Chapter Text
Focused on the stretch of road ahead of himself, the late afternoon sun hanging high overhead heated Jax through the layers of his clothing. He could feel a couple beads of sweat slowly running down his back beneath both his kutte and t-shirt as he rode back towards Charming. Not even the wind whipping past his face, blowing the bit of hair peeking out from beneath his helmet, managed to cool him in the early California summer.
He was riding solo this afternoon, making his way back from a meeting with Alvarez out in Oakland that'd been interrupted because Opie’s son had gotten sick on one of his last days of school before summer break. Lyla had called during the middle of their sit-down and practically begged Opie to pick Kenny up since she was busy filming something for Redwoody that apparently couldn't be interrupted. Which had Jax wondering just what the hell she was working on over there that required so much attention.
But it meant that Jax was now riding back to the Sons’ territory without backup while on high alert. Even if there wasn’t currently a war or tension amongst any other groups with the Sons, that didn’t mean he’d be dumb enough to let his guard down while riding solo. Fortunately, the entire ride had been uneventful by the time he’d finally reached Charming. There'd been nothing but the usual sights of California to take in as he drove along the winding stretches of road. Though, he'd still constantly checked his mirrors behind himself to make sure he wasn't being tailed, and he'd scanned his surroundings for anything out of the ordinary for the duration of the ride.
Which was exactly how he caught sight of the odd object coming up on his right and laying just a few feet away from the shoulder of the road amongst the dirt. It was a large, dark shape somewhat hidden by the tall bushes around it, but Jax had been paying close enough attention to spot the otherwise hidden figure. He was probably about a mile from Charming’s welcome sign now, and he knew that whatever was lying there definitely hadn't been there a few hours ago when he and Opie had left for Oakland. One of them would've noticed it on their way out of town.
With a furrowed brow and a sinking feeling in his stomach, Jax lowered his Harley's speed to a crawl as he approached. Whatever it was looked far too big to be ordinary road kill shoved off to the side of the road. His eyes narrowed at the dark shape as he pulled his bike over to the shoulder, not a single other vehicle in sight as he examined what was lying beside the bushes.
It was a body.
He tossed the kickstand down before killing the engine of his bike, Jax’s eyes never once leaving the body lying completely still on the side of the road. It belonged to a woman who seemed dressed for colder temperatures rather than for the heat of today. Judging by the lack of movement, he had a distinct feeling that she wasn't alive anymore. He grit his teeth while his fingers deftly unbuckled the strap of his helmet beneath his chin, his jaw tense.
This had to have been an attack on the Sons. The likelihood that there was a murderer in Charming just dumping women's bodies on the outskirts of the town in the middle of the day like this seemed improbable. Just like it seemed improbable that whoever this girl was had just dropped dead on an unlikely walk outside of town, laying down to die beside a handful of bushes along the side of the road.
But who the fuck would be starting shit with the Sons right now?
The question lingered in his mind as he hung his helmet along the handlebars of his bike. He slowly made his way over to the woman lying on the ground, his Nike's crunching dirt and gravel beneath the soles of his shoes with each step. Kneeling down carefully when he finally reached her, it was hard not to immediately notice that she was attractive, but the thought quickly left his mind just as fast as it had come–he wasn't like Tig. Dead bodies weren't his thing.
Reaching a hand out, Jax gently placed two fingers along her neck in search of a pulse. Holding his breath, he practically willed himself to feel some sort of steady, barely there heartbeat beneath her skin. But despite how her body wasn't entirely cold–maybe from the California sun–he didn't feel anything. Not even the faintest, uneven little thump beneath his fingertips.
Settling back to sit on his heels, he stared down at the dead body in front of himself. What was he supposed to do here? Leaving her corpse to rot in the summer heat until police found her seemed all kinds of wrong even to him, because whoever she was at least deserved to have her family informed of her…situation. Which also ruled out Jax calling a prospect to go and bury her somewhere in the nearby woods where they'd often buried others before. But if he called in a dead body to Roosevelt, he knew he'd be the prime suspect in this woman's obvious murder. Which he did not need to deal with.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
Running a hand through his hair, combing the blonde strands back down with his fingers, he tried to consider all of his options. But the only thing that felt like the right course of action for whoever this girl was, was to call it in. To let the authorities deal with her and inform her family, and then he and the guys could figure out who'd killed her and why when the police inevitably pointed fingers at Jax.
But as he sat there studying her face, he couldn’t shake the fact that she didn't look the least bit familiar. Not even in the I've-passed-you-at-the-grocery-store-a-few-times sort of way that was normal in Charming. She must have been from out of town, especially considering her clothing, but that just made the entire situation even stranger. Who were you?
With a sigh, Jax rose back up to his feet, a grim expression on his face. Pulling open his kutte, his hand reached into the pocket inside of it before he pulled out his cell phone. With his eyes still on the woman, a frown tugged at his lips.
“Sorry, darlin’,” he murmured apologetically to the body.
As he began dialing the number for Charming’s police station instead of the emergency line, not needing an entire slew of emergency responders for someone who clearly was not benefiting from CPR, the sound of a crow cawing nearby caught his attention. Jax paused halfway through typing the number, glancing up at the large, black bird. It had perched on a tree a few feet away, its black eyes seemingly focused on him and the woman’s body. He stared at the bird, temporarily forgetting what he was doing when it cawed again, tilting its head to the side. The crow's stare felt unsettling, a reminder of the death present nearby.
Shaking his head a few seconds later, Jax focused back down on his phone before he finished punching in the last few digits of the phone number. But when he held the phone up to his ear, listening as it began to ring, another sharp caw cut through the afternoon. Jax’s gaze drifted across the street to where the noise had come from only to see three more crows sitting ominously on different branches of the same tree. All of them were fixated on him across the street, staring in a way that felt uncomfortable for just birds.
Jax’s brows pinched together in confusion as the phone against his ear rang again. He glanced back over at the crow sitting in the tree just a few feet away from him, locking eyes with it. His own blue ones hardened into a glare at the bird, knowing full well why they were after the woman lying not too far from his feet. Their idea of dinner. But whoever she was, she certainly deserved better than that.
“Charming Police Station, this is Officer Davis,” a bored tone greeted over the line and drew Jax’s attention back to his situation instead of the damn birds. “Is there somewhere I can direct your call?”
“I need to speak with Roosevelt,” Jax said into the phone, his attention returning back to the body. “It’s important.”
“Can I ask what this is regarding? Sheriff Roosevelt is in the middle of something,” Officer Davis replied.
Jax rolled his eyes in irritation at the cop. He knew exactly who Davis was–one of the lazy officers on Charming’s payroll that spent most of his time parking his squad in the gas station parking lot and eating fast food while listening to audiobooks. Which, generally, made things easier for the Sons when he wasn’t on desk duty because he was useless, but right now he was just getting on Jax’s nerves.
“Just put me through to him, okay?” he snapped. “Tell him it’s Jax Teller and that I–”
But Jax stopped mid-sentence, his mouth still half-forming the words he’d been about to say as he stared down at the woman. Because he swore he just saw your fucking hand move.
Except that wasn't possible. He'd checked your pulse, really trying to actually find one. You hadn't even been breathing, there’d been no steady rise and fall of your chest. It was either the afternoon heat or a trick of his mind because there was no way you'd moved.
“Right, Teller,” Davis said flatly, ignoring the way Jax had broken off. “And you're calling because you think Sheriff Roosevelt is going to do what? Help the Sons with something?”
Jax’s jaw tightened in further irritation at the chuckle that followed, forgetting the brief flicker of movement he'd thought he'd seen. “I'd remember who you're talking to,” he growled low over the line. “Officer.”
A brief pause met Jax’s unspoken threat, the crows around him once more starting with their unsettling cawing back and forth to each other. But just as he'd been about to finish his call with Davis and leave his message for Roosevelt, he heard the faintest noise breaking through the occasional unnerving sound of the crows around him–a pained groan.
By the time Davis recovered from Jax’s intimidation, trying and failing to sound intimidating over the line himself, Jax had completely tuned him out. Because there you were wincing in pain, your features twisting and tightening in a sight that made Jax’s blood run cold. He'd seen many fucking things in his life, especially since becoming president of the Sons, but he’d never once seen someone quite literally return from the dead. Because you had most definitely felt and looked dead a minute ago. But now you were attempting to roll onto your side as a hissed noise of pain slipped out between gritted teeth just a few feet away from him.
“Nevermind,” he barely managed into the phone.
He ended the call, his hand holding his phone slowly dropping to his side as he watched you gradually prop yourself up onto an arm. The crows that had been eyeing you suddenly flew from both trees in a burst of noise and a flutter of wings as they scattered away from the scene.
You were very much alive now. Some-fucking-how.
When his brain managed to comprehend that you weren't a corpse–he must've somehow missed your pulse, it was the only logical explanation–he slid his phone back into the inside pocket of his kutte. Closing the distance between you both, Jax moved slowly towards you.
“Easy, darlin’,” he soothed, kneeling down beside you as you shakily raised yourself onto your hands and knees. “You were just…really outta it for a minute there.”
Jax caught the way you'd tensed at the sound of his voice. Considering you'd probably just gone through something horrific if someone had just tried to murder you and hadn't fully succeeded, it made sense that you'd be uneasy. So he did his best to sound and look as non-threatening as someone like him possibly could.
