Sons of Anarchy Fanfiction

LINK TO CHAPTER 1: https://www.tumblr.com/gemmafictionsoa/819877669928927232/marriage-motorcycles-and-betrayal-gemma

“What are you saying?”

Clay looks around, making sure there’s no possibility of anyone eavesdropping on literal plans to get rid of SAMCRO’s President, and lowers his voice even more.

“I’m saying, if we take out JT we solve our own problem… And the club’s problems as well.”

Gemma just looks at Clay for a moment - that deer in headlights look you get when someone suggests something that’s absolutely insane. She can’t help the soft, exasperated laugh that leaves her throat.

“You can’t be serious…,” she says, dark eyes searching grey for any hint that this is some sort of joke. Gemma Teller was a lot of things, but she wasn’t a killer.

Just as Clay is about to reply, hopefully to say he’s obviously just kidding, Tig rounds the corner into the hallway. Gemma and Clay quickly create distance between themselves, but Tig can tell from the pinkness of Gemma’s cheeks and the clearing of Clay’s throat that something is off.

“You two good?” Tig asks, raising his brow. Clay and Tig had gotten close since Tig was patched in a few years ago. In that brotherly way that was typical in this life.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Clay says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn blue jeans.

“Mom! Opie and I are hungry!” Thank god, saved by the appetite of preteen boys.

“Better go check on Jax,” Gemma breaks the awkward tension that was beginning to become downright excruciating, and moves quickly towards the yard where Jax and Opie can be heard chattering, probably about girls in their class or sports teams. Making mac and cheese has never sounded better. Fuck it, Gemma would’ve made a five course meal if it meant getting away from Tig’s suspicious stare.

“Gonna go check on the bikes,” Clay scrambles for some kind of excuse to get the hell out of Dodge, but hears Tig following behind him like a lost (nosy) puppy. Perfect.

“Hey, man. Hey,” Tig whisper-yells - quiet enough for only Clay’s ears but loud enough to sound urgent. “The hell is going on?”

“With what?”

“You and Gemma.”

“Nothing,” Clay snaps back, in a way that’s a little too defensive for someone that’s completely innocent. “Just checkin’ on her. Was there for all that shit that went down with Thomas while JT was away. You know, shoulder to cry on,” solid enough excuse, and technically not a lie.

Tig, however, wasn’t fooled. Uh huh. Just checking on her. Tig fights back a scoff. He wasn’t blind, he had seen Clay and Gemma getting closer over the past few months. The secret glances when they looked each other’s way that weren’t so discreet, disappearing during parties at the clubhouse when everyone was either distracted or too drunk to notice, the way Clay had comforted Gemma after the loss of her son that seemed too much coming from someone who was just a husband’s best friend. Don’t get him wrong, Gemma was hot. Really hot. But this was a dangerous game - she was a brother’s ol’ lady, and not just any brother, John Teller. Their President.

“Man, this thing… Whatever it is-…”

“There’s no thing!” Clay interrupts, slamming his fist down on one of the desks in the garage. Tig puts his hands up in a placating gesture, taking a step back.

Clay and Tig told each other everything. Tig told Clay about the hookers he had been fucking, gushed about his beloved German Shepherd, had been nearly in tears about his doll phobia… Wait… What exactly has Clay told him, again? Didn’t matter… All he knew was that this thing with Gemma was bad news.

“Just… Don’t get in over your head, man…” he says. Clay wouldn’t be that careless, would he?

——

Meanwhile, Gemma is slaving away in the kitchen. The steam from the boiling pot of pasta is disgusting in combination with how goddamn hot it is outside and she swears she can feel the makeup melting off of her face. The cigarette dangling from her lips probably isn’t helping. Still, she insists on homemade mac and cheese, not that unnaturally neon orange pre-packaged garbage.

Jax and Opie are sitting on stools at one of the tables close by arm wrestling and nearly toppling over, earning a glare from Gemma that only mothers can give.

The familiar sound of heavy boots behind her gets closer, and she feels an arm wrap around her waist. She tenses automatically.

“Gemma,” John starts, clearly about to say something he thinks will help, but will actually probably just piss her off more. He always does that.

“Don’t,” she cuts him off, stirring cheese into pasta with a little more force than necessary. Maybe she should’ve just used the radioactive cheese powder - less time for impromptu conversation.

