I've managed to cruise through the first half of season 4 with this chapter, just so we're all clear. :)
fountain of sorrow, fountain of light
you've known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight
you've had to struggle, you've had to fight
to keep understanding and compassion in sight
you could be laughing at me, you've got the right
but you go on smiling so clear and so bright
-Jackson Browne, "Fountain of Sorrow"
Gemma had decided to throw a party to welcome the guys home, and Olivia wondered why the idea had just occurred to her now. Usually she planned events like this weeks in advance. As it was she pulled Olivia from the garage and Lyla from the studio (when she could get her) and, along with Tara, set about planning a massive shindig to take place at the clubhouse.
The much-anticipated night had finally arrived, and so far it was a raging success. Tig and Kozik were lit all to hell and back, and at some point they had started singing dirty songs from their Marine Corps days. Now they were out in the lot bellowing at the top of their lungs, and somehow Olivia had been tasked with bringing them inside. How a five foot woman was supposed to wrestle two fall-down drunk men twice her size into submission hadn't been explained to her. She grabbed Chibs (who was only mildly hammered) and dragged him along.
Tig and Kozik were on the playground, and Tig seemed to be stuck in the slide. Kozik was trying to yank him free with little success. Juice was in one of the swings, laughing too hard to be of any help. Kozik tugged at Tig's feet and stumbled back to land hard on his ass.
"Fuck!" he yelled. "Fuck, man. You're really stuck, man. Fuuuuck."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Chibs said. "What is goin' on out here?"
"I wanted to slide," Tig said. "Fuckin' slide's too small."
"You're six feet tall, Tiggy," Olivia said. "Of course the slide's too small."
"You think you could slide?" Kozik said to her.
Tig barked out a laugh. "Oh I bet Ollie can slide. I bet she can slide allll—"
"Okay, Tiggy, that's enough," Chibs said.
She rolled her eyes and helped Kozik to his feet. He leaned against her and grinned. "Hey. Anyone ever tell you you look like Scully? From The X-Files, yanno."
"I know, Kozik. But I don't, really."
"It's just the hair," Chibs said. His voice was muffled because he was shoving at Tig's shoulders from the top of the slide. A moment later Tig tumbled down and landed in a groaning heap.
"Come on, laddie," Chibs said. "Let's get you inside. Juicy, a hand?"
"Yeah, Chibs, I'm comin'." He got up from the swing and ambled toward them. He didn't seem as drunk as the others, and his gait was steady. He tossed Kozik's arm over his shoulder and took his weight. "Let's go, brother."
They started toward the clubhouse, but Kozik stumbled to a halt. "You comin', Scully?" he called.
"I'm good here, Mulder. You go catch us an alien."
"I fuckin' hate aliens," he said to Juice.
"Yeah, buddy. I think we all do."
He rolled his eyes back at her and she muffled a chuckle. Tig started up another song and Kozik joined in with a whoop, but before she could hear what had the marine exactly so happy, the four of them disappeared inside.
She shook her head and lowered herself in to the swing Juice had vacated. She'd had a few drinks herself and felt pleasantly buzzed. Warm and just a touch out of focus. It was a nice night, and quieter out here than inside. The sound of footsteps startled her into looking up, and she eyed Juice warily as he approached.
He paused at the fence and she flicked her fingers toward the other swing. "C'mon, Ortiz. Don't just stand there."
He grinned a little and settled into the small seat. "Jesus. Was my ass ever this tiny?"
"I was wondering the same thing." She shifted her weight a little and winced as the chains dug in. "At least we're not stuck," she said.
"Ha! Fuckin' A. Not sure he'll live that one down."
"Why didn't you stop him?" she said.
"Are you kidding? And miss that? No fuckin' way."
Her mouth curved and she let the swing drift a bit closer to him. "You know, Juice—"
"Wait. There's something I need to say."
"Ohh?" she said, lifting her brows.
"It's about…Dana. And what you saw."
She snorted. "I don't really want to hear it, Juicy. You got a blowjob from a crow eater. Big fuckin' deal."
His forehead creased. "You seemed to act like it was a big deal."
"Hum." She pushed off and the swing rocked back and forth. "I guess it was, at the time. Now? Not so much."
"Oh," he said. "So you don't—you don't care?"