“Relax, you're alright,” he assured you softly, raising his hands in front of himself in a gesture that showed he meant no harm. Though you were on all fours still staring at the dirt ground instead of looking at him. “I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? Just wanna make sure you're alright. I just wanna help.”
You were breathing a little heavily, your eyebrows drawn tight together on your forehead as if you were deep in thought, a small crease forming between them. Did you have a concussion? Maybe he needed to get you to a hospital.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he tried again, keeping his voice low and soothing. “Can you tell me your name? Or how you got here? Do you remember anything?”
At his onslaught of questions, he saw your head steadily raise up as you continued to hold yourself up on your trembling hands and knees, finally looking at him. His eyes darted around your face, noticing some dried blood amongst the dirt smeared on your skin that he hadn't seen when he'd initially examined you. But now that you weren't lying on the ground lifeless, he couldn't help but take in your features. You were attractive in a way that set you apart from the girls that usually hung around SAMCRO. Something about you just seemed completely different–softer and more vulnerable. But maybe that was due to the situation you were in.
Though as he'd been quietly examining you, you'd startled him while simultaneously silencing his brain when you'd abruptly and unexpectedly unleashed a shriek that he didn't know your lungs were currently capable of producing. Stumbling backwards, you awkwardly caught yourself with your hands as you stared at Jax with wide, horrified eyes. For a few seconds, all he could do in return was stare right back, his mouth partially agape in shock.
That wasn't how people generally reacted to him.
“Whoa, hey,” he said, still trying to sound soothing. “I promise I'm not gonna hurt you, I just wanna help, sweetheart. That's all.”
Jax wanted to make sense of that terrified look etched on your features. It wasn't just fear in your eyes, but something like a mix between confusion and disbelief. Like you'd just looked up to find a ghost instead of him sitting there. So he kept his hands up, palms facing towards you as he kneeled in the dirt a few feet away. He tried to put a friendly smile onto his face in an attempt to appear less intimidating, but judging by the way you'd inched back from him again, his smile had the wrong effect.
“Look, darlin’,” Jax began, speaking slowly in case you did have some sort of concussion. “I was just driving by and found you on the side of the road. I stopped because I saw some woman lying in the bushes looking very much not alive.”
He paused, his eyes examining you even closer while he wondered how the hell you'd had no pulse a few minutes ago, yet here you were clearly breathing. And screaming.
“Can I take you somewhere?” he offered. “A hospital? A police station?”
Instead of answering any of Jax’s questions, you managed to confuse him further. Raising a hand slowly out in front of yourself, you pointed an index finger firmly at his chest. That strange look remained on your face as your words came out so quiet he’d almost barely caught them.
“You're not real.”
It was the first thing you'd said, your voice sounding scratchy and hoarse. He figured you were severely dehydrated from lying out in the heat in too many layers for who knew how long, but then your words quickly registered. He wasn't real? Were you concussed? Or high on something right now?
“Darlin’, I'm very much real, alright?” he assured you.
His eyes narrowed, trying to get a better look at yours, but Jax wasn't a doctor. You seemed lucid and your pupils weren't blown wide in any telltale sign of drug use, but that didn't necessarily mean much. You weren't making much sense, and you definitely looked incredibly confused as you sat in the dirt still keeping distance between you both.
“No,” you said with a shake of your head, finger still pointing accusatorily at him. “You're not real. You're fictional. You are a fictional man.”
Jax’s face tightened at that, his own brows drawing together as his mouth pulled into a deep frown. Yeah, that was absolutely the weirdest fucking thing a woman had ever said to him before.
“I think you hit your head, darlin’,” he replied, reaching into his kutte for his phone again. He should just call you an ambulance, you clearly needed a trip to the hospital. “You're not making any–”
“You're Jax Teller,” you blurted.
The words caused him to hesitate, his phone still held in his hand. Eyes gradually drifting up from the device to land back on you, his head cocked to the side in confusion and shock. He supposed being the Sons’ president made him known to a lot of people, but who the hell were you? How would you know that?
“You're the–” you paused as your gaze dipped down to read the patches on his kutte before your eyes returned to his, “–president of the Sons in Charming. Your father was John Teller, the man who created the whole club. Then he died when you were fifteen and your mom, Gemma, married Clay. You were basically groomed to run the club since birth.” A humorless laugh that sounded almost hysterical briefly burst out of you before you pointed a finger at him again. “But you’re not supposed to be real.”
Jax continued sitting there on his heels beside the road, his lips slightly parted as you'd spit out a handful of personal details about his life. He blinked back at you, his head tilting even further to the side.
“Who the fuck are you?” he finally asked.
Another humorless noise that wasn't quite a laugh passed between your lips. Your eyes darted around as you ignored his question, apparently finally beginning to notice your surroundings. He watched as you pushed yourself up slowly from the ground, standing on trembling legs. He followed after you, his eyes narrowed in distrust now. If you hadn't just spewed personal facts about him, he'd have told you to take it easy and sit back down, but now he was feeling wary of you. Something was clearly going on here, and he wasn’t entirely sure what.
“Where am I?” you asked, still scanning the empty stretch of road around you. “Where's all the snow?”
Jax pulled a face at your question. Snow? In Northern California in the beginning of June? Why the fuck would you expect snow? But he supposed that might've explained why you were dressed in jeans and a sweater–which you had to have been sweating in.
“Snow?” he questioned back. “Sweetheart, it’s June. In California. The fuck is goin’ on here? Are you okay? And how do you know who I am?”
Your attention flickered back to Jax briefly before you returned to scanning the landscape around you. You'd looked at him and then away so quickly, like you'd easily just written him off already. It made him bristle in frustration that he tried to tamp down. You were probably injured or on drugs, you were clearly out of your fucking head. Losing his temper on you wasn’t the course of action right now.
“I know you because you're a fictional character from a television show,” you distractedly answered. “You're not real. Like I said.”
And there it was again. It felt like someone had bashed him over the head when you said it once more so matter-of-factly. Jax’s expression contorted into irritation before he grit his teeth and tried to keep control of himself. Why did you keep calling him fictional? He was absolutely not fictional.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he snapped, struggling to maintain his patience. “You're speaking crazy shit right now, you know that?”
Attention finally leaving the road, you focused back on him. It was clear you were thinking something over as you stared at him silently, that crease forming between your brows once more.
“I must be in a really vivid dream,” you mused to yourself. “That's got to be what’s going on.”
Jax’s head cocked sharply to the side as he listened to you. Taking a few steps towards him, he watched as you finally closed the gap between you both. That’s when he noticed a gash across your forehead about five or six inches long smeared with blood. It looked like an injury recently healed over, though. As if you'd sustained it weeks ago instead of recently.
“This is all in my head,” you said, appearing to be speaking more to yourself than to Jax. “Because you’re–”
You reached a hand out and placed it flat against his chest right before you’d instantly stopped speaking. Eyes growing wide, your hand lingered against him over the bit of his shirt peeking out in the space between the opening of his kutte. He could feel the warmth of your palm through the fabric as it rested against him, but you looked completely shocked to be touching him. Just as shocked as Jax was that you’d even had the audacity to reach out and touch the Sons’ president in the first place.
Your hand lifted off of his chest only to come down three more times in the same spot, as if you were gently patting him. Jax’s eyebrows rose up onto his forehead as he stared back at you, wondering what in the fuck you were doing. He didn’t say anything though, just stood there waiting for you to make sense of this entire weird fucking situation.
“You’re…very solid,” you breathed out, sounding almost in awe.
Jax blinked back at you a few times, one of his brows arching higher than the other one. Were you talking about his chest, or him in general? He recalled how you’d looked at him when you’d first seen him, as if you didn’t think he was really there.
“Yeah,” he answered dryly. “I work out.”
Wide eyes leaving the sight of your hand on his chest, they flew up to meet his gaze at the same time your hand abruptly dropped back to your side. You took a couple of steps backwards looking completely embarrassed, your mouth falling open and closed a few times before you managed to get anything out.
“No, that’s not–” you began before pausing and shaking your head. “I just–” Your tongue slipped out to wet your chapped lips as you struggled to piece your thoughts together. “You feel far too real to be in my head. Dreams don’t…feel so solid.”
“Because you’re not dreamin’,” he stated flatly. “I told you that.”
Staring back at him, your confusion only seemed to increase. And that little crease between your furrowed brows returned as you looked down at your dirt covered hands in front of you.
“I don’t understand,” you murmured, still staring down at your hands. “I was in Michigan. It was January. There was snow everywhere.”
“It’s June,” Jax reminded you, feeling just as perplexed as you looked. “And you’re just outside of Charming, California, darlin’. This ain’t Michigan.”
Your eyes darted up from your hands as you held his stare, shaking your head slightly. “Charming isn’t real,” you told him earnestly. “It’s a made-up town in a television show. It doesn’t exist.”
A frustrated scoff fell out of Jax as he took a step backwards, turning away from you and facing the road. One of his hands ran through his blonde hair in agitation. He was getting really sick of hearing you say everything that was real wasn’t real. This was the most infuriating conversation he’d ever had, and he still wanted to know how the fuck you knew about him.
After a few moments of pinching the bridge of his nose and struggling to contain the urge to shout at you, he finally looked over his shoulder. You were standing there staring at him with that fear in your eyes again, like you were afraid of him. He didn’t like it. It made him feel like you thought he was going to hurt you, but he wasn’t going to do anything to you. He just wanted answers.
“How do you know all that shit about me?” he asked gruffly.