“We need to talk about this,” John tries. For a moment he considers begging if this doesn’t work.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she snaps back. Gemma doesn’t want to have this conversation. Not here, not in front of Jax, she didn’t want to have it at all.

“Gem, I love you. I-…”

“You don’t get to say that!” The clubhouse goes silent. No, really. Gemma swears you could hear a pin drop, or maybe a cigarette since that was more likely given the setting. The metal spoon she had been using to stir that goddamn mac and cheese was now on the floor and had landed with a dramatic clatter when she threw it to the ground, melted cheese splattering against wood but luckily missing her boots.

Piney and Lenny both look over from the bar, surprised by the sudden outburst, but exercise their better judgement in quickly looking away. Relationship drama was scarier than any sort of club business, and they wanted no part in it. Jax and Opie look over as well, and Gemma can swear she sees a hint of sadness behind the startle on Jax’s face. It shatters something in her.

She feels her own cheeks heating up, a combination of anger and embarrassment. John? He just looks… Sad, maybe? Pathetic? This was his fault, anyway. Unable to just stand there any longer, Gemma turns and storms (quite dramatically) out of the clubhouse, high heeled boots clicking against the floorboards.

Luann Delaney, Otto’s ol’ lady, seems to materialize behind John, having heard the commotion from where she had been gossiping with a few of the other women. The blonde gives him a look, seemingly saying ‘I’ve got it, dickhead,’ and follows behind Gemma, ruffling Jax and Opie’s hair on the way out. A croweater steps up to the stove to finish off the mac and cheese, so at least that’s still happening.

Luann looks around the yard for Gemma and finds her sitting at a picnic table, cigarette between her fingers as smoke rises around her face. Gemma and Luann had known each other for years now, practically best friends. Luann had been Gemma’s maid of honour when she married John, and she knew firsthand how this life could be. She was basically the wisest pornstar in Charming. Luann sits across from Gemma, sighing softly.

“You wanna talk about it?” Luann asks, placing her hand overtop of Gemma’s.

“Nope,” Gemma exhales smoke.

“You wanna go get sloshed at that shitty dive bar in town?” Luann smirks.

Gemma can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corner of her own lips, and shakes her head. “Oh yeah, for sure. And make an even bigger ass outta myself?”

“Good for the soul to make an ass outta yourself every now and then. Humbles you,” Luann chuckles, earning a playful eye roll from her friend.

“Yeah, well. I think I’ve been humbled enough for a lifetime,” Gemma traces the patterns on the wooden table with her fingernail, looking downward at her hands. “You know how humiliating it is to be cheated on? How do you and Otto do this shit?”

Luann frowns, squeezing Gemma’s hand sympathetically. “Lots of sex,” she teases before her tone turns into something more serious. “You were young when you met JT, Gem. Eighteen. A kid with adult privileges. Are there any eighteen year olds out there making any good decisions? And since then you’ve had two kids, and lost one. That shit ain’t easy on anyone, let alone a relationship. But, you know, losing Thomas? That wasn’t your fault, honey. You’re a good mother to Jax, and were a good mother to Tommy. You gotta talk to JT. Sort out this Ireland shit for good.”

Gemma sighs. “Yeah, I know,” she says. “You know, you should write a self-help book. ‘Wise Words from a Whore,’” she teases, causing Luann to laugh along.

If only she knew how complicated things really were. Gemma’s own affair, the club, Tig’s suspicions, what Clay had said to Gemma earlier about John being gone…

“I just don’t know what to do…”

The California air is warm in Charming. Birds are chirping, and there’s a nice breeze - the kind that lets you enjoy the warmth without sweating so profusely you just feel gross.

The Teller household, however, has been anything but warm. Since Thomas, their bright, energetic six year old son had passed away a few months ago from the genetic heart condition he inherited from Gemma, the air had been tense. Gemma was constantly questioning if it was her fault - he had gotten the heart condition from her. John had ran off to Ireland for what he said had been club business, but Gemma had found the letters. The same love letters she used to receive from John Teller, except these were addressed to Maureen Ashby - some tart in Belfast. John had been off sleeping with another woman on a different continent while Gemma was here, taking care of Thomas while he was sick, and their eldest son, Jackson, who was old enough to understand the loss of his brother at twelve, but never stopped asking why his father wasn’t there.

