Sorry for the longer-than-usual delay on this one, loves. You get a longer-than-usual chapter to make up for it. :)

like sweet buttery spread on toast
we fade into mist like ghosts
Bob Schneider, "Ghosts"

As he often was, Opie was gone when Olivia woke the next morning. He had an early shift at the garage, then club business would probably keep him out late. In theory she'd known what it would be like to be involved with a Son, but in practice it was very different.

And soon they would have to have the old lady talk, because it seemed they might actually be in this sort of seriously. It had been less than a month, but that was really more a technicality. They'd known each other almost their whole lives, and they'd been dancing around this practically since she got back to Charming six months ago.

Sighing, she hauled herself out of bed (limping a little) and headed for the shower. She ached. The inside of her thighs; her hips; low in her belly; her shoulders, a little, from this thing he'd done with…

Well. It didn't matter. All the aches and bruises and bites felt good. They made her think of Opie. His big body over her, under her, inside of her. His mouth and his fingers and his cock, licking and biting and, God, fucking. She shivered at the memories and pressed her hand over the fingers-shaped bruises on her hips.

He was so big: the marks dwarfed her small, long-fingered hands, and her skin looked porcelain-pale against them.

The hot water made her groan it felt so good, and she stood under it a long time. Tonight might have to be a blowjob-and-cuddle night, though knowing Opie he'd be happy with just the cuddles. Badass teddy bear biker man. With a grin she stepped out of the shower, and as she smoothed lotion over her skin and combed out her hair, the ringing phone caught her attention.

Juice's number on the ID. This early? Her first thought was Tara, and her pulse spiked.

"What's up? Is everything okay?" she said, and after a brief pause Juice laughed.

"Yeah, sorry. I guess it's kinda early."

"Well. It's not the crack of dawn at least, so." She tightened the towel around her body. "Everything's okay, though?"

"Yeah," he said. "Everything's…" Part of him wanted to tell her about the fight with Yvonne, just spill the whole deal, but that felt out of bounds. "Everything's good. Are you busy?"

"Busy? It's all relative. I did just get out of the shower, though, so I guess I'm only as busy as you can be when you're naked and wet."

There was a brief silence while her own words echoed back to her on mental loop. Her eyes closed and she let out a curse. "Jesus I'm so sorry that just—I didn't mean—oh God."

He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "Damn, Liv. If I'm interrupting your me time, you could just ask me to call back later."

"Shut up, Ortiz," she said, but she was trying not to laugh, too. "Just tell me why you called and then leave me to die in peace."

He took a deep breath, but it was no good, and his chuckles started all over again. It was funny, but not quite that funny; but if he were laughing he wasn't picturing her naked and wet, and that was an image he wanted to avoid at all costs.

"Okay, okay," he said. "Okay. Sorry." He scrapped a hand down his face and wiped at the tears in his eyes. "Okay. Ha. Since you're not busy, you think you could help me with something?"

"Getting your head out of your ass?" she said, sweetly. "That might require a medical professional."

"Yeah, yeah. Smartass. No, listen…this is kinda…bad." All traces of humor disappeared from his voice, and he toyed with an unlit cigarette as he tried to figure out how to say it. "There was kind of…an accident. With, uh, one of your sculptures?"

She dug through her underwear drawer, brow furrowed. "I don't understand," she said. "What sculpture? Where?"

"Ahh…my house. The, um. The one I own."

That stopped her. She went still, wrist-deep in panties and bras, and her breath left in a quiet rush. "You own one of my sculptures?"

He cleared his throat and dropped the cigarette to run his hand back and forth over his mohawk. "Yeah. I bought it at that show a while back. Remember I told you—"

"I remember," she said. That show. The San Francisco show in that tiny little gallery—shit. She closed her eyes and tried to recall the ones that had sold. Jesus. Which one was his?

"Um, anyway, it kind of—it got broken. A little. An accident with a vacuum cleaner, I guess. I was wondering if I could bring it by and you could see about fixing it?"

For a second she had no idea what he'd just said; she was too deep in her own head; but then she blinked back to the present. "Oh. Broken?" Her mouth quirked in a rueful smile. How apropos. "Sure," she said. "I'm off today and tomorrow, so just come by any time."