“Because I watched it,” you answered slowly, almost hesitantly. “In a television show. Sons of Anarchy. It…had seven seasons a few years ago.”
Pressing his lips firmly together, he didn’t really know what the fuck to say to that. A show? About his club? That was insanity. But you stood there saying it with so much conviction that he was struggling not to question your belief that it was real.
“It’s mostly about you,” you continued, the words sort of falling out of you like you couldn’t hold them back. “Struggling to get the club out of guns and to make it what your father wanted it to be. Something less bloody that wasn’t so tied up with the IRA, and–”
Jax’s eyes grew wide before he sharply turned around, taking a few brisk steps towards you and effectively silencing you. “What the fuck did you just say?” he snapped. “What do you know about the IRA? Are you a fuckin’ fed? Is this some bullshit new tactic the government thinks is gonna work on me?”
Jax’s hands were on you instantly, patting you down as he felt for weapons or a wire. You’d gone completely rigid from the moment he put his hands on you, protesting weakly until he’d shot you a glare that had you falling quiet again. But in his search, he came up with nothing except an incredibly expensive looking phone in your back pocket, a model that he hadn’t seen before.
“I’m not a fed, okay!” you assured him when he’d finally stepped back from you. “I have no idea what’s going on just as much as you, alright? I just write books in the safety of my little house in Michigan, that’s all! I swear!”
“I’m not buyin’ it,” he shot back.
“Okay, okay,” you said, raising your hands in a placating gesture like he’d done earlier. You could feel nerves mixing in your gut, that hardened look on his face making him even more intimidating. “Feds wouldn’t know incredibly personal information about you, right? Like about the heart condition that’s genetic on your mom’s side? The one Gemma calls the ‘family flaw’? The one that killed your brother when he was little? It’s what killed her mom, too. You were born with it, your son was born with it–”
“I don’t have a son,” he cut in sharply.
You paused at that bit of information, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as your head tilted to the side. But then you shook your head briefly and carried on. “Okay, well, in the show you did. You married Wendy before you married Tara, who you’ve apparently been in love with since you were both sixteen despite the fact that you two have terrible communication. And it doesn’t make sense that you’d still love someone that deeply eleven years later when you'd only known each other for a couple of years, and she never even accepted who you were as a person in the first place.”
Jax’s jaw tensed at the mention of Tara. How did you even know about her? Or how he felt? He hadn’t even talked to Opie about her in years, and here you were mentioning her so casually, as if she wasn’t an old wound that you were tearing wide open on the side of the road. But then your words had caught up to him after the initial shock of hearing her name. Marriage? He’d never married anyone, he hadn't wanted to after Tara left.
“I’ve never married, sweetheart,” he bitterly replied. “You got your facts wrong.”
But it was still unnerving how much you knew about the genetic heart defect on Gemma’s side of the family and the damage it had caused. And about the Irish connection with the Sons, something no one outside of the club and his own mother knew about besides the speculation from federal agents and the gangs and other clubs they worked with. It was also incredibly odd that you knew about his feelings for Tara, too. She’d been gone well over a decade from Charming, erased from practically everyone's mind here but his.
Some of what you’d just dropped on him wasn’t necessarily public information, either. It was information that you shouldn’t have had, which only made him more curious as to how you’d gotten it. But as he stood there staring at you through narrowed, distrustful eyes, he’d also remembered how he’d just found you. You’d appeared very much dead before seemingly reanimating on the side of the road and freaking out at the sight of him. There was absolutely something strange going on here, something he didn’t understand. He didn’t want to believe your theory–that his life was a television show you’d watched–because that was utter insane bullshit. But he didn’t really have any other working theories at the moment.
He did know one thing–you knew too fucking much already. Probably even more than what you'd just told him. Dangerous information. Things that you should not know. And he couldn’t just have you wandering off somewhere with all of that information and doing who knew what with it, not while he tried to figure out what the hell was going on.
“You got anywhere to go, Michigan?” he asked carefully.
A frown pulled at your lips before you ran a dirty hand across your dirt and blood-smeared forehead. Your eyes darted around at your surroundings before you focused back on him, shaking your head slowly.
“No…” you answered hesitantly. “If this isn’t Michigan, and somehow Charming is real and you’re real, then I’m…very much confused as to where I am right now.”
His tongue ran along his bottom lip as he nodded, his brain still running through everything. If he brought you to the clubhouse, the guys would have questions. This would become an entire thing, and he didn’t know if he wanted it to become something more until he knew what the hell was really going on here. The safest and most private place to try to make sense of you would be at his house.
“You can come clean up at my place then,” he replied. “Answer more of my questions. Then I’ll figure out what to do with you.”
Jax turned and began sauntering back towards his bike parked on the side of the still quiet road as if what he’d said was a completely done deal, but when he turned to look over his shoulder at you, he realized you hadn’t moved to follow after him. Coming to a halt, Jax sighed in frustration and turned back around to face you.
“You got a problem with that?” he called over to you, struggling to keep his irritation to a minimum.
Crossing your arms over your chest, you remained rooted to where you were, but your eyes didn't quite meet his. “When you say…‘figure out what to do with me’,” you began, the nervous edge clear in your tone, “does that mean you’re going to…?”
Jax frowned at the unspoken implication and the obvious fear on your face. Fuck, he hated when you kept looking at him like you thought he was going to kill you. That’s not what he’d meant. A couple of the other Sons might suggest that if they knew the information you were carrying around in that head of yours, but not him. He had no interest in hurting you, so long as you really weren't some sort of threat to him or his club.
“I’m not gonna do anything to you, okay?” he promised. “Swear on my goddamn life. You're completely safe with me. But you look thirsty, I can’t tell if you’re injured, you got nowhere else to go, and it ain’t every damn day that some girl on the side of the road claims I’m from a fuckin’ TV show. You can’t tell me you’re not a little fuckin’ curious to figure out what the hell’s goin’ on, too, can you?”
There was a long pause at his words before you slowly shook your head, agreeing with him about how odd this all was. Relief flooded Jax at the sight. Good. He'd get you to his house and try to make sense of all of this–if that was even possible. He'd just have to watch what he said to you in case this really was some weird ass new ATF tactic.
Jax gestured his head at his bike and told you to follow him before he turned around and started walking back to it again. He rummaged around in the saddlebag for his spare helmet, pulling it out and intending to hand it to you, but he grit his teeth when he looked up and saw that you still hadn't moved.
“What's the goddamn hold up, sweetheart?” he called out. “I ain't lying when I say I'm not gonna hurt you.”
He watched as you nervously bit your lip before uncrossing one arm and pointing a finger at his Harley. Jax looked over at his bike, checking for a flat or something wrong with it as his brows knitted together, but he couldn't see anything. When he looked back over at you, he raised a blonde brow in a mix of confusion and annoyance.
“What?” he asked.
“I've never ridden on a bike,” you awkwardly called back. “They make me nervous.”
Jax inhaled a sharp breath, fighting the urge to roll his eyes as he muttered a “Jesus Christ” under his breath. Because why wouldn't the mysterious possible zombie or federal agent be afraid of his fucking Harley, too? He'd never had a girl afraid to get on the back of his bike before–at least, not genuinely. A few had faked some fear to seem cute or whatever and give themselves a reason to cling to him, but you looked genuinely afraid of it.
“I'll drive slow,” he assured you, holding out the helmet towards you. “It ain't that far of a drive back to my place anyway. Or would you rather walk in the fuckin’ heat while I ride beside you the whole goddamn way?”
He rested a hand on the handlebars of his bike as he shot you an impatient look, the extra helmet held out towards you still. Jax watched you glance around, almost as if you actually were contemplating walking instead and he nearly rolled his eyes that time. But then he saw your shoulders drop in defeat before your lips moved, forming words he couldn't quite hear as you began making your way over towards him.
“I still think this is a dream,” you grumbled, accepting the helmet and reluctantly putting it on. “Or I'm in a coma.”
“Well,” he said tersely, grabbing his own helmet still hanging from his handlebars and putting it on, “I am unfortunately very awake and aware of the fact that I’m giving a mentally ill woman a ride back to my house.”
“I'm starting to question my own sanity,” you muttered, buckling the chin strap of your helmet. “Riding on the back of Jax Teller's bike?”
Jax caught both the curious tone you'd spoken in and the little snort of disbelief afterwards, as if that somehow meant something other than the obvious.
Seriously, who the fuck were you?
Chapter Text
It felt surreal sitting in a kitchen that you knew so intimately only from having seen it multiple times on the screen of your television. You recognized the outdated red plaid valance hanging over the window beside the kitchen table, the blinds beneath it twisted open to let the afternoon light fill the room. The honey oak cabinets surrounding you looked exactly as you remembered them from every single episode that featured a scene in Jax’s kitchen.
But you'd noticed the growth chart that usually hung on the kitchen wall near the table, the one that had been used for marking Abel’s height as he'd grown over the years, wasn't there. There were no kids’ drawings proudly displayed on the stainless steel fridge, and even Jax’s living room, from what you'd briefly seen of it, lacked children's toys and playpens like you always remembered there being in the show.
His house was eerily quiet. It was one of the first things you’d noticed when he’d led you inside and down the hall to his bathroom–though you already knew the entire floor plan of his house. Every room you’d secretly glimpsed when you passed it was glaringly devoid of Tara, Abel, and Thomas’ presence, which puzzled you immensely. But when Jax had found you by the side of the road a bit ago, he had told you that he’d never been married and didn't have kids. You still had no idea how that was even possible, though.