Was Gemma bitter? Maybe. But she had the right to be. John and Gemma’s marriage wasn’t perfect - it never had been. The exciting outlaw life full of motorcycles, loyalty to brotherhood, whiskey and cigarettes had seemed exciting when she had just met John at eighteen, but that novelty wore off quickly. Now in her early thirties, with two sons, one gone, and a husband up in the clouds with his philosophies about what SAMCRO should be, Gemma wondered what would have been if she married a good Christian man like her parents had wanted… No, that would’ve never worked.

Gemma is sat in the living room, packing the last of Thomas’ things into boxes, and labelling them with a thick black marker - Tommy. It felt strange, packing up all of his books and toys; including the toy cars he loved and Gemma always managed to step on when he left them scattered on the kitchen floor, earning the six year old a lecture about cleaning up after himself. She’d give anything to step on one of those cars again. She finds herself running her fingers along the scar on her chest, the one from heart surgery a couple years ago now. The reason for all of this.

The sound of the fridge door closing snapped her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see John getting out the milk carton for his coffee. His medium length brown hair was slightly disheveled, and he wore his leather SAMCRO kutte, a white t-shirt underneath and a pair of old jeans.

“You seen Thomas’ birth certificate?” Gemma asks. No ‘good morning,’ or affection like other lovers. They were past that.

“No,” John replies, pouring a splash of milk into his coffee and spooning in way too much sugar. Gemma used to scold him early in their marriage about too much sugar not being good for his health. She was someone who preferred her coffee black, adding one teaspoon of sugar on special occasions. “Wouldn’t it be in the folder with Jax’s? In the safe?”

“It’s not there,” Gemma snaps back. Did he think she was an invalid? Of course she had looked there. It was the first place she looked.

John sighs, taking a sip of his coffee and turning towards his wife. “It has to be here somewhere. Want me to help you look for it?” He offers. Part of him is hopeful - he’s noticed the uncomfortable distance between him and Gemma. Nothing like how they were when they were newlyweds and Jax was little. He feels guilty. Guilty for not being there, for the affair. He loved Gemma, really did, but she seemed to become more and more distant every year they were together. Cold towards him. When Tommy got sick he needed warmth, comfort, things Gemma didn’t give. Not anymore.

“No,” Gemma counters dryly. She didn’t need his help, didn’t want it. Knowing John, he’d probably get distracted and keep looking over and over in the same places anyway. Lately, she couldn’t even look at him without thinking of that Irish woman. Even if she didn’t know what she looked like.

“Listen, Gem-…” Before John can finish, the sound of Jax’s voice cuts through the tension.

“I can help you look for it, Ma,” he says, with all the enthusiasm of a twelve year old boy. He knew the loss of his younger brother had been especially hard on Gemma, and while his Dad had been away? He had tried to help out his mother the best he could.

Gemma’s expression softens when she looks at her son, and she shakes her head. “That’s okay, baby. I’ll find it,” she says, standing up to ruffle Jax’s blonde hair, causing Jax to duck away. A combination of preteen angst and he’s ‘way too cool for that.’

“‘Kay,” he shrugs, plopping down on the couch and flicking on the TV with a bowl of cereal - something sugary with zero nutritional value, so chocolatey it had already turned the milk brown - clearly John’s purchase. John smiles at his son, and the two begin a passionate conversation about motorcycles and mechanics. Whatever John was going to say now seemingly forgotten.

Soon, the landline phone rings, and John picks it up. “Hey, Clay,” he says casually. Gemma freezes. Clay Morrow, John’s best friend and VP of SAMCRO. Truthfully, Gemma had been spending a lot of time with Clay, especially after things got rocky between her and John. He had been there for her and Jax when John wasn’t and Thomas was in the hospital, and one thing led to another… Clay was different than John - practical, always looking for ways to expand business and income for the club. Not John’s hippie shit. Clay valued power and control.

“Yeah, for sure. See you at the clubhouse later,” John says, before hanging up. Gemma couldn’t help but wonder if Clay had been calling for her.

“Gotta go to the clubhouse,” John says, squeezing Gemma’s shoulder - an attempt at affection to close the excruciating distance between them. Gemma moves away, almost recoiling from his touch.

“Yeah. I should go over to the garage, too. Gotta sort through some paperwork.”