She laughed and leaned back far enough that her hair dragged the ground. Her skirt rode up and he got a flash of thigh. "Right, Juicy. That's it. I don't give a flying fuck."
He frowned. Ran a hand over his scalp. He opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind and slumped in the swing.
She sat up fast, and her piercing gaze pinned him in place. "I don't care that she blew you, Juice. The whole fucking clubhouse could blow you for all I care. Do you know why?"
"Nooo…?"
Her swing moved in close and her eyes were still locked on his. "You and I, baby? We're endgame. You and Dana are a blip." She flicked her fingers. "One day we're gonna quit missing each other. One day we'll get this shit figured out. And when we do? Everyone else will just fade away."
He swallowed and almost choked. "You mean that?"
She leaned into him and kissed him long and slow. She tasted like bourbon, and even after two years the flavor was enough to make him go hard. He pulled back with a gasp, and his eyes were wide as he stared at her. She laughed, a low throaty sound, and her swing drifted away.
A silence fell. The sounds from the party seemed to float away, and he could hear the scrape of her shoe against the ground. The creak of the chains. The moon was huge in the sky, and by its silver light her skin seemed to glow. She had her hair mostly down tonight, with just a little bit pulled back and clipped at the crown of her head, and the breeze toyed with the loose strands.
"You look nice," he said.
Her full mouth eased into a smile. "Thanks," she said.
Her dress was white with cherries scattered over it, cut low in front and back with cap sleeves and a full skirt. Fifties housewife meets—he wasn't sure what. He wanted to say sex kitten, but that didn't seem quite right.
He was startled when she spoke again. "Do you ever—have you ever wished that you could go back and change something? Just one thing. One little do-over."
"Yeah," he said, thinking of his latest encounter with the good sheriff. "I wish that all the time."
Her mouth quirked and she focused on him. "My do-over would be the night of the lockdown. The night I told you to keep away from me. I wish I hadn't said that."
"Oh, well, if we're talking about that—mine would definitely be that day in the bathroom."
"You realize I got arrested because of you."
"Me?" He blinked innocently, a grin hovering at the corners of his mouth. "How is that my fault?"
"Unresolved sexual frustration can have a profound effect on one's mood."
"Ah," he said. He scrubbed a hand over his scalp and ducked his head. "If it makes you feel any better, after you left I locked the door behind you and stayed in there for a good half hour."
She choked on a laugh, and he looked up at her with a sheepish smile. "That does make me feel better, actually."
"You don't—you really don't think it's too late for us?" he said after a moment.
"Nah," she said and shook her head. "It's never too late until you're dead."
Her expression sobered and she glanced away. "Maybe…maybe if we took things really slow…?" She flashed a wry grin. "As opposed to last time, when we were fucking on a cheap motel table within an hour of meeting."
He winced a little. "C'mon, Liv. Sexual frustration. I'm only human."
"Poor baby," she said with a sympathetic pat on the cheek. "I guess you'll have to lock yourself in the bathroom again."
"I never shoulda told you that," he said through gritted teeth.
"Probably not." Her eyes raked him up and down. "But I'm glad you did."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Olivia muttered. She slammed the hood on the GTO and dropped her wrench into the tool chest. Some days, she thought, it was impossible to get any fucking work done around here. Now something was going down outside and the whole place was in an uproar.
She yanked off her gloves and tossed them in the trash on her way to the office. She poked her head around the door to find Tara and Gemma in the middle of a tense conversation that cut off as soon as they saw her.
"I'm sorry," Olivia said. "I should've knocked."
"No, Ollie." Gemma gestured her into the room. "You should probably know about this too. We're on lockdown." She glanced at Tara and held out a piece of paper. "Tara found this in her car this morning."
She leaned over to read it and her eyes went wide. "Fuck me, Tara. Are you okay?"
She nodded, her face tight and her hands clamped around her arms. "Yeah. I'm fine. I don't think it's anything to worry about."
"A death threat." Olivia's forehead crinkled. "No offense, but if you think a death threat is nothing to worry about then you've been living with this club too long."
"That might be true anyway," Tara said.
"Wayne's on his way," Gemma said, quickly. "He'll get to the bottom of it."
"Yeah? Anyone mentioned it to our keen new sheriff?"