From what you'd seen in the hour that you’d been here, his house looked almost exactly the same as the one in your memory from the show–the early seasons before Tara had redecorated while Jax was in Stockton Prison. But this wasn't some television set put together–this was a real home. You could tell by the way the wooden chair creaked every time you awkwardly shifted your weight, and there were scratches and marks on the kitchen table beneath your nervously fidgeting hands. The cabinets were filled with dishes, which you'd seen when Jax had gotten you a glass of water after you'd finally sat down. Everything all felt real here. Even the brief touch of Jax’s hand when he'd passed you the cool glass of water earlier had sent an actual rush of heat and anxiety through you that you couldn’t write off as just being inside of your head.
With every passing second, you felt like you were holding back a dam of fear and panic that was quickly filling you to the brim. It didn't help that as you'd been answering Jax’s interrogation of endless questions after you'd washed your face up in the bathroom–where the shower had reminded you of all those scenes he'd been in there naked–your eyes kept traveling towards the floor by the kitchen sink. The off-white vinyl tile looked familiar, but it was the image of Tara lying there dead after what his mother had done that kept resurfacing in your mind. And that only served as a reminder about just how dangerous Jax’s world actually was, and how dangerous he actually was.
Because through your panic and ever increasing horror, you'd come to start thinking that maybe you weren't in a coma or just dreaming all of this up. This all felt far too real for that. Jax had been warm and solid as you'd ridden pillion on his bike back to his house after he'd found you, the wind very real as it whipped past your face at the slow crawl he'd driven at. You’d felt the tension of muscles in his abdomen where your hands had timidly held onto him whenever he eased the motorcycle around a turn, and you’d felt the following involuntary heat that flooded you in response each time. Even seated in his kitchen now, with the smell of coffee lingering in the air and mixing with the scent of cigarette smoke rolling off of him, you knew it wasn't something conjured by your imagination. The same held true for how real it'd felt to wash your dirty and strangely blood-smeared face in his bathroom with warm water from the tap.
None of this was in your head. And it certainly wasn't some drug-induced hallucination like Jax had asked you more times than you could count. But after you'd sat here and told him a handful of incredibly personal information about himself, his mother, the other Sons, and the club itself, he'd begun to realize it wasn't that, either. You were clearly in your right mind–for the most part–but carrying more knowledge than you should have had. More than made logical sense to Jax judging by that wary look of distrust which hadn't exactly left his eyes the more you'd told him what you knew.
“So…you’re tellin’ me that’s really how you know all this?” Jax asked skeptically, his stare holding yours. “‘Cause you watched everything in a TV show?”
His voice broke through the awkward silence that had hung in the air when his ceaseless round of questions had seemingly finally drawn to a close. Despite the glass of water you’d recently chugged down, your mouth still felt dry. That nervous energy vibrating beneath your skin had panic beginning to tighten around your chest the longer the not-so-fictional violent man sitting across the kitchen table stared back at you.
“That’s–that’s where I know you from,” you weakly agreed with a nod. “That’s how I know…all of what I told you, yes.”
Since you had watched Sons of Anarchy an embarrassing amount of times over the years, you happened to know quite a bit of details by heart about the characters and plot points. You might’ve also dabbled in writing fanfiction for Jax outside of your actual paying career as a romance novelist, but you really didn’t think telling him about the smut and slow burns you’d written about him were remotely pertinent information to share with Real Jax. If that’s who he was–the real Jax Teller in the flesh, unlike the fictional character played by a really hot actor back wherever you’d been before waking up here.
He sat across the table from you with his forearms pressing into the surface as he observed you. His piercing blue eyes darted around your face, studying you so closely that you could feel the tick of your pulse in your throat. His gaze was unnerving, especially because you still had no idea what he was going to do with you. He'd made it painfully clear that he didn't like how much you knew about the Sons.
That only added to your growing panic. If you were somehow really here–really alive in his world–that meant he could kill you. And if he was anything like the later season Fake Jax from the television show that he looked very much like, then that outcome seemed entirely plausible. You were a threat, weren’t you? Some woman who had far too much information, a woman that seemed like she was crazy and might go spew it to the wrong people–including the authorities.
As if sensing your increasing fear from the way he was leaning towards you, Jax slowly settled back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to give you some space. But while he was no longer leering at you quite as intensely, his broad and muscular figure was still an imposing, terrifying thing that had your heart slamming into your ribcage.
“What's the last thing you remember?” he questioned next, his head tipping to the side. “Cause if you're somehow not from here–” he paused, making a face as if he thought the television show explanation was absurd, which you didn't blame him for, “–then maybe that’ll explain how the fuck you are here.”
Right. That made logical sense. Logical sense that you'd been too panicked and preoccupied to think of yourself due to the man who wasn't supposed to be real constantly pushing you for answers to his questions.
“Last thing I remember?” you repeated hesitantly, fingers still nervously twisting around themselves on the tabletop. “That would be…”
Taking a deep breath, your eyes drifted away from Jax and focused on the coffee machine just past his shoulder that sat on the counter beside the fridge. The last thing you remembered was…
Your eyes narrowed as you squinted at the coffee maker as if it was somehow at fault because your last memory was not immediately coming back to you. With a frown, you shook your head and then closed your eyes, trying a little harder to focus on the last thing that had happened before you’d been on all fours in the dirt staring at a man who you absolutely never expected to see in person. Gradually, after much effort, the beginning of a memory slowly took shape in your mind.
It was dark outside. Late. After midnight, maybe? You'd been in your car driving home–possibly from a girl's night-in with your friends? You remembered glasses of wine and laughter, but you’d been sober by the time you’d left. It had been cold outside–mid-January after a recent snowstorm, that much resurfaced clearly. And that explained why you'd woken in California currently dressed in your favorite sweater that now smelled faintly like sweat thanks to the heat.
“I was driving home,” you answered Jax quietly, remembering he was still sitting there expecting an answer. “From my friends’ place.”
Your eyes remained closed as you struggled to drag forth the last remnants of the memory you’d had before ending up here, clawing at the pieces of it as you brought it to the forefront of your mind, trying to shove it together like a mangled puzzle. But it was difficult. It felt like trying to catch water with your open hands, the images faint and trickling right past you as you tried to make sense of them all. Brows knitting further together, you squeezed your eyes tighter shut as you tried even harder, the effort making your head ache.
“It was late,” you continued softly, your voice a little tight. “The roads were icy because it was winter.”
Jax didn’t interrupt you when you fell silent again, your eyes still closed in concentration. You figured the strain of trying to recall your last memories must’ve been written on your face and keeping him quiet.
Continuing to focus, you remembered the way your tired eyes fought to remain open as you drove, your car swerving a few times over icy patches on the road. Your favorite playlist played at a high volume over the car’s speakers in an attempt to keep you awake and alert, but then…
That's where things became very fuzzy in your mind. Like a wall of white static halting you in place, a warning to not keep pushing further. But you pushed anyway, trying to shove your way past it to what was buried behind the static. You wanted to make sense of what had led you to be sitting in Real Jax Teller's kitchen.
That tightness in your chest abruptly doubled out of nowhere to an agonizing degree, as if something had crushed your lungs before smashing into your head with a brute force so sharp that it caused you to audibly gasp. You recalled two blinding bright lights in the dark and the loud crunch of metal before you felt pain shoot through your entire body in abundance at the memory, your teeth gritting together as your face screwed up in agony.
“What?”
Eyes flying wide open at the sound of Jax’s voice, you felt like you were struggling for air as you tried to orient yourself back in his kitchen. Because now you knew what had happened in those last few moments you’d had before waking up to Jax’s face on the side of the road and it was awful. You wished you could forget the feeling of it forever.
Hands sliding down to grip the edge of his kitchen table, you clung to it like you were trying to ground yourself in this moment instead of that one. On the opposite side of the table, Jax’s arms uncrossed themselves from over his chest before they lowered back to his sides at your abrupt and surprising shift, the obvious fear and pain written on your face. Concern flitted across his own features as he leaned slightly forward in his chair towards you again.
“What?” he asked carefully. “What'd you remember?”
Mouth opening and closing a few times, you could feel the rising panic inside of yourself reaching a level you’d never experienced before. Breathing heavily, your nails dug into the solid wood table as you struggled to form the words to answer him, still shocked yourself as if you’d just experienced the entire situation all over again.
“Car accident,” you gasped out.
Jax’s head tilted further to the side, his brows pinching curiously together at those two words. But you couldn’t really focus on his reaction to what you'd said. Each inhale you took burned as it reached your lungs, and those suddenly felt far too small and incapable of holding an entire breath. Your pulse had jolted to an alarming rate that felt abnormal, sweat pricking at your palms and your forehead as your vision tinged white at the corners.
You had died. That's what had happened to you before you'd randomly awoken here in this not-real reality. An oncoming car had slid on a patch of ice and veered straight into you, slamming right into your car before causing yours to fly off of the road in a deadly roll before it smashed into a tree. The feeling you’d just recalled had been an echo of what it was like being tossed around in the driver’s seat of your car like a ragdoll. Which now explained the blood and strange cuts on your face when you’d washed it in Jax’s bathroom, even if it didn’t quite explain how you were here or why they looked mostly healed.
“I died,” you choked out.
