Who: Jax and Jill and Sookie too What: Rage + Tools + Heirlooms = Bad Where: Garage When: Today before Connor's prison break Warnings: Jax's foul mouth and abuse against motorcycles
Jax gave the wrench in his hand another quick turn. It was time for his father's bike's weekly tune-up. It seemed like half of his time was spent taking care of this damned bike. He stripped off his cutte because of the heat and crouched back down in front of the bike. When the club had pulled out of Charming there'd been no question in Jax's mind that he would be taking the bike with him. It was another piece of the legacy of John Teller. At a time when the club had lost everything else Jax couldn't stand the thought of his dad's bike sitting there at Teller-Morrow just waiting for the next looter to come along. So he'd loaded it onto a truck and headed out.
Typical. He'd managed to save the bike but lose his old lady and his kids along the way. As if Jax needed any further proof that he was his father's son. That right there would be better than any DNA test. "Fuckin' JT." Jax muttered working on the engine. He failed to notice when his eyes started to glow red or the fact that sweat was running down his back. Maybe if JT had paid a little more attention to his wife and kids he wouldn't have been in Belfast getting his cock sucked by some 18 year old gash while Jax's baby brother slipped into a coma and died. Maybe if JT had paid a little more attention to their family instead of wallowing in self-pity and bullshit existentialism he would have noticed his bike wasn't running right and he wouldn't have wound up road kill.
With every thought Jax gave more and more vicious twists with the wrench until he was stripping all of the bolts. His grip on the wrench was tight enough to make his knuckles white and his hand would hurt except that he was too lost in his own thoughts to notice it.
Growing up, Jax had idolized his father. JT was a god in Charming. The patron saint of the outlaws. Walking around with him was as good as stepping out of a limo with the Beatles. Even when shit was going down with the club Jax always had the sense that his father would take care of it and make everything golden again. That's just what JT did. It wasn't until Thomas got sick that Jax started to see things more clearly. The strain between his parents, the slow separation between JT and the club, the way Clay and his father couldn't seem to be in the same room together anymore.
Of course his hindsight was perfect. Just like his father's. Jax knew he sometimes slipped into that same head space JT went into; scribbling in his journals, second guessing himself, his club, everything and everyone around him. Hell, not just sometimes. Since the outbreak of the zombie virus Jax had written enough to constitute his own MC manifesto. JUST. LIKE. HIS. FATHER. And just like his father Jax was somewhere else while Tara raised their boys. Abel even had the Teller family curse like Gemma, like Jax's brother Thomas and to a lesser extent Jax himself. It was all just a little bit of history repeating. Only now instead of rival MCs they had a never ending army of zombies to contend with and instead of being in Ireland Jax was in Everett while Tara and the boys were in Canada.
"I never wanted this." Jax threw down his wrench and stripped his shirt off, the lightweight cotton too hot and heavy on his back. "I wanted the life but not YOUR life." He paced back and forth in front of JT's bike, sure that if he squinted hard enough he would see his father's outline on the back. "You were a lousy Pres, a crappy father and a shitty husband. You got so wrapped up in your own SHIT that you couldn't see what was right in front of you. You couldn't see Clay lining up to take his shot in your clubhouse and in your bed."
Jax didn't know where the crowbar came from but suddenly it was in his hands and it felt good. It felt right and all he could think about was getting rid of the past. He was sick of dragging it around. It was too heavy and most of it wasn't his. Just like the bikes. Maybe he'd been looking at it all wrong. Maybe the Sons getting run out of Charming wasn't a horrible thing. Maybe it was just divine fucking intervention giving him a second chance to live his life outside of the club. He could have gotten out cleanly but instead he chose to drag his old man's shit along with him.
The first swing smashed in the front lights. "Never again, JT. I'm done carrying your shit for you." The clawed end of the crowbar left dents all over the bike and tore off the paint but it wasn't enough. He needed to obliterate it if he was going to get out from under the weight of it all so Jax picked up an aluminum baseball bat that was tucked in the corner of the garage for one of Krissy's impromptu baseball games and one swing knocked the headlight right off. "Never again you sonofabitch! Do you hear me?" Jax's arms and back rippled with all his strength as he bashed the bike over and over again until it started to look just like it had the day his dad had been hit by a truck and dragged across the highway. Even when it was down to just the engine Jax kept swinging. He'd never be free so long as he kept holding on and more than anything Jax wanted to be free.
He was in such a fury that some of his swings went wild and smashed into his own bike or the truck but by then he didn't care what he hit. He was covered in sweat, eyes glowing red and his whole body shaking with adrenaline and one swing spun him all the way around when he heard footsteps come up behind him. He brought the bat up short when he saw who it was. "Jill..." It was as though someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over him as soon as he saw her wide eyes. "...what are you doing here?" He shifted his body in a vain attempt to keep her from seeing the damage he'd done like a naughty child hiding a broken vase because obviously the broken bikes and scattered parts scattered around behind him didn't give anything away.