"How about after lunch today?" he said. "I can borrow the van from TM and haul it over."

"Yeah, that works." She brushed a hand through her drying hair and really wished she weren't naked. "I'll see you then."

They said their goodbyes and hung up, and Olivia tugged on a t-shirt and some panties and went searching for a specific unpacked box. She found it, finally, in the very back of the hall closet, and she dug the scrapbook out of it. All stuff from old shows, flyers and pamphlets and pictures. The San Fransisco show was a few pages in.

Her fingers trembled as she touched the postcard advertising her work. There was a sculpture pictured on it, her favorite from the collection. At that point she'd been married to Ben less than a year, and some part of her missed Charming—and the people she loved there—like a physical ache. As she usually did, she poured it all out in her work.

The San Francisco show was her Charming retrospective. She never told anyone that, except Tara. There was a piece for each other closest friends. A piece for TM and all the good times she had there. One for the town itself and all the bizarre complex emotions it brought back.

And the one featured in all the advertisements. The one that she'd been reluctant to sell, but finally had a few days before the show closed.

In her mind, but never on paper because that wasn't her way, she called it, simply, Us. She never knew who'd bought it, and she'd always wondered. She'd given Opie and Tara theirs, and Gemma had bought the TM one. None of the rest had sold.

Except Us.

And no one, not even Tara this time, knew what the work meant to her, what it represented.

Except Juice, apparently, because of all the pieces in the show—and there had been several that were much less expensive—he'd insisted on having that one. He'd haggled with the gallery owner and put up a fuss and finally Elsbeth had called Olivia in a tither and Olivia had agreed to sell it.

Juice had done all that…and he hadn't had a clue what he was really buying.

She shut the album and dropped it back in the box before she slumped onto the closet floor and pressed both hands to her face. Warning sirens sounded in her head and starbursts illuminated the dark behind her closed eyelids.

Don't go there again, Olivia Jameson, she thought, and it was in Tara's stern, no-nonsense voice. You've got a new man now, and you love him. You're all marked up with him right this very minute. Old ghosts don't matter.

"It's just a hunk of metal," she whispered aloud. "Old ghosts don't matter."

Still. When she finally managed to crawl out of the closet, the first thing she did was call Opie. She needed to hear his voice. Needed it to steady her. At his surprised, delighted greeting her heart cramped and her stomach warmed and she was dizzy from the rush of it.

"I love you," she said before they hung up.

"I love you too, babe. I'll see you tonight."

He meant it, and so did she, and old ghosts didn't matter.

Juice parked the van in the driveway and went around back to get the hand truck. The sculpture wasn't very big, but he didn't want to risk breaking it any further trying to haul it through the house. Yvonne's car wasn't there, but he hadn't been expecting her; she had work today, early shift, and besides that he wasn't even sure she'd spent the night after he left.

The house was empty and quiet. Her toothbrush and shampoo and other girly things were still in the bathroom. He let out a sigh of relief and rested his palms against the counter. He'd been afraid, really afraid, that she'd take him up on the offer to pack her shit and go. He had a lot of weird mixed-up emotions about the thing with Yvonne, but he liked her. A lot. Even loved her. And if it had to end, he sure as hell didn't want it to end like that.

As he passed through the kitchen a note on his otherwise empty fridge caught his eye. He recognized Yvonne's pretty, feminine writing, and paused to read it.

Juan Carlos,

I'm sorry I lost my temper. I didn't mean the things I said, and I know you would never mess with another girl. I know you and Olivia are over, and I am working on dealing with her. I promise. I want us to be good. I think we can be good.

I love you.

Yvonne.

PS: there are empanadas in the refrigerator. Put them in the oven at 350 for 10 minutes. DO NOT MICROWAVE, Juan Carlos!

Juice grinned and turned the oven on to preheat. She must not be too mad if she'd left him food. To Yvonne food was the ultimate peace offering. He would eat, then call her to apologize and let her know he was taking the sculpture to Olivia's. She might be mad if she found out he went over there without telling her.