———

It’s about an hour later when they arrive at Teller-Morrow, the afternoon sun bright and hot in the sky. Jax practically leaps out of Gemma’s car, immediately going to find Opie, Piney’s boy. The two had become close friends, they’ll definitely be spending the afternoon tossing around a football in the yard and admiring the Harleys in the garage. Jax was always asking when he’d finally be old enough to ride his father’s - the iconic light blue 1946 Harley-Davidson Knucklehead. Gemma was vehemently against it - twelve was much too young for riding, and that bike always sounded like it was about to break down, but John refused to give it up. John is close behind, and parks his bike, going into the clubhouse while Gemma trails behind. She lights a cigarette upon sitting down at the bar, taking a deep drag. Clay and Gemma glance at each other, both with the same knowing look.

Soon enough, John is enthralled in talking to Lenny and Piney about who knows what - probably philosophies for the club and world peace - stupid idealistic shit. Gemma takes the opportunity to follow Clay into the back hallway. Once out of sight, Clay pushes Gemma against the wall, kissing her. They’ve had these moments before, stealing kisses between church meetings.

“Hey,” Gemma says as they part, her dark eyes meeting Clay’s grey ones. “You can’t just be calling the house. John’s going to get suspicious,” she sighs.

“Nah,” Clay retorts, kissing her quickly again. “He don’t know shit,” he cups Gemma’s cheeks in his calloused hands from years of working on bikes and taking care of business. “Don’t go making yourself sick over this,” he says.

“I don’t make myself sick over anything,” Gemma says, crossing her arms. Okay… That was a lie. Gemma was a bit of a worrier… An overthinker, maybe. But there was nothing wrong with being careful about this - it should be overthought.

“I don’t want to hide forever, Gem,” Clay says, his hands resting on her waist. Gemma scoffs. Men. Why were they always so goddamn emotional? This wasn’t some fairytale, this was outlaw life - violent and unforgiving.

“Well, I can’t exactly tell John I want a divorce so I can be with his best friend and VP, can I?” She retorts. “It’d never be allowed to happen, even if John and I weren’t together.”

Clay sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “John wants the club out of gun-running…” he says like he’s presenting some sort of fact to change her mind. “He’s going to destroy SAMCRO because all he cares about is everyone holding hands and singing Kumbaya. I can’t just sit back and watch that happen, not after everything we’ve built out of this club. Him holding that President’s patch? It’s going to ruin us all.”

Huh? What was Clay saying? Gemma knew he was right but what did that have to do with them making out in hallways and sneaking away to the clubhouse bedrooms when John was riding out for club business? John never involved Gemma too much in club business, it wasn’t for ol’ ladies, but Gemma always found ways to know more than she should. She knew about John’s ideals for the club - brotherhood instead of crime.

“And?” She raises a brow.

“Maybe it’d solve our problems if he was gone… You know, two birds with one stone,” Clay whispers, his thumb rubbing circles along Gemma’s hipbone.

John Teller gone? For the good of the club? If Clay was proposing what she thought he was, it’d be incredibly risky. And what about Jax? John was his father. The boy idolized him. But at the same time, Gemma was his mother, she couldn’t sit back and watch her son, the only one left, become John with his philosophies. The club didn’t survive on ideas, it survived on tangible business - money, guns - that’s what kept family together in this life. She knew Jax would take over SAMCRO one day, it was his birthright, she couldn’t have John poison him with his ideologies that he spoke about like wisdom. But Gemma also wasn’t some heartless bitch, she remembers what things were like between her and John when they were good. The wind in her hair when she rode on the back of his bike, promises of a stable life, their boys… Marriage, motorcycles, love even… Now tainted with deep betrayal.

“What are you saying?”

To be continued…

Clay has an enemy… With two wings and white feathers.

Obnoxious squawking wakes Clay up from the dead of sleep, and he groans, moving his arm upward to cover his eyes.

“The hell?” He grumbles, cracking an eye open reluctantly and peeking out from underneath his arm. That’s when he sees it.

That damn bird. It’s staring at him, taunting him with its beady eyes, its white feathers slightly ruffled.

It squawks again, just as Clay’s falling back asleep. It knows.

“Gemma!” He calls, but doesn’t receive a response from his ol’ lady. “Goddamn it… Gemma!” He tries again, and soon he hears her shuffling back to the bedroom.

“What?” Gemma raises a brow, leaning against the doorway. She’s wearing a robe and slippers, her dark, blonde streaked hair slightly messy. “I can’t even make a damn coffee without you needing me for something? I was starting to think you finally croaked.”

Clay narrows his eyes. “That damn bird,” he grumbles. Looking at the bird accusingly, which is now sitting on its perch, cleaning itself innocently.