Eyes focused just somewhere past Jax, you didn’t quite catch his reaction to that hard-to-believe revelation. Because after realizing that you’d died, you’d begun to slowly realize a handful of other awful, terrifying things in rapid succession. Things that had you feeling like you were having a fucking heart attack in a kitchen that wasn’t meant to exist while sitting across from a man who’d actually killed people.
You’d died in your world and somehow ended up in some other place that shouldn’t be, some other place that wasn't quite the same as the show you'd watched. But yet, here you were. And if Charming, California existed on a map–if Jackson Teller and the Sons were real people with real lives–then you had no idea where the hell you were.
This wasn’t your reality. Because Charming, California did not exist beyond the television show in your world. Jax Teller was portrayed by an actor. Which also meant that the likelihood of you existing in this world was slimmer than slim. Meaning your family probably didn't exist here. None of your friends. You’d already discovered that your cell phone couldn’t make calls when you'd tried in the bathroom–probably because access to interdimensional cell towers weren’t part of your wireless plan. But that also meant that you most likely had no published books here, no little house in Michigan that you’d proudly bought after your first book deal. It also meant that you had no money or bank accounts, and more than likely, not a single legal document that proved you were an actual human being allowed to function and work in the world here, either.
You had nothing.
That one word rang through your mind on repeat, causing your blood to run as cold as ice while Jax’s words grew muffled in your ears. Nothing. You didn’t exist here in this world. Nothing you knew was probably real in whatever this fucking reality was, and you were apparently dead in your previous one.
But why the hell hadn’t you stayed dead? Why were you here? Why had you come back? Was this what normally happened when you died?
Two warm hands gently grabbed your upper arms, the touch causing you to jump in your chair before your wide, terrified eyes flew to meet a pair of blue ones. Jax slowly turned you in the chair away from the table and further towards himself as he said your name, the sound of it cutting through the racing thoughts and your uneven, heavy breaths.
“Hey, stay with me, okay?” he urged, his hands gripping your arms a little tighter. “You need to calm down and breathe before you pass the fuck out, darlin’.”
Having a fictional man who wasn’t exactly fictional–and was honestly terrifying as shit in real life–trying to offer you comfort was not exactly helping you to calm down. It was doing the opposite, actually. So you closed your eyes again, trying to block out the sight of things that shouldn’t be real while Jax’s hands remained holding your arms in a gesture you assumed he thought was comforting. Except it wasn’t.
“Take some deep breaths,” he urged again. “You need to relax. I think you're having a panic attack.”
But you couldn’t follow his instructions. Tears bloomed at the corners of your eyes, slowly beginning to fall down your cheeks in warm droplets. Your breaths continued to come in sharp hitches, your heart beating roughly in an irregular rhythm.
What were you supposed to do now?
Comforting emotional women wasn't exactly Jax’s strongest skill. It wasn’t something he’d had a lot of experience with, and he'd certainly never faced a woman going through quite the same predicament as the incredibly strange one currently taking measured breaths while sitting on his kitchen floor looking entirely out of place.
Because if what you’d been telling him was somehow fucking true, you were as out of place as anyone could ever be.
Maybe it was because you'd experienced an actual panic attack while trying to recall your last moments alive–a panic attack that he could not even argue was fake because you’d scared the absolute shit out of him with that wheeze-sobbing thing you’d been doing for more than five minutes straight. Or maybe it was because everything you'd said made Jax begin to wonder if he really had stumbled on you lying dead beside the road when he first hadn’t felt your pulse before you’d abruptly reanimated. Whatever it was, he found himself slowly beginning to think you less and less delusional despite the strange shit you kept telling him.
It all still seemed far too improbable for him to wrap his head around what you considered the truth, but nothing about you made any fucking sense otherwise. Maybe you really were some odd girl out of time and place who'd watched a show about his life and his club. How the fuck else did you know everything you did with such extreme detail? Even if some things you'd said made no sense–like his two marriages and two sons–far more of what you’d said was accurate than not. Uncomfortably so.
But as you sat there, tear streaks glistening on your face in the light of his kitchen as you began to come down from that rush of emotions that’d thrown you into a very terrifying-to-witness panic attack, Jax knew one thing.
You needed help.
While he wasn't the most caring and soft-hearted man in the world, he also knew that he couldn't just chuck you back out onto the streets and purge you from his mind. He told himself it was solely because of what you knew about his club, because it truthfully was dangerous knowledge for you to have, but he also knew that wasn't the only reason as to why he was sitting beside you on the floor and eyeing you with an odd sense of sympathy. Something that he hadn't felt in a long goddamn time. But yet those sad, fearful eyes of yours had somehow awakened a part of himself he'd long ago thought had died.
You looked lost and scared sitting there hugging your knees to your chest on the floor, soft sniffles coming from you every so often. Nothing about you screamed federal agent after he’d spent the past hour questioning you before witnessing you fall completely apart in his kitchen. You looked vulnerable. Alone.
With a heavy sigh, Jax eventually pushed himself up from the floor, noticing how your eyes darted towards him at the movement. You were still skittish and fearful of him. He hated the way you looked at him like he was going to pull a gun out and shoot you at any second. That look kept making his stomach twist inside of himself, but he tried to brush that unwelcome feeling aside as he took a step closer to you. Lowering a hand downwards, Jax let his offer to help you to your feet hover unspoken in the air.
You sat there hugging your knees to your chest, staring at his offered hand with your glossy eyes as the tears finally stopped running down your cheeks. Jax swallowed hard as the seconds ticked by, assuming you weren’t going to accept such a simple gesture from him. But just when he’d considered pulling his hand back, one of your arms unwrapped from around your legs before your smaller hand slipped into his.
He helped pull you slowly up to your feet before nodding his head towards his living room. “Let’s go sit down,” he suggested. “Talk about what happens now.” When he saw that panicked look flit across your face again, he quickly added, “About how I can help you, darlin’. I’m guessin’ you need some help, yeah?”
With your lips pressed into a straight line, you nodded quietly. Jax released your hand and started walking from the kitchen to the living room, aware of your soft footsteps following a few paces behind. When he reached the couch, he sat down and got comfortable among the cushions, but he wasn’t surprised to see you make your way over to the smaller couch that butted up against the half-wall of the hallway. You settled into the cushions awkwardly, your eyes darting around his living room as if you were taking it all in as your hands fidgeted with the sleeves of your sweater.
“I’m guessin’ you’re gonna need a way to get back to Michigan, then?” Jax asked.
From the other couch, your eyes fell away from curiously studying the motorcycle pictures on the wall and focused on him. He saw the weak rise and fall of your shoulders as you shrugged in response, your bottom lip trembling as if you were fighting back more tears.
“I don’t know,” you answered, gaze dropping down to your fidgeting hands. “I probably don’t have a house here anymore. I’ve…got a feeling that I never existed in your world. Or if I do, I can’t exactly go and take over some other me’s life. There can’t exactly be two of me living in this world.”
Running a hand through his beard, the sharp hairs gently rasped over the pads of his fingers as he tried to let the strangeness of what you said unfurl in his mind. “So you think this is some sorta…alternate reality thing?” he asked slowly. “You died somewhere else and ended up here? That it?”
His question was met with another weak shrug from you before you leaned forward on the couch. Jax watched curiously as you pulled that strange cell phone out of the back pocket of your jeans and looked at it forlornly.
“Maybe?” you replied. “My phone doesn’t work. I can’t get cell service or internet connection. I already tried calling my family and my closest friends but I got nothing. It just…doesn't work here.”
“You can try one of my burners in a bit,” he offered. “I got one that hasn't been used yet. See if that makes a difference at all. You can call whoever you need to.”
Sad eyes lifting from your phone, Jax felt frozen beneath your stare when your eyes met his. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you chewed it in silence as the minutes passed. He figured you were probably thinking exactly what he was thinking now. And that’s when you finally gave voice to the unspoken question hanging in the air.
“What if no one answers?” you asked him softly. “What if I just don’t exist here? That would mean I don’t have a job, or a house, or any money,” you listed off, panic creeping back into your voice the more you spoke, “or family, or friends, or even a social security number, or–”
“Darlin’, hey, stop,” Jax cut in quickly, shaking his head.
If you kept that up you’d end up giving yourself another panic attack, and that wheeze-sobbing thing you’d done a bit ago was still very much ingrained in his mind. Neither of you needed to experience that again. Leaning forward, Jax rested his elbows along the tops of his thighs as he once more attempted to offer you a comforting smile, but he saw the wary and uncertain look on your face.
“You can stay here until we figure somethin’ out,” he assured you. “However long that takes. I got connections if you somehow don’t have all the legal shit you need. I’ll fix that for you. And if–” he paused, inhaling a deep breath as he tried to accept the oddity of everything that had come along with your strange appearance in his life before he continued, “–if you’re really from some alternate reality or somethin’, I’ll help you get your footing here, alright? I ain’t gonna just throw you out, darlin’. But you can’t go around telling people they’re from a TV show, or spouting off shit ‘bout my club. Got it? I can’t promise you the other Sons would be as understanding as I’ve been, especially since they weren’t the ones who found you dead before having you bust their goddamn eardrums with your screaming.”
“Sorry,” you murmured, tugging on the sleeves of your sweater. “You just…scared me when I saw you.”
“Seems like I still do,” he observed.
Jax noticed the way your eyes darted away from him, jumping from object to furniture to object in the room just to avoid him. He wished he knew why you were so uncomfortable around him, but he figured if you really had watched him on some television show about his club, maybe that meant you’d seen him doing some of the violent things he’d done in order to protect the club. He supposed he wouldn’t blame you for being afraid of him if that was the reason.