Though she'd probably be mad he was going over there at all—even though she knew he wanted the sculpture repaired. Maybe he just shouldn't tell her. If she asked about it, he could say Olivia was fixing it at TM. Or he'd brought it to TM, then she'd taken it home herself.

There. That was good. That way if Yvonne showed up at the garage (unlikely) he would have a reason for it not being there.

He carefully got it strapped to the hand truck, frowning the whole time. Lying to his current girlfriend about going to his ex girlfriend's house probably wasn't the smartest move, but if he told her she might flip out again. It was just to get the sculpture fixed. He was over Olivia and they'd both moved on.

He would tell her. He would have the empanadas for lunch and call her on the way to Olivia's. Apologize, grovel, promise to make it up to her—then just sort of casually slip in where he was headed and why.

Or not tell her. Because he didn't want her to think anything was going on.

If she found out he lied she would definitely think something was going on.

So tell her. He would tell her. Olivia would advise him to tell her if he asked her about it.

Not that he was going to ask Olivia about his current relationship troubles, or tell her that Yvonne was jealous. He didn't want to make things strained between them again. It'd been so good since she got back from New York, just easy and casual, like old times. Minus the sex.

Very much minus the sex.

He pushed the pan of empanadas into the oven and set the timer. He definitely couldn't tell her. She'd flip. She'd take it all wrong and it would cause a whole other fight, and he really didn't want that. All he was doing was asking Olivia to fix the sculpture, and he and Yvonne had already talked about that.

He wouldn't be lying to her; not really. Just not one hundred percent telling the entire truth. And that really for her own good, because he didn't want her to get all upset over nothing. The timer beeped as he paced, and he nearly burnt his hand on the hot pan. He ate them fast, over the sink, and carefully wiped up all the crumbs when he was done. The pan got wiped down and stowed in the dishwasher, and after he'd neatened up the kitchen he rolled the hand truck out to the van.

It was better. Olivia would fix the sculpture. He and Yvonne would make up. It'd all be just fine.

Olivia was hard at work in the back shed, and she didn't hear the van in the driveway. The music was cranked, the blowtorch going, and she was lost in her own little world. She'd done her best to push aside any thoughts of Juice and the sculpture, but it was showing itself in her work today: a larger, more mature version of Us, it seemed, and she'd already decided the glass would be black or smokey gray, with shots of red and orange. Like sparks amidst coals.

Growling in frustration, she tossed the torch aside and stripped off the gloves. The helmet went next, and she dragged an arm across her forehead.

This wasn't what she wanted to be doing. She had no desire to rehash old relationships or revisit old ground. That exhibition was years ago. Over and done—just like her romantic relationship with Juice.

She grabbed a bottle of water from the small fridge and slumped against the counter above it as she sipped. It was hot today, and sweat ran down her bare arms in little rivulets. She wiped her chest and neck with a towel and fanned herself with it.

"Liv?" came a voice from outside.

"Fuck," she muttered. She'd actually forgotten…whatever. She'd take a look at the sculpture and see what she could do. A vacuuming mishap. Who was responsible for that?

"Yeah, back here!" she called. She pushed the door open and waved, then jogged toward him. "Hey."

He paused. His eyes roamed her from head to toe: heavy boots; ripped up jeans; wife beater; hair in a messy bun. Her shirt was practically adhered to her skin and she glowed in the bright sun. There were bruises on her arms. Finger-shaped bruises, maybe, and what looked like a bite mark on her shoulder. More of them when she got a brief glance down her shirt—not that he was looking down her shirt.

Opie would never hurt her. Not like that.

So she must've liked it.

That was kind of a mind-blowing thought.

"Uh. Hey," he finally said. "Am I interrupting something?"

She lifted a brow. "Yeah. My daily sauna." At his look she shook her head. "Shut the fuck up, Ortiz."

"I didn't say anything," he said, fighting off a grin. He tucked his hands in the pockets on his kutte and rocked back on his heels. "Anyway, thought that sauna shit was supposed to be naked."

"It is," she said as she cut around him toward the front yard. "I've always been a rebel."

He laughed and fell in behind her. The goldfish tattoo on her shoulder peeked out from under the edge of her shirt, and he watched the fish move over her pale skin and the muscle beneath. He shouldn't be looking at her tattoo. Or her back. Or the way her jeans fit so snuggly and there was a rip like right below her ass cheek and—

Whoa.