Gemma sighs, walking over to the cage and unlocking it, taking the large white cockatoo out, which happily moves to sit on her hand. “Leave him alone, Clay. He’s just hungry,” she says, stroking the bird’s head with her free hand.

“He won’t leave me alone,” Clay responds petulantly. Earning a scoff from his wife, who takes the bird downstairs.

Finally, some goddamn peace, Clay thinks to himself. He tries to fall back asleep, tossing and turning, but of course, he can’t. Perfect.

Clay stands up from the bed, reluctantly pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a black undershirt before heading downstairs. He sees Gemma in the kitchen, fixing breakfast and comes up behind her, kissing her cheek. He pours himself a cup of coffee before heading to the table, and he sees it. The bird, eating from a bowl of seeds. On top of the table. In his seat.

“Don’t start,” Gemma smirks from behind him, placing a plate of food for him at another seat on the table. He just grunts, sitting at the alternative seat and beginning to eat. His old lady is a damn good cook. She always has been.

Gemma sits next to him, sipping her coffee, the mug warm in her hands. She reaches to stroke the cockatoo’s head. Coco. He has a name. Gemma loves birds, always has. They are calm, independent, and free. Even in their life of chaos. Besides… Birds aren’t annoying like dogs.

“You got to handle that shit with the Irish today?” Gemma asks, as Clay stabs a piece of bacon with his fork.

“Yeah. Another gun deal that blew up,” he says, glancing at her and taking her hand, kissing her knuckles.

Coco squawks in distaste, causing Gemma to chuckle, and Clay to glare at the feathered tyrant.

Awhile later, Clay heads back to the bedroom to get dressed. He pulls on his jeans, a black t-shirt, and ties up his boots. He grabs his kutte when he feels something wet against his fingers. He pulls back and that’s when he sees it. Bird shit. Bird shit staining the black leather. This was it. He was going to kill this bird… Or maybe just rehome it, since he really wasn’t in the market to get a divorce.

“Goddamn it!” He yells, his booming voice echoing through the house.

Gemma comes out of the bathroom, where she had been fixing her hair and makeup for the day. She’s wearing a leather jacket and dark denim jeans. “What now?” She watches as Clay wipes his hand on a towel almost aggressively.

“Your goddamn bird shit on my kutte,” he growls, holding up the leather to show her.

Gemma can’t help herself. She really tries not to. But she bursts out laughing. She sees Clay’s face drop when he realizes she’s clearly not as bothered by this absolute tragedy as he is.

“Sorry, baby,” she catches her breath, tapping his chest and taking it from him. “I’ll wash it off. It’s just bird shit. All he eats is seeds.”

Eventually, Clay is leaving the house in a clean kutte, but his pride? It’s still wounded.

After a long day of taking care of club business, Clay is finally home. Clothes are dropping to the floor, and the sounds of Gemma and Clay’s whispers and soft chuckles fill the room. Their bodies are pressed together under the covers, skin against skin, both of them lost in each other’s familiar yet exciting touch.

That is, however, until Clay feels something collide with the back of his head, and a sharp pain in his ear.

“Jesus Christ!” He shouts, pulling back, his hand moving to cover his ear. A bundle of white feathers flies over to the bedside table as Coco lands, an indignant squawk coming from the bird. Gemma, on the other hand, bursts into laughter, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt.

She sits up, moving Clay’s hand away from his ear so she can assess the damage. Luckily, it’s just a scratch, but she moves to get a few Q-Tips and some hydrogen peroxide anyway, disinfecting the cut.

“Damn asshole bird…” Clay winces, letting Gemma care for his battle wound. Once she’s finished, he feels her soft lips press a kiss to his stubbled cheek. Then he sees her petting that traitor, and telling him he’s a good boy.

“You know, sometimes I think you love that goddamn bird more than you love me,” he says, though he reluctantly reaches out to pat its head, offering a truce.

Teller family traditions! A fluffy family fanfic involving Gemma, Nero, Jax, Tara, Abel and Thomas when Fun Town comes into Charming again this year. Set with the show obviously having ended a little differently! Open to feedback and requests!

The sounds of kids screaming, clown horns, and giggling couples fills the air. Fun Town is back in Charming, like it had been every year since… Well, since Gemma could remember. She wasn’t about to age herself.

