia doesn't look at me. She looks at Opie. Her eyes are entirely on him."
"Hmmph," she said. "Seems that idea bothers you more than it should for a man who claims to love me!"
"Jesus." He scrubbed both hands over his face. "I can't deal with this jealousy bullshit, Yvonne. You know how I feel about you. You know it's long over between Liv and me."
"Liv," she echoed with a snort.
"It's just a nickname for fuck's sake! It doesn't mean anything!" He shook his head. "I don't know what else I can do here, babe. Olivia's not part of my life like that anymore, but she is still part of my life—and probably always will be. I thought you understood that."
She let out a frustrated sigh. "I do understand, Juan Carlos. Believe it or not, I do. But understanding it and living with it are two different things.
"What I don't understand is why you won't let me close to you. We have good times, don't we? We laugh and we take care of each other, and the sex is good. But there's still this wall here." She made a gesture between them. "I want the wall gone. I want to be close. She's here, right here, and she always is. I want you, amor. I want us to be real."
"We are real, babe. How can I prove that to you? What can I do?"
If he sounded desperate, he didn't care; he absolutely didn't want to have this conversation. He tried not to look too hard at his feelings for Yvonne, or his feelings for Olivia, and he'd sort of been waiting for her to call him on it. All of it. Because she was right: he was holding back from her, and he didn't know how to do anything different.
"You could ask me to move in," Yvonne said, interrupting his train of thought. "Take me to club things."
"I took you to that party just last month!"
"Sí, before she got back from New York!"
"There haven't been any parties since then. Next one, we'll go. You and me. Wear that pretty blue dress with the necklace I got you for your birthday and you'll be the best looking girl there. I'll show you off to everybody!"
"Fine, fine," she said with a wave of her hand. "One party. Big deal. I want to be your old lady, Juan Carlos! Until then I'm barely anything more than a crow eater!"
He scowled. They'd been having the "old lady" discussion more and more lately, and he knew he'd have to make a decision soon. But an old lady was a big deal. It meant being on Gemma's radar (more than she already was) and getting involved in club things like the charity runs and the social events. He wasn't sure he wanted that. He wasn't sure he wanted someone representing him the same way…well. None of them really had official old ladies now that Jax and Wendy had split, and Olivia refused the title and everything that came with it.
"You're not a crow eater, Yvonne," he said, quietly. "You never have been. If I make you feel like that, I'm sorry. We've talked about the old lady thing. I told you I wasn't ready for such a big step and you said you were okay. Doesn't really seem like you're okay, but that's what you said."
He drew in a long breath. "I'm not in love with Olivia. It's you and me, babe, not her and me. I'd never put her before you."
"Tell me you love me," she said in a small voice.
"I love you, sweetheart," he said, no hesitation, and she shook her head.
"I don't think I believe you."
His chin dropped to his chest and he shook his head. "Fine," he said. "I don't know what else to say. I don't know how else to reassure you. I'm not makin' you my old lady; not like this. You can't hold it over my head like I gotta do it to prove how I feel. That's not the right way."
She didn't say anything, but the look on her face spoke volumes.
He headed toward the front door to get his boots and his kutte. "I think I'm gonna crash at the clubhouse tonight."
"With a crow eater?" Yvonne said as she followed him.
"No!" He turned around fast, his voice like a whip. "No, Yvonne, not with a goddamn crow eater! I got no intention of messin' around with some other girl. I don't buy into that whole on a run bullshit, or what happens in the clubhouse. If I'm with you I'm with you. I thought you knew that!"
"I do! But you're mad, and I'm acting like a jealous puta."
"So I'm supposed to go out and fuck some other girl?" he said, throwing his hand out in an incredulous sort of shrug.
"It's what most men would do."
He ground out a frustrated sigh. "You bitch about how I can't get over Olivia, but you seem to have the same problem with Jorge. I'm not him. I don't cheat and I don't hit. Ever."
"All men do!" she said. "It's just a matter of time."
He gritted his teeth and yanked his boots on without bothering to tie them. Shrugged into his kutte and grabbed his keys off the table. "If that's what you think of me," he said without looking at her, "then you should probably pack your shit and leave now. I'm not that guy. I'll never be that guy. If he's who you want then go find him somewhere else."
With that he stormed out of the house and toward his bike, and as he sped toward TM he wondered how the fuck they'd gone from a great night of empanadas and sex to a huge fight and him sleeping at the clubhouse. Alone.
Tara hadn't been avoiding Olivia. Not exactly. Just—Olivia's insight where Tara was concerned (and vice versa, for that matter) could be particularly penetrating, and Tara didn't want her to know how bothered she was by Kohn's long-distance harassment. She tried to play it off as no big deal, but she knew Olivia wasn't fooled.
Tara needed her to be fooled.
Olivia was almost sickeningly happy these days, what with her art career taking off and her new relationship with Opie. Tara didn't want to fuck that up for her. She didn't want Olivia worrying, or doing something stupid like…confronting Kohn or going to Jax.
Which she might. If she knew how bad things had gotten. If she knew that Tara seemed to see Kohn in every crowd (even though he couldn't possibly be there) or that her heart stopped whenever elevator doors opened or that she dreaded her ringing phone. She'd changed her number at Olivia and Donna's strong urging, but he'd found it again. Much faster than made her comfortable.