“I told you earlier, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Jax repeated, his tone growing gentler. “I meant that. You’re safe here, Michigan. Not gonna let anyone else do anything to you, either, okay?”
Nodding, your eyes made their way back to Jax. “But you can’t…possibly want me to stay here,” you awkwardly pointed out.
Jax made a face as he settled back on his couch, throwing an arm over the backrest as he got comfortable. He lifted a leg, crossing his ankle over his knee as he relaxed. On the opposite couch, you looked tense and rigid sitting there half-avoiding eye contact with him.
“What makes you say that?” he questioned.
“Because you don’t spend more than a few hours with the same girl,” you stated.
You’d said that so bluntly that Jax couldn’t stop the sharp laugh that burst out of his chest, a genuine smile spreading over his mouth. Yeah, you had a point. He’d never lived with a girl before, much less one he’d just found on the side of the road not even two hours ago. But you were a little different, and so was your situation.
“While you’ve got a point, this ain’t that,” he countered. “And while I also ain’t the nicest guy, I’m not so fuckin’ cold that I’d kick you out with nothing, Michigan. We’ll make it work.” He shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. “Not like I’m here all that often anyway. It'll be fine.”
“What happens when the other Sons hear about some girl living with you?” you asked, a nervousness seeping into your tone. “Or Gemma? Because I’m sure your mom would be on me like a shark on blood in the water.”
The smile gradually dimmed before it slipped off of Jax’s face altogether. His head fell back against the back of his couch as he expelled a long breath. You had a point. If you were staying here until you could get a job and make enough money to go take care of yourself, you’d probably be here for a few months. Long enough for the guys–and certainly his nosey ass mother–to notice. Having some girl living with him was out of the norm for Jax, something that would undoubtedly draw questions from the others.
“Then I suppose we’ll have to come up with some sorta cover story or somethin’,” Jax mused aloud. “Pretend you’re my girl or some shit while you’re here.”
He saw the way your eyebrows shot straight up onto your forehead at that. For a few very long seconds, all you did was stare at Jax with a look of disbelief on your face.
“What?” he asked.
“No one’s going to believe that,” you told him. “You don’t date.”
“Yeah, well,” he shot back with a pointed look, “you got a better excuse as to why you're stayin’ here for a few weeks, sweetheart?”
You sat there, eyes narrowed as a pensive expression settled onto your features. But after a minute, you shook your head in defeat, clearly unable to think of a better explanation yourself.
“No,” you answered.
“Great,” Jax said, already regretting how this might pan out. “Then while you’re stuck here, if anyone asks, you’re my girl. We can figure out the details of everythin’ else later. Think you’ve been through enough for a day.” He pushed himself up from the couch with a soft grunt at the effort, tired from his long day that had just gotten even longer. “I’ll go find a burner phone. Then you can make some calls while I go have a much needed fuckin’ smoke after all this weird ass shit.”
Jax maneuvered his way out of his living room and towards the hallway, aware of how you seemed to shrink away from him when he’d gotten a little too close. Ignoring how that made him feel incredibly shitty, he sauntered down the hall to his bedroom to find you a phone while trying not to think about the repercussions of you living here playing house as his fake girlfriend for who knew how long. But as he stepped over to his dresser, movement outside the window caught his attention and he paused.
A large, black crow had perched on the neighbor's fence, its eyes almost seemingly meeting Jax’s through the window. Even through the pane of glass, he heard the piercing caw that promptly flew from its beak.
Notes:
I'm already partway through writing the third chapter and I've gotten chapters four and five outlined despite being sick the past week because this entire concept is just so weird and fun to play with. Living with Real Jax (as Reader calls him)? Pretending to be his girlfriend?? That's absolutely not going to lead to any confusing feelings down the road...
Chapter Text
Wrapped up in an old, worn plaid blanket of Jax’s which smelled like must and cigarettes, you sat on the couch that faced the television in his living room. You were only half-watching what was on the screen–a baking competition that you’d recognized from your own reality which you’d thrown on an hour ago–as you sat there tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders. The soft, familiar noise of it was comforting as you sat in the middle of a house that had you feeling anything but comfortable.
It had been an adjustment staying with Jax over the past few days, one that didn’t feel like it was getting any easier as the time had gradually passed. But it wasn’t like you had any other options of places to stay while simultaneously struggling to make sense of the situation you’d been thrown into against your will all by yourself. Because you were all by yourself.
The other night when Jax had given you one of his burner phones after his ceaseless interrogation of you, you'd tried calling your family and friends. But it had only taken you going through five or six numbers from your contact list and constantly being met with either a wrong number or a disconnected line before you realized the truth. You weren't going to get a hold of any of your family or friends here because they weren't here. A little searching around on the internet for the existence of yourself–or some other you in this world–with Jax’s laptop later that same night had also come up empty. Meaning exactly what you’d initially expected–you didn’t exist here, either.
That's when you'd started getting the sinking feeling that your world hadn't just been turned upside-down by whatever had happened to you, but that you'd been thrown straight out of it. Which had inevitably led to another panic attack that thankfully Jax hadn't been around to witness since he'd stepped outside to smoke yet another cigarette before bed. After that first panic attack you’d had in his kitchen, you’d gone out of your way to keep your breakdowns private whenever you had one, but that hadn’t been too difficult since you’d barely seen Jax after that first full day you'd been in his house.
Because on that first day here, Jax had made it a priority to help you get settled in his house and in his world. He’d taken the afternoon away from Teller-Morrow and the club to take you out shopping, letting you pick up basic necessities and clothes since you couldn't exactly continue to borrow his. And it had been an insanely uncomfortable experience buying bras and panties with the real Jax Teller, nothing like you’d have expected in a piece of fanfiction that would’ve led to some steamy sex with him tearing them off of you at his house later. Not that you were even necessarily sure you’d want that because Real Jax always had this no bullshit I-have-killed-people-and-buried-dead-bodies thing going on that was hard to ignore with that surly look often on his face.
After he’d taken you shopping for clothing and a few other things, which he had firmly refused to hear you offer to pay him back for when you eventually started making money, he'd put in a call with his mysterious contact to get started on acquiring you things you’d need to seem less like a ghost in his world–a forged birth certificate, social security number, and a few other legal documents. But since you had nothing here, no money of your own or form of transportation, and no actual way to work without those documents you were still waiting on, your life had been a lot of figuring out how to pass the time lately.
Usually, you spent your time going on walks and getting acquainted with the small town of Charming. You’d discovered that Jax’s house wasn’t too far from downtown, so during the day you’d wandered around the small town before stopping into the little local library where you scoured the internet and read books. In the afternoons and evenings, like right now, you’d end up sitting in front of the television thinking about how absolutely messed up this whole situation was that you’d found yourself in. You kept thinking about how you’d never see your family or friends again, how you had no idea what you were going to do with yourself in this world, how it felt pointless trying to start a new life here because this wasn’t where you belonged–
Inhaling a sharp breath, you willed your mind to stop going down that familiar spiral of panicked, terrifying thoughts just as you caught the telltale sound of Jax’s bike pulling up into the driveway outside. Shrinking further into yourself on the couch involuntarily when the engine fell quiet, you waited for the sound of the door opening to announce his presence.
You were still a little uneasy around Jax, finding him incredibly hard to read since you hadn’t had too many conversations with him after those first two days. He often came home late, greeted you with a couple of grunted out words, and then headed to the shower or the bedroom. In the morning, he was barely here longer than it took to brew and chug a cup of coffee before he left on his bike. You’d wondered if he was really gone that frequently, or if he was just keeping his distance for your sake to give you space. Or if he was keeping his distance from you because he was still considering killing you to keep you quiet about his club–you hadn’t entirely written that fear off yet despite the help he’d been giving you.
You’d also adamantly taken up his larger couch to sleep on for the foreseeable future. He’d shocked you when he offered for you to take his bed since it was the only bed in his house–which you’d made a lot of bitter one bed trope comments about inside of your head–before he offered to just share it with you when you’d firmly refused that idea. But it was already bad enough that you were actually living through the fake dating trope–which you thankfully hadn’t had to put into practice yet since no one had visited in the few days that you’d been here–and the forced proximity trope. The last thing you needed was to share the damn bed, too. It was almost as if the universe–or the multiverse, who fucking knew at this point–was finding some sort of cosmic humor in forcing you to live out these tropes that you’d so frequently read or written in romantic fiction yourself.
The front door finally swung open and Jax stepped inside the house, his entrance breaking through the train of thoughts currently filling your mind. He shut the door after himself, leaning a hand against the wall as he slipped out of his shoes before taking off his kutte. You glanced over from the television at him, a strained smile on your face as you greeted him quietly. He nodded his head at you in response, that usual stoic expression still on his face.
“Surprised you’re still up,” he said.
One of your shoulders rose and fell slightly at the comment. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Which was true. Most nights you couldn’t sleep because your thoughts just kept on spiraling until you eventually cried yourself to exhaustion on the couch. And then at some point you’d have a very vivid nightmare about the car accident that killed you–because it turns out that reliving your death is terrifying, who’d have guessed. Usually after those dreams you’d slip out into his backyard for a bit until the sun started to rise, and then you’d bury yourself under the blanket on the couch and pretend to be asleep before Jax could wake up to realize you’d been awake most of the night. Because those were all just more things that Real Jax didn’t need to know about. Not that you figured he’d care much anyway, he hadn’t really seemed too invested in your well-being much over the past few days.