He cleared his throat, which caused her to glance back at him. "You okay? You look kinda funny."

"Yeah, just—man. It's hot today."

"Mmhhmm," she said in mild agreement. She stopped at the van and held up a hand for the keys. "You wanna try to carry it, or—?"

"I brought a hand truck."

"Smart. This's why you're goin' places." She glanced in and swallowed. It was the one all right. One of the bars hung like a broken arm, and she made a small noise of distress. "Poor thing."

"Yeah. I guess Yvonne was cleaning kind of—enthusiastically—and it got in her way." He shot her a quick look. "It was an accident. Not like she broke it on purpose or anything."

"I didn't say she did," she said as she climbed into the back of the van.

Together they lifted it, hand truck and all, down to the pavement, and she jumped after it. Her bad leg caught and she stumbled, but he grabbed her arm to steady her.

"Whoa," he said. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sorry." She leaned against him a moment, trying to get her balance, and as she straightened she cursed. He didn't let go. Her hand came up to grip his bicep.

"Olivia? Hey, Liv. Maybe you should sit down."

"I'm fine," she said. "I just should've finished that bottle of water. I've been working a little too long and I guess my leg got all stiff."

He made a low noise and lowered her to sit on the van's back bumper. "I'll go get you something. Stay here."

"Juice, really, I'm fine." She had her bad leg stretched out in front of her and was rubbing her thigh. "It was just a cramp."

"Uh huh. Caused by dehydration, sounds like. Just stay here."

She grumbled but did as he said, and he took off for the house. Once inside he paused. He hadn't been here before. It looked like her, completely, except…here and there he saw touches of Opie. A pair of his boots by the bench on the closed-in front porch. His jacket on the coatrack. A small sculpture of a motorcycle (looked like Olivia's work) on a side table. Coffee in the kitchen, which he knew Olivia didn't drink.

Juice was sure they weren't living together—not so soon—but it was evident Opie wasn't spending much time at his place.

Not like Juice could really say anything; he practically had a live-in girlfriend, and Opie and Olivia had known each other forever.

Trying not to think about it, he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and a pack of peanut butter crackers from the cabinet. She was where he'd left her, he was glad to see, and she took the food with a grateful grimace.

"When was the last time you ate?" he said. He, like everyone else in her life, knew she tended to forget to eat or sleep when she worked.

"It's only two," she said. "Not that late."

"Uh huh." He sat down beside her and stole a cracker. "You gotta be more careful, Liv. Especially when it's this hot out and you're in there with the torch on."

"Thanks, Dad," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'll keep that in mind."

He made a face at her and nudged her with his shoulder. "You're such a jerk."

"Yep. That's why you hauled this thing all the way over here instead of just throwing it out. Because I'm a total asshole."

"Throw it out?" Horrified, he blinked at her. "I would never—you made this, Liv. With, like. Your hands." He swallowed a bite and shook his head. "I've never owned art before. I mean, art that someone actually made. I'd never throw it out."

Her mouth quirked, but then her expression smoothed. She scuffed her boot against the ground and cut her eyes at him. He ate his cracker, oblivious, and raised his face to the sunshine. He looked happy. She wanted him to be happy.

"Why this one?" she said in a rush, before she could chicken out.

"Hmm?" He looked at her, then ducked his head to hide a blush. "Oh. Um. I don't know." His eyes drifted to the sculpture, even broken and strapped to a hand truck like it was, and his look was thoughtful.

"There was just somethin' about it," he said after a while. "I liked everything, you know, but this one—" He fidgeted a little. Rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. "It reminded me of you the most, I guess. That sounds stupid."

"No." She touched his arm, a light brush of her fingers over his warm skin. "No, not at all." Now it was her turn to blush. "It's actually…"

She couldn't have this conversation sitting this close to him. Her leg felt better, and her head less swimmy, so she pushed herself upright and waved his offered hand away. She wandered down the driveway a bit, working out the stiffness, and finished off the bottle of water on her way back.

"It's actually what?" he said when she stayed silent.