She hadn't told anyone that part.
April was turning into May. Jax' twenty-ninth birthday had come and gone and Tara hadn't so much as sent him a card. She wanted him to know she wasn't back in Charming for him, and mixed signals didn't help anyone. He had his MC and his crow eaters and his junkie ex-wife with the baby on the way. Tara didn't need his bullshit in her life.
She'd heard through the MC grapevine (read: Opie, because as hard as she might be avoiding Olivia, Opie and Juice still had eyes on her) that there was some ATF agent in town making trouble. Stahl. Tara hadn't met her, and she hoped she wouldn't have to. She was doing well in Charming; had made a real place for herself at St. Thomas; and the last thing she wanted was to have some Fed sniffing around making noise about her past.
Especially since Feds always seemed like cockroaches: where you had one you had dozens, and the FBI and ATF worked together more closely than ever now that they were both under the Homeland Security umbrella.
The odds of Kohn—who was technically assigned to the Chicago field office—getting drawn into a case against SAMCRO were thin, but Tara had never liked gambling. She didn't have the best luck, it seemed.
And so. The weeks passed in a sort of strange limbo: seeing Olivia just enough to keep her from making too much noise about it. Vague, passing conversations with Opie or Juice when they managed to peel away from the club long enough to check up on her. Dodging phantom Kohns wherever she went. And never, ever quite settling into her own skin. Never feeling completely comfortable or at ease, because there was always something. Always some reminder that she was lying to herself and her best friend and two men she'd known for years, and all for no good reason.
The day had already been long when she got a page from OB: a premature infant with a serious heart condition and other complications. Consult requested.
She hurried to the NICU to find Dr. Grant already there. Tara joined him, and when he heard her footsteps he looked up from the tiny infant he was examining. "Dr. Knowles, welcome. We have a thirty week male presenting with CHD and gastroschisis. Mother came in already in labor due to an apparent drug overdose."
"What was she on?" Tara said as Dr. Grant stepped aside. She pressed her stethoscope gently against the baby's chest and frowned. His heart didn't sound good at all.
"Methamphetamine, we believe. Tox results aren't back yet." He gave her a look. "Your thoughts?"
She took a quick glance at his chart. "We need to get him stable, and then I think the heart needs to be our first goal. Fix that, get him stable again, then we can go after the abdomen."
"Excellent, Dr. Knowles. That's exactly what I was thinking. I was hoping you could scrub in to assist."
Tara stared at the baby's chart, a deep line forming between her brows, and she didn't hear what he said. Dr. Grant nudged her and she looked up. "What? I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
"I asked you to scrub in, but if you're tired—"
"No," she said. "No, I'm fine. Are you taking him in now?"
He shook his head. "In the morning, I think. Early. You'll have to push the MacArthur baby."
"The MacArthur baby doesn't stand a chance without a liver," she said, lowering her voice a little. "Until I get one everything else I'm doing is pointless."
"You've told the parents that?"
"Not in so many words, but yes."
"Hhhmm," he said. "Well. There's only so much you can do." He took the chart from her and gave the NICU nurse a series of rapid instructions. "For now let's concentrate on baby Teller."
She swallowed and hid her clenched fists behind her back. "Does he have a first name yet?"
"I don't believe so." He frowned. "His father's involved with SAMCRO from the look of things. Came in here earlier with a bunch of his leather-clad biker friends and then stormed out. The grandmother's still here, though. And of course the mother."
The grandmother. Gemma. The mother. Wendy. And the father—Jackson.
"What do you think the baby's chances are?" Tara said as they left NICU and headed toward the cafeteria.
"Twenty percent," he said with a shrug. "If I'm being kind. One or the other would be alright, but both? In a thirty weeker? I hate it, but…" He lifted his hands in a tired shrug.
Tara cleared her throat and pushed the button on the elevator. "I know the family. From when I lived here as a kid. Have you talked to them yet?"
He cast her a careful look. "I was going to wait until the father got back. Perhaps you'd care to join me?"
"Yeah. Yes. Thank you, Dr. Grant."
"You've shown real promise here, Dr. Knowles. You know I've been planning my retirement for a while now, but I haven't found another surgeon I felt could take my place." He paused and fixed her with a hard stare. "You might be that surgeon. Don't let personal feelings get in the way of caring for your patient."
Her brows drew together and her mouth firmed. "The baby is my patient, and he's my priority. My personal feelings don't have anything to do with any of it."
"Good," he said, and patted her on the arm. "Then we should be just fine."
She wanted to save the baby because he was a baby, and every baby deserved a chance. The fact that he was Jax' baby, Jax' son…that was just extra incentive. For all that they'd barely spoken since she'd been back, and had parted on such rough terms, she didn't want Jax to suffer. She didn't want him to lose his son.
No one deserved that, not even the VP of a one percenter Motorcycle Club.
I literally just rewatched the pilot like 2 hours before I wrote the second half of this, and I couldn't remember the other doctor's name. So I made that shit up.
Oh, in the area of names: I called Kohn "Jeff" every time I mentioned his first name before, and...you know what? Fuck it. I like "Jeff" better than "Josh" anyway. So he gets a new name.
Almost forgot: I've obviously reshuffled things, but I'm sort of working within SOME of the canon framework, but just doing my own thing with it.