Jax took a few steps towards the living room before pausing just behind that half-wall that the smaller couch rested against. You looked over again at him, noticing the way he was staring at the show on the television with a slightly raised brow. Seeming to sense your eyes on him, his attention abruptly shifted to you, his blue eyes causing you to stiffen beneath the blanket wrapped around you.
“Want some company?” he asked.
The answer to that was a see-saw of yes’s and no's. Would you like to get to know Jax better because this was an odd situation and you were curious to pick the brain of one of your favorite fictional characters? Yes. But would Real Jax Teller let you sit there and just ask him ceaseless personal questions? You highly-fucking-doubted it. Were you desperate for human interaction of any sort at this point? Yes. But did you want the scary Jax Teller–an actual biker outlaw–to sit and pay close attention to you with his hard-to-read almost-glare? Not particularly.
Not knowing how to exactly answer the question, your gaze darted skeptically back to the show you were watching. “You…want to watch The Great British Baking Show?” you asked in disbelief.
To your utter shock, the corner of his lips drew back into a little grin before a quiet huff fell out of him. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, combing back a few loose strands that had probably been shifted out of place from his helmet, before shaking his head at the question. An amused glint in his blue eyes met yours when they landed back on you, the sight of it softening you towards him just a little. “Honestly? No, not really,” he answered. “Don’t know how you’re actually struggling to sleep with that shit on.” He paused, a small sigh falling out of him. “But I haven’t really been around the past couple days. Haven’t really, y’know, seen how you were, uh, doin’ and all.”
He ran a ringed hand awkwardly over the back of his neck as if the topic of your mental health was terrifying to him, which you figured it probably was. But the odd look on his face now seemed like it had nothing to do with him wondering how you were and more to do with something that was on his mind. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you had a feeling there was a little something more to his offer of keeping you company.
“And we should…probably figure out that cover story a little further,” he added awkwardly. “‘Cause uh, it kinda came up tonight that I’ve got a girlfriend stayin’ here with me.”
Your eyes immediately grew wide before flying to the front door behind him, half-expecting to see Gemma bursting straight through it ready to drown you in the kitchen sink. Clearly reading the fear on your face, and as if he could hear your thoughts, Jax chuckled softly and shook his head at your horrified reaction.
“Just the guys, not my mother,” he assured you. “Though, I don’t think it’s gonna be long before she hears about it from one of them. So we should probably get some details sorted, y’know?”
“Right,” you agreed awkwardly, gripping the ends of the blanket around you tighter as your attention shifted back to him. “That makes sense. We uh, we should have a reason as to why you’ve got a girlfriend no one’s ever met before suddenly living with you.”
“And all the other important bullshit that comes with that,” Jax agreed with a nod. “How we met, how long we’ve been together. All that stupid shit. Which means I’m gonna need a beer for this.” He took a couple of tired steps towards the kitchen, his blonde brows arching up onto his forehead as he looked back over his shoulder at you. “You want one, Michigan?”
“Yeah, sure,” you replied softly. “Thanks.”
Maybe a beer would help you to feel a little less uncomfortable around him. Especially for such an odd conversation that involved plotting out an entire believable relationship that wasn’t actually real between you both. But you were a romance writer, and you’d also written stories for Jax in your free time when you hit a road block on your actual work, so it shouldn’t be that hard to come up with a realistic and passable story that wouldn’t have Gemma Teller murdering you in his kitchen.
Jax sauntered his way back to the living room, his white-socked feet dragging along the floor in clear exhaustion with each of his steps. When he held out one of the beers for you to take from him, you leaned forward on the couch and grabbed it with a quiet ‘thanks’ before tucking yourself back against the armrest of the couch. As Jax settled onto the opposite end instead of getting comfortable on the smaller couch, you felt the hair on the back of your neck prickle at his proximity. Quickly drawing the cold beer to your lips, you took a deep pull off of the bottle and hoped it would help ease the strange mix of fear and attraction that always ran through you in his presence.
“Probably should figure out how we met,” Jax mused aloud, leaning back into the couch as he raised the bottle in his hand towards his mouth. “Gem’s gonna ask that kinda shit.”
Pressing your lips together, your fingers nervously ran along the length of the cold glass bottle in your lap. “I’m guessing telling everyone that you found me dead on the side of the road isn’t a cute story, is it?” you half-joked.
Across the sofa, Jax swallowed down his drink before jutting his chin at you. “You always do that?” he asked.
“Do what?” you questioned back.
“Deflect with jokes,” he replied, cocking his head to the side as his eyes narrowed marginally. “You’re always makin’ jokes when you get uncomfortable instead of just answering the question.”
Lips parting in surprise at how much he’d actually been paying attention to the few interactions he’d had with you over the past few days, you silently gaped at him from the other end of the couch. The quiet drone of the baking show filled his living room around you, the familiar sound of it feeling like the only thing keeping your pulse steady. This was undeniably still a hard to come to terms with situation, one that had you taking yet another deep pull off of your beer with the way Jax was still studying you.
“Laughing is better than crying,” you flippantly answered after swallowing down the alcohol. Trying to veer the conversation away from anything too personal about yourself and your feelings, you continued right on. “So we need a realistic place that you would meet a girl. Somewhere you’d have been out and alone since none of the other Sons have met me yet.”
Resting an elbow on the back of the couch as he sat half-facing you on the cushions, Jax’s fingers on his free hand rubbed at his temples as his eyes closed. He looked like he’d had a difficult and frustrating day, especially with the firm set of his mouth. You wondered if something was going on with the club and maybe that explained his absence over the past few days after he’d taken you shopping. But you weren’t about to ask him if he was alright or if there was something on his mind even if you found yourself a little curious. The last thing you wanted to do was accidentally piss off the grumpy biker, and you had a feeling personal questions would certainly do that.
“A bar?” Jax threw out.
His suggestion drew your attention back to the conversation at hand. Chewing your lip in thought, you watched his eyes open before he looked over at you hopefully, as if he figured that one suggestion would somehow solve the whole problem of your fake relationship because he clearly didn’t want to participate in this conversation.
“Okay, but do you usually go to bars alone?” you countered, raising a brow. “Especially since you can just drink at the clubhouse and find whatever girls you want there?”
Jax sighed, the sound one of annoyance. “No, you’re right. Got no reason to go to one.”
“Okay, so…” Your voice trailed off as you looked down at the beer in your hands, your fingers tapping lightly along the cool glass. “We need something realistic for you. Something that makes sense and doesn’t leave room for holes to get poked through it.” Blowing out a long breath, you tried to focus your thoughts, switching into the mindset you had whenever you brainstormed when you wrote. “I did this for a living,” you muttered softly to yourself as you focused on the beer in your lap. “You’d think I could handle doing it when my life depends on it.”
“Did what for a living?”
Jax’s question threw you off, your gaze darting back over to him on the other end of the couch. He was eyeing you curiously now, clearly having caught the little muttered comment you’d made to yourself. Blinking back at him slowly, you realized you hadn’t really told him too much about yourself–not that he’d asked. When he’d found you by the side of the road almost a week ago, you’d mentioned being a writer, but you hadn’t really gone too in depth about it. Not that it had exactly been the time for that.
“Coming up with stories,” you told him, a finger still absently tapping against the bottle on your lap. “I wrote books before I died and ended up here. Romance novels, more specifically.”
The corner of his mouth drew up into the most beautiful little lopsided grin you’d ever seen. The sight of it had you temporarily forgetting that he was the leader of a criminal motorcycle club that illegally ran guns and who occasionally killed people–possibly a few innocent people if he’d gone down that same dark path like Fake Jax had after Opie’s death on the show you’d watched. Your breath caught in your throat at the same time your finger stopped its nervous fidget against the beer bottle while you stared at him, your heart doing a weird little pitter-patter in your chest. But the second he spoke, reality crashed back down on you and you swallowed hard, reminding yourself that he wasn’t just the pretty biker on a television screen.
Real Jax was dangerous. In more ways than one.
“You serious, Michigan?” he asked, half-teasing. “You wrote romance novels for a living?”
The faintest frown met his light jab at you. “I had a few best-selling books,” you defended, catching the hint of surprise in his eyes. “I was doing fairly well before my life completely ended.”
“Yeah, I bet you were,” he said, that lopsided grin still present. “Were your books those little naughty ones with the half-naked Fabio’s on the cover?”
Maybe it was the half of a beer in your system loosening you up just a tad, or maybe it was the fact that Jax was actually being a little friendly and not the stiff, hard-to-read guy he’d generally been towards you over the last few days. Either way, you found yourself rolling your eyes as a small smile crept onto your face.
“They didn’t have half-naked Fabio’s on the cover, no,” you answered.
His eyes creased at the corners as he pointed his beer at you, his shoulders shaking lightly with a quiet laugh. “So they were naughty books, weren’t they, darlin’? Didn’t hear you deny that part.”
“It is perfectly acceptable for women to explore their sexuality,” you pointed out, finding yourself relaxing a little more on his couch. “Not that you should be one to judge since I’m guessing the Sons in this world still worked with CaraCara, right?”
Jax nodded as he took another pull off of his beer. When he swallowed the alcohol, his tongue slipped out, running over his bottom lip in a fluid, distracting motion. Your eyes followed the movement before your brain mentally chastised yourself for noticing, drawing your own beer to your lips to give yourself something else to focus on. But with Jax acting like this around you–being charming, charismatic, and funny–you were struggling to keep in mind who he really was.