"Fuck no," Gemma said. "The last thing we need is the cops crawling all over this place."
Olivia's mouth quirked. "No shit." She nodded toward the bag on the couch. "What's up with that? Someone hurt?"
"I guess so. Jax called and said they needed me here for an emergency."
Olivia hooked her thumbs in her back pockets and rocked back on her heels. Her eyes flicked toward the window and she watched the activity in the lot before she focused on Tara again. "I can help you. If you need it."
Tara studied her a moment. "You a doctor now?" she said with a smile to soften the words' sting.
She hitched a shoulder. "I've got steady hands and I put in a good stitch. Blood doesn't really bother me." Her left arm fell to her side and Tara zeroed in on it. "Unless it's mine."
"Did you really do that with a steak knife?" Tara said.
"We've known each other two years and now is when you ask?" She waved it away. "Yeah. Not—um—not the serrated kind." She shuddered. "Ugh."
Tara reached for her and raised an inquiring brow. Olivia nodded. Tara's hand closed around her wrist and she studied the scar beneath the ink for a long quiet moment.
"You did a good job," she finally said. "Straight. Thin. Never would've guessed you did this with cutlery."
Gemma watched this odd exchanged with her fists on her hips and her head tilted. Her mouth was twisted in a moue that somehow danced the line between impressed and a tiny bit disgusted.
"I told you," Olivia said and reclaimed her arm. "Steady hands."
Outside the gate clanged open and a motorcade roared in. The three women looked that way and Tara grabbed her bag. "Come on," she said to Olivia. "Stick close and do what I say."
Their patient was Marcus Alvarez, president of the Mayan MC, and apparently he'd been shot. They got him into the clubhouse and stretched out on the table (Olivia tried not to wince—she'd only just gotten it refinished) and Tara tossed her a pair of gloves before she snapped on her own.
Chibs offered Alvarez a smoke, which he accepted gratefully. Olivia cut him an astonished look, but Chibs just shrugged. "A man deserves to smoke when he's been shot, lass."
Alvarez grunted as Olivia replaced Tara at his shoulder and pressed her hand against the wound. "You guys letting your mechanics patch people up now?" he said.
"Aye," Chibs said. "She's actually a doctor, but we let her play mechanic sometimes."
"We're all fuckin' doctors," Clay said with a grin and an expansive gesture. "Best educated MC in the whole fuckin' state."
There were chuckles and snorts of laughter, but then talk turned to club business, cartel this and that. Olivia lowered her head and tried not to listen. They mentioned the threat on Tara's life, and Juice pointed out that cartels had a habit of going after families—just as Tara rushed back into the room. She stopped short, and suddenly her hands were trembling so badly she couldn't make sense of the tight latex gloves.
An awkward silence fell as everyone glared daggers at Juice. Olivia ignored that and reached for Tara with her clean hand. "Forget it," she said, her quiet voice cutting through the chatter that resumed around them. "Focus on this. Deal with the other later. Nothing's going to happen to you here, and our friend Mr. Alvarez is bleeding all over the table."
Tara nodded, a short, stuttering jerk of her head, but she managed to get the gloves in place and took over for Olivia at Alvarez' side. Olivia stripped off her own gloves and dropped them into one of the medical waste bags Tara had brought. She gave Juice a long look, and he glanced away with a frown.
Chibs' phone rang, and after a brief conversation with Jax he passed the phone to Gemma so she could hold it out for Tara. The conversation seemed to comfort her, and after it was over some of the tension was gone from her shoulders. Olivia took advantage of everyone's distraction to slowly, casually make her way toward Juice. But then Chucky stumbled in like some sort of messenger of doom and told them the sheriff had arrived.
"Stay here," Clay ordered and jabbed a finger in Olivia's direction.
"Had no plans to leave," she said as they hustled out.
Alvarez puffed on his cigarette and studied the ceiling. His eyes cut to her.
"The doctor. She Jax's old lady?" he said.
"Yup."
"So whose old lady are you?"
"Nobody's. I'm a mechanic, remember?"
"Right." He cast about for somewhere to drop his smoke, and she held out an ashtray. "They let you work in the shop here?"
"Let me? I'm fuckin' brilliant at what I do. If it's broken, I can fix it." It was a tiny hyperbole, but not much of one, so she didn't feel guilty about it.