"It's—ours." She screwed and unscrewed the cap on and off the bottle and tried not to look at him. "I made it to be us. Not literally us, but just…" She hitched a shoulder.

He stared at the sculpture with new eyes, his jaw falling open. He could see it. He didn't know how or why, but he could. And he wondered that he hadn't before. "The way we felt."

She liked that he put the past tense on it, because that's what it was. Regardless of what they did or didn't feel now, this sculpture represented a phase in their relationship that was long past.

"Yeah," she said, her voice quiet. She studied him. "You really didn't know."

He gave a restless shrug and stood up to pace a slow circle. "I knew something. Not this, exactly, but something."

"Hhmm." She scratched her neck where the sweat had dried and the skin felt tight. "You still want me to fix it?"

He couldn't quite wrap his brain around it. It was abstract. A jumble of metal. How the fuck could a jumble of metal make him think of her? Besides the fact that she'd assembled it. Now when he looked at it (and maybe, if he were completely honest, even sometimes before) all he could see was her. Them. Those evenings out at the pines. The way she used to laugh, with her whole body. She didn't laugh like that anymore. Not since she stuck a knife in TJ's kidneys.

Opie and Tara, and even Jax, always said it was her mother's death that had changed her. She was a different person before that, they claimed.

Maybe that was true. But for Juice, the Olivia he'd known and loved before that awful prom night was a different girl than the Olivia he'd known and loved after.

And it was all there. Not literally, like she'd said, but somehow he could see the change. Almost like she'd started the sculpture before prom night and finished it after—but he knew that wasn't the case. He took a deep breath and scrubbed both hands over his face. She'd said something to him, hadn't she?

"Uh." A quick shake of his head, like the clearing of cobwebs.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes big and haunted by a thousand ghosts. "I still want it," he said. He took a step toward her. "I mean, if you do. I still want it if you do."

Her chin tilted up to look at him. When had he gotten so close? She could smell him, leather and sweat, and the sun gleamed off his brown skin. She shouldn't have let him steal that cracker, because her head was spinning again, or maybe everything else was and and she was standing still.

She couldn't tell.

"If I want what?" she said on a little breath.

For a second he was confused. She wanted him to say it? Just like baldly out loud, standing in her driveway in the middle of the—no. Wait.

"The—shit." He exhaled hard and stumbled back. "The sculpture, Liv. If you wanna fix the sculpture, I still want it."

"The sculpture." She gave the bits of metal a quick glance. "Of course I want to fix the sculpture, silly. Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe you're busy. Or, I mean—it's kinda old. Maybe you don't wanna go back to it."

She lifted her hands in a shrug. "I've moved on to other stuff, but you like it. Don't you?"

"Yeah, fuck," he said, quickly. "I love it."

She turned to him with a brilliant smile, sweet and beautiful. "Then duh. Just give me a couple days, okay? I'm working on something right now, but once I finish it this'll be good as new."

"Really?"

She made a thoughtful noise and bent to inspect it. "Just a little soldering. I think this bit might've been kind of weak anyway."

"Oh, like." He knelt next to her and saw what she meant. "Like, um. Easier to break."

"Mmhmm. I'll get it patched up. You might notice the spot, but it shouldn't take away from it at all."

"Good," he said with relief. "Thanks, Liv. Really. It means a lot."

She straightened and offered another sunny smile. "No worries, Juicy. Accidents happen."

He needed to leave. Now.

He brushed his hands off on his pants and held one out for the keys. She fished them out of her pocket and dropped them in his raised palm, and he nodded his thanks. "So I guess I'll see you around. At work."

"Yep," she said. "I'll let you know how it's going."

"Sure. Thanks. Again." He paused halfway to the van. "Shit. I'm kind of an asshole. I should help get it back to your workshop."

"Nah, it's okay. I'll get Opie to haul it back, then I'll bring the hand truck in tomorrow. That work?"

It got him away from her faster and meant they wouldn't be alone together in her goddamn work shed. "Sounds good," he said.

She crossed her arms over her belly and watched as he got the van going and backed out. They waved as he turned down the street, and once he was out of sight she shook her head.

"What a mess," she said under her breath. "What a goddamn mess."

Hmm.