One of Abel’s hands is clasped in her’s, slightly sticky from the cotton candy he has the death grip on in the other. Tara had insisted that he had already had too much sugar, but Gemma couldn’t resist her grandson when he looked at her pleadingly as they passed the cotton candy stand. It was a grandparent’s job to spoil their grandchildren, right? Besides, she wouldn’t be the one having to deal with him bouncing off the walls later that night. And no, she wasn’t trying to deliberately make Tara’s life miserable.

Jax and Tara are following close behind with Thomas in his stroller, who is babbling and pointing at all the bright colours and strange sounds.

“Really, Gemma?” Tara says as she catches up, raising her brow at Abel who is devouring his cotton candy like he hasn’t eaten in years. Gemma just smirks and shrugs.

“Just makin’ sure you get a master class in parenting tonight, sweetheart,” she retorts. Jax just sighs, and shakes his head. Honestly? Gemma and Tara had been getting along lately. They weren’t best friends or holding hands singing Kumbaya, but it was progress. After Gemma had gotten in that wreck with Abel and Thomas in the car, she had put in some serious effort to earn seeing them back. Luckily, Jax and Tara both saw it.

“Ay mano, avoid the taco stand,” Nero’s voice can be heard from behind the group as he approaches from the porta-potties, looking a little pale. He mumbles something in Spanish about the tacos being an insult to Mexican culture, before clapping Jax on the back, and pressing a kiss to Gemma’s cheek.

“Yeah, brother. We tried to tell you. Everything but the hotdogs and the burgers if you’re willing to take a risk, are off limits at Fun Town,” Jax snorts, clearly amused by Nero’s predicament.

Nero dismisses Jax with a wave. “You eat anything, mama?” He asks, turning to Gemma.

“Here? Please. I haven’t eaten the slop here since I was sixteen,” she says to Nero with a smirk, but presses a soft kiss to his lips anyway. “Think of this as your family initiation,” she teasingly pokes his stomach, earning an unamused grumble.

“Gramma! Look!” Abel pipes up, pointing towards a ride. Gemma looks over and her heart drops. It looks horrid. The spinning. The high pitched screaming. She can practically feel the amused smirks of Jax, Tara and Nero behind her.

“You want to go on that?” Gemma raises a brow.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Abel is practically vibrating with excitement, already tugging his grandmother towards the colourful torture device. Gemma knows Jax and Tara are going to let her take this hit, and tapping in Nero after his run in with Fun Town tacos would just be cruel.

After what seems like forever waiting in line, Gemma and Abel are seated in one of the teacup shaped sections of the ride, a wheel between the two of them to make it spin faster. The ride begins, and Gemma can almost swear that Abel has gained super-human strength, because she’s almost losing her non-existent lunch. However, his excited laughter is contagious, and Gemma makes damn sure that their teacup is spinning the fastest, and that her grandson is having the most fun.

Once the ride comes to an end, Gemma tries not to lose her balance as she stumbles out to her family. Nero chuckles, pulling her into his arms, and Jax and Tara are grinning.

“Jesus Christ, Mom,” Jax laughs, as Tara bends to hug Abel who is running towards her, giggling.

“What? I wasn’t about to let him lose out to a bunch of other kids and their asshole parents,” she says, shrugging, causing Jax to shake his head and chuckle.

“Having fun?” Nero smirks, pressing a kiss to Gemma’s head.

“Oh, of course, darlin’,” Gemma says sarcastically, but leans up to kiss him anyway.

“Hey, look. Bumper cars! I used to love those when I was a kid,” Jax smirks, stuffing the last half of his unfinished hotdog into his mouth.

Then before she knows it, Gemma is stuffed into a cramped bumper car with Abel by her side. Jax, Tara and Nero have their own, but Abel insisted on riding shotgun with his grandma. The cotton candy bribery seemed to be working a little too well. Thomas, still too young to join them, is being amused by Tig on the sidelines, who dropped by just to see how many clowns he could cause to fall into the dunk tank.

Soon, the round of bumper cars begins and Abel is giggling uncontrollably as Gemma crashes their car into multiple others. Soon, Tara crashes her car into theirs, a grin on her face.

“Gramma, get Mommy!” Abel squeals, pointing to Tara. “You bitch,” Gemma says under her breath, but there’s a huge smile on her face and she’s laughing along with Tara and Abel. Gemma had almost forgotten that she could smile like that.

Meanwhile, Jax and Nero are engaged in a full on brawl that seems more intense than any of their other business ventures, crashing into each other.

“Watch it, mano! I’ve been driving longer than you’ve been breathing,” Nero yells.