"Like me."
"Well, that was mostly Tara, but…sure, if that's how you wanna look at it." She paused and leaned over to peer at his chest. "Nice ink."
He laughed a little and winced. "Not like that girly shit you got," he said and flicked his fingers toward her arm.
She repeated what she'd said to Chibs when he'd teased her about Cheetara's bike: "Everybody likes to look pretty sometimes, Alvarez. It's a nasty gray world out there, and you gotta find color where you can."
"Huh." He turned his head to stare at the ceiling again. "Guess that's true," he said. A quiet moment while he tried to steady his breathing around the pain. Then, "Still looks like girly shit to me."
She barked out a laugh and patted him gently on his good shoulder. "I'll make sure the next one's hardcore. Just for you."
Juice knew Clay thought he was doing something good. Clay thought the new patch would help him work through whatever was making him act weird and moody and squirrelly. He knew Chibs had noticed (finally), but so far Olivia had been the only one to directly call him on it—one of the few conversations they'd had since that night on the swing, actually. He figured the patch was Clay's way of doing the same.
Clay just didn't get it. He didn't understand that this patch—meant to demonstrate Clay's confidence in him, and Juice's own commitment to the club—just made him feel shittier. He wasn't a Man of Mayhem. He'd shot Miles, a brother. He'd stolen from the club. He'd turned rat. He was shit. Worse than. No fucking patch was gonna change that, and wearing it would be hypocritical and wrong.
He'd wear it anyway, of course. He had to. Clay had given it to him, and now (even though it was a fucking lie that would remind and mock him every time he looked down) he had to sew it on and try to smile and pretend everything was all good. He wasn't sure he could take it much longer.
"Oh! Fuck, you scared me!"
Juice jerked back and realized with a blink that he'd nearly collided with Olivia. He stared down at her, and his first irrational reaction was annoyance. He had enough on his mind without…distracting redheaded mechanics popping out of every closed door. He'd been trying to keep his distance, despite what happened at the party. Or maybe because of it. He honestly wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was an asshole and a traitor and he didn't deserve anything she was offering. In the brief encounters they'd had over the last few weeks he could tell she was hurt and confused by his coolness, and that only made him feel like even more of a dick.
"What are you doing here?"
She shut the door behind her and her mouth curved. "It's a bathroom, Juice. Do I really need to go into detail?"
He shook his head once, hard. "I just meant—here, in the clubhouse. Instead of the garage. You aren't usually over here."
"I was working." She pointed back over his shoulder. "You think that wall's spackling itself?"
"No, I—no. I just didn't think you'd be here this late," he muttered with ill grace. Why was she always so damn calm when he was falling apart? He wanted to wrap himself in her serenity, bathe in it, but at the same time he wanted her as far away from him as possible. He didn't need more to think about.
She eyed him a moment. Then, "You dropped your thingie."
He looked down and saw that fucking Men of Mayhem patch and sighed. She knelt to retrieve it, and for a moment she stayed there. She looked down at the patch in her hand and back up at him. The moment stretched, lengthened, and he felt his throat grow dry and his head grow light as blood rushed to regions further south.
"Here," he said, thrusting his hand out. "Let me help you."
She lifted a brow and slid her palm into his. Let him pull her to her feet before she tugged her hand away. "So this's cool, right?" she said and waved the patch. "They only give these to the baddest badasses."
He ducked his head and muttered something she couldn't make out. Took the patch from her and shoved it into his pocket. "Yeah, s'cool," he said without looking at her.
She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned a shoulder against the wall. "You need any help sewing it on?"
His head jerked up. "You sew?"
"No need to sound so surprised," she said with a grin. She waved a hand. "My mom spent a lot of time and energy trying to lure me away from my fascination with all things mechanical. I don't think she had an objection to the hobby per se; she was just sick of trying to get grease stains out of all my clothes."
The image of a little Olivia, freckles on her nose and hair in twin braids, being pulled away from her beloved cars to sit inside and sew brought a brief smile to his face. It faded and he cleared his throat as he realized how keenly she was watching him. "Thanks, but we sew them on ourselves. It's part of the whole thing."
"Oh," she said, "of course it is. I think I knew that. Somewhere." She tapped her temple. "Um, anyway. I should get going. It's late, like you said."