“Yeah, we did,” he told you. “Before Luann walked away and we decided to start Redwoody instead.”
You mentally noted yet another difference in the lives between Real Jax in this world and Fake Jax of the television show you’d watched. Over the past few days you had slowly been piecing together a handful of little differences from the few things he’d been telling you. Real Jax–this world’s Jax–had never married Wendy, so he’d obviously never had Abel. Apparently Tara had never come back to Charming running from Kohn, which also meant he’d never married her or had Thomas. Donna had been shot on accident by Tig, but Opie had still married Lyla, and he thankfully had not been brutally murdered in prison because he was currently Jax’s vice president. And Clay had apparently stepped down and handed the gavel to Jax because of his arthritis when he could no longer ride–he had a seat at the table, but he wasn’t exactly running with the Sons anymore.
“Who came up with the name of it, by the way?” you asked curiously before you could stop yourself. “Redwoody? I’ve always wondered if you guys were just sitting in church spitballing porn studio names around the table one night.”
An amused huff fell out of Jax before he nodded his head, leaning further into the cushions of his couch as he got more comfortable. “That’s exactly what happened, Michigan. And it was Tig who threw out the name, believe it or not.”
At the mention of Clay’s previous right hand–one of the Sons who would certainly make you nervous if you saw him in the flesh–you sobered up a little. You were supposed to be sitting here coming up with a good relationship cover story for why you were staying here in Jax’s house temporarily. Some sort of realistic story that everyone would be able to believe. Because if Gemma or any of the guys thought something was slightly off about you and looked too far into things, who knew what might happen–especially if everything about you seemed fake. What if they thought you were some undercover federal agent like Jax initially thought? They might want to get rid of you. Permanently. And you figured not even Jax would be able to stop the guys if they took a vote to kill you. You already knew what Gemma’s reaction would be if she suspected you were a threat to her son and the club considering what she’d done to Tara in the show just for thinking she was going to rat her son out to the feds.
Your life quite literally depended on faking being Jax’s girlfriend until you could get enough money saved up from a job to move far, far away from the Sons of Anarchy. That was the plan you’d been quietly coming up with while Jax had been gone most of the past few days–get the forged legal documents, get a job, make as much money as you could, then buy a car and get as far away from Charming, California as possible.
“So,” you began, pausing to clear your throat. “We need to think of a place where we’d have met.”
Jax’s head tilted slightly to the side at your sudden shift in conversation again, his own grin slowly vanishing from off of his face. That calculating look was back instead, as if you were some sort of confusing puzzle he was still trying to figure out.
“What about a gas station?” you tossed out, determined to stay focused. “You need to refuel your bike sometimes, and I’m guessing you’re not usually doing that with an entourage, right?”
“No,” he agreed slowly, still thrown by the topic change. “But why the fuck would I be pickin’ up a girl from a gas station?”
“Well…best to keep things as close to the truth as possible, isn’t it? I'm here because you're helping me,” you pointed out. “Is it realistic enough to say I was being harassed by an ex-boyfriend while I was there and you stepped in to help me?”
In the first season of the show, you vaguely remembered a girl with a shitty boyfriend that Jax had temporarily ‘rescued’ her from at a gas station after the idiot had sat on Jax’s bike. Maybe it wasn’t too far from the realm of possibility that this Jax would be capable of doing something fairly similar.
Jax’s brows furrowed together at the idea. “You mean like, I came in defending your honor or some shit?” he asked skeptically.
“More like you overheard him saying some degrading or verbally abusive things to me,” you explained. “Something that pissed you off. Maybe you stepped in, told him to back off, the prick said something stupid to you, so you clocked him in the face. Then we got to talking and you offered me your number in case my ex ever gave me hell again. You can tell the guys it was because you were hoping to get laid for helping me or something like that. I don’t care.”
“Then what?” he prompted. He raised the beer to his lips and took another pull from the bottle, clearly trying to just finish working on this little story with you. “You used my number to hit me up to rescue you again some other time from your dipshit ex? We hit it off and then suddenly I’m asking you to move in with me? ‘Cause I don’t know ‘bout that, Michigan. That sounds like bullshit. No one’s gonna buy that.”
Chewing your lip in thought, you hit a wall at that yourself. Jax falling for some girl in a matter of what would probably equate to a couple of months before having her move in didn’t sit right for him. That wasn’t in his character. But then you remembered what you’d initially said about keeping it close to the truth and shook your head as an idea formed.
“No, maybe not quite like that,” you answered slowly, eyes narrowed in thought as you stared at the bottle in your lap. “Maybe…we hit it off but my ex continued to be a problem while we were seeing each other for the past couple of months. He kept showing up at my place and harassing me. Scaring me. So you demanded I leave my old apartment and come stay with you until I got my footing and started over in Charming. You can pick some place just a little bit outside of town and say I was living there initially before I came here.”
Eyes raising from the almost finished bottle of beer in your lap, they met Jax’s across the couch from you. He was drinking back the rest of his own beer as his focus shifted over towards the television that was still playing an episode of The Great British Baking Show, which now seemed incredibly out of place in his living room as he sat there watching it. Sitting on the opposite end of the couch, you lightly drummed your nails along the brown bottle in your lap, waiting for him to tell you whether he thought it was a good cover story or absolute shit.
“Yeah, alright,” he eventually said, gaze returning to you. “We go with that. Doesn’t seem too hard to believe and it explains why you’re stayin’ here with me. Covers almost everything.”
“Could also say I was nervous to meet the guys at your club because of the history with my ex,” you added hesitantly, knowing that needed an explanation too. “To cover why none of them had heard of me before. Say I was a little nervous to meet them despite your reassurances, so you figured you’d keep things quiet for a bit. Would also explain away any genuine nerves when I do have to meet them.”
Jax’s lips pressed into a thin line, his piercing eyes feeling as if they were staring through you instead of just looking at you. Not for the first time you wondered what he was thinking when it came to you. Was he quietly plotting your murder in his head? Were you an annoying nuisance that had taken residence on his couch? Did he secretly think you were a zombie who’d eventually develop a craving for his brains?
“You don’t need to be afraid of them, darlin’,” Jax said, a gentleness to his usually gruff voice. “They’re not gonna hurt you, especially if they think you’re my old lady.”
“Except I’m not actually that,” you reminded him, tugging the plaid blanket tighter around you with the hand not holding your beer. “So if they realize that, then nothing is really stopping them.”
A frown settled onto your face as your attention returned to the show on his television, but you weren’t exactly watching it. Not that you had been watching it that much earlier before Jax had come back home, either. His TV had become the background noise to help drown out the noise in your own head over the past few days, except it never really seemed to do that.
“You good?”
At the sincerity of the question, you looked back over to find Jax leaning forward on the couch towards you, his hand wrapped around the neck of his empty beer bottle. For the briefest moment when your eyes met his, you were struck with the overwhelming urge to tell him the truth. That you felt a deep, aching loneliness everyday that you’d woken up here which you couldn’t quite possibly begin to explain in words. A loneliness that came from not just feeling isolated but entirely misplaced. That you craved some sort of comfort and connection from someone–anyone. That you wanted someone to tell you why you were here grieving your own previous life and trying to figure out how to survive in this new one when you were supposed to be blissfully dead. That you hated reliving the car accident that haunted your nightmares in vivid detail and staring at the healing scars on your body every time you showered. That you wanted someone to just tell you, even just once, that everything would be alright somehow.
But you figured Real Jax wouldn’t give a shit about any of those things, so instead you forced a smile onto your face and nodded.
“Yeah,” you lied. “Just trying to figure out which of my nine lives I’m apparently on now.”
You caught the look on his face, the one saying he knew what you were doing. Deflecting with jokes again. But he didn’t call you out on it, which you weren’t sure whether you were grateful for or not. If he had, maybe he’d have gotten the truth out of you. Then maybe you’d have seen if there was still some scrap of genuine sympathy inside of Jackson Teller which might’ve led him to offer you that pleasant lie you so desperately craved to hear, the one where he told you that everything would be alright in the end.
Except instead, Jax pushed himself up from the couch and maneuvered around his coffee table before heading towards the kitchen to toss out the empty bottle of beer. The suffocating weight of your loneliness in this unfamiliar reality slammed right back into you as you sunk down into the couch cushions, absently swirling the last dregs of your own beer in your hand.
Jax stepped out of the kitchen shortly afterwards, clearly planning to head to bed now that your conversation was finished. Your eyes followed him as he started making his way down the hallway, the corners of your lips twisted into a frown.
“G’night, Michigan,” Jax said as he passed.
“Yeah,” you muttered solemnly in return. “Night, Jax.”
Just like it had been before he'd gotten home a bit ago, you were once more left with just your thoughts and Jax’s television as he disappeared down the hall to his bedroom.
Notes:
I'm feeling a little unwell today and figured I'd post another part to this series already since chapter four is almost half-written and I drafted another Jax fic last night. I'm having far too much fun with the dynamic of this Reader and Jax and her current shitty predicament!
dolphinsarrow28 on Chapter 1 Mon 25 Aug 2025 08:02PM UTC
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BellaGiornata on Chapter 2 Sat 06 Sep 2025 04:13PM UTC
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BellaGiornata on Chapter 3 Sun 14 Sep 2025 03:20PM UTC
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ThatPilotChick on Chapter 3 Mon 15 Sep 2025 09:49PM UTC
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