"Yeah. I'll see you later."
She slipped past him with a smile, but halfway down the hall she stopped and turned back. "Juice."
He frowned and spun toward her. She looped her thumbs in her back pockets. Pulled them out again and fiddled with a button on her shirt. Took a step closer.
"You know he wouldn't have given it to you unless he thought you deserved it," she said at last. Her voice was odd, hesitant and kind. Not that it was odd for her to be kind, just—
He made a conscious effort to relax his face into an easy expression, but he thought she probably wasn't fooled. "I know," he said. "It means a lot. It really does."
Another step, until she was close enough to touch. He was acutely aware of her: the fullness of her mouth. The gleam of her eyes. The smell of her, like honey and oranges with just a hint of plaster dust. He knew her skin felt as smooth as it looked, and he itched to touch her. There was a curl of hair against her neck and he wanted to wrap it around his finger.
She said something that he missed. He shook his head to clear it and scrubbed a hand against the back of his skull. "What?" he said. "I guess I zoned out a sec."
Her lips quirked like she knew exactly where his mind had gone, but all she said was, "I asked why, if it means so much, you're acting like you've got a bomb in your pocket. You don't seem super thrilled."
He gave an uneasy shrug and slumped against the wall. Shoved his hands in his pockets and curled his fist around the patch. His head fell back and he stared at the ceiling without seeing it. He could only see Miles. Miles and that goddamn US Attorney. Juice was a liar and a rat and a hypocrite, and he'd been rewarded for it. Miles was dead, and Juice was getting claps on the back.
But he couldn't tell her any of that. He tried to say something glib, something about missing Miles and feeling bad for what had happened, but his tongue turned wooden and he couldn't choke the words out.
"How's your leg?" she said.
He glanced at her, surprised.
Her head tilted. "Phil told me some of what happened. Just wanna make sure you're okay." A pause. "I wish you had told me. I hate that I had to hear it from someone else."
He frowned a little. "I'm sorry. Things have been—really crazy," he said. "But the leg's good. Tara did a great job." He wanted to say something else. To thank her for bothering to ask. For noticing in the first place. He couldn't put the words together, though, any more than he could say Miles' name, so he ended up just staring at her with tongue-tied confusion.
She leaned closer and her voice dropped. "I know this is a ridiculous and selfish question in light of everything, but—are we okay? I've barely seen you, and I just—"
"No, Liv." He stopped her with a quick gesture and a brief smile. "We're fine. Everything's fine. Just with what happened to—I mean, the other day—"
She nodded and brushed her fingers against his arm. "It's okay. I get it." A pause. "You know where I am if you need me."
He had to clear his throat before he could speak again, and even so his voice sounded thick and strained. "Yeah. I do. Thanks, Liv."
She might have said something further, but just then Clay appeared at the other end of the hall, and his gruff voice forestalled her.
"Juice," he said, sounding surprised. "Weren't you headed to the warehouse?"
He snapped to attention with an apologetic grimace at Olivia. "Hey, Clay. Yeah, I'm on my way now."
She pivoted away and offered Clay an innocent grin. "I waylaid him to ask about his leg, but I was actually looking for you. I've got some ideas I wanted to run past you for the project we talked about yesterday."
Clay's shrewd gaze had been flicking from Juice to Olivia and back again, but at her words she had his full attention. "Already?" he said.
"I'm good at what I do, Clay. It's why Gem hired me, remember?"
He let out an amused grunt and gestured for her to follow him. "Let's talk about it in the office," he said. "Juice, get out to the warehouse. They'll be wondering where you are."
"Yup," he said. "On my way."
She threw him a parting look over her shoulder, and there were a thousand things he could read in that expression. None of them were accusatory, and all he saw was compassion and a quiet ruefulness that stung like acid.
It'll become more obvious in the next chapter, but keen-eyed readers might recognize a small shuffling of the timeline here: on the night Clay gives Juice the Men of Mayhem patch (the same night he tried to hang himself), I have him thinking about Lincoln Potter. On the show, however, he hadn't met Potter or been told about RICO until a few days later.
I wrote the third section of this chapter and most of the first section of the next chapter a month or so ago, and now I'm fitting the pieces together a little differently than I originally planned. :)