“Yeah, yeah. Old man!” Jax laughs in response, but it’s clear who won this round when Jax’s car shuts down, followed by a groan from the club’s President. Nero laughs, almost manically, steering away and making a beeline for Gemma, crashing into the back of her bumper car.

“Asshole!” Gemma shrieks, and Gemma Teller doesn’t shriek. But this is the most fun she’s had in a long time. The most fun their family has had in a long time, and goddamn, it’s needed.

Later, Gemma is sitting at home on the couch with Nero. She rests her head on his shoulder and sighs. “That was nice… Even if it was goddamn exhausting. We should bring Lucius with us next time,” she says, sighing softly.

“Yeah, it was. Lucius would love it. Might even beat his old man at bumper cars,” Nero responds with a chuckle, tracing gentle circles on her arm. “It’s good to see you happy, mama,” he whispers.

Gemma has some club business for Clay to attend to, and it’s the worst kind…

Clay is dreaming. Something sweet about shooting guns and plethoras of money. However, a stirring beside him pulls him out of his pleasant dream state. He cracks an eye open, glancing over at his ol’ lady.

“Mornin’,” he grumbles, his voice still thick with sleep. A hum is all he gets in return from Gemma and he chuckles at her clear dissatisfaction with being even slightly awoken from her beauty sleep. Clay wraps his strong arms around her, pulling her close.

“You got club shit today?” Gemma asks softly, melting into the familiar warmth of his muscled body pressed against her own.

“Nah. Shit with the Mayans has calmed down for now. Jax can handle the club for today. I was thinkin’ about spendin’ all day right here. With you,” Clay smirks, his stubble tickling her soft skin as he presses a kiss to her shoulder, his calloused hand running along her side.

Gemma rolls over onto her back so she can look at him, a smirk on her face. “I’ve got some club business for you, darlin’,” she says slyly, her hand reaching up to cup his rough cheek.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Clay’s grin only grows. He knows exactly where this is going, and he isn’t complaining. That is until he hears what his wife says next, his cocky smirk instantly fading. This is not where he hoped this was going in the slightest.

“What?” he says, wanting to make sure that he did in fact hear her correctly, and that this wasn’t some kind of cruel joke. Or even a nightmare. Maybe he was still sleeping?

“I said, Luann and I need to do some shopping. It’d be nice to have an escort… And someone to carry the bags around,” Yup, he definitely did hear her correctly, and that smirk on Gemma’s face wasn’t making the news of this torture she had planned for him any easier.

Clay groans, rolling onto his back and rubbing his face. “Goddamn it, woman. Shopping with you and Luann? I’m a goddamn biker, not some personal assistant. What kind of slow, cruel torture is that?”

Gemma moves to rest her head on his chest, pressing a kiss to it, and looks up at him. “C’mon, baby. Please. I’ll make it worth your while when we get home,” she knows she has him exactly where she wants him.

Before Clay knows it, he’s practically a glorified pack mule. Bags are slung over his arms, and Gemma and Luann are walking ahead of him chattering about who knows what. He makes a point out of glaring at anyone who dares look at him with even a hint of amusement, or at all. His pockets, however, a strong contrast to the weight in his arms, feel lighter since Gemma has been convincing him to buy anything that she likes, thinks she might like, or that she might eventually need. Goddamn this woman.

That’s when he sees her make a beeline for the plant shop, and Clay’s heart drops. He might even be sweating. He groans dramatically, following her inside. There’s no use trying to stop her, shes too far gone.

“Clay! Look at these. They’re beautiful and would look perfect next to my azaleas,” Gemma muses, her pristine black manicure brushing against delicate pink petals.

Clay looks at Luann pleadingly who just smirks sympathetically, knowing better than to get involved in her friend’s marriage drama, moving to look at some flowers across the aisle. He sighs. “Gem, don’t you think we have enough plants at home? We’re practically living in a damn jungle.”

Gemma’s eyes narrow, and she turns to Clay, resting her hands on her hips. “You’ve been enjoying sitting in the greenhouse when you’re sulking and having your morning coffee, haven’t you?”

Then somehow, some way, Clay Morrow, President of SAMCRO, is leaving the store with not just shopping bags, but goddamn plants in his arms. Peonies to be exact, that need lots of sun, and to be watered every 7-10 days… Don’t ask him how he knows.

Eventually, Gemma has decided that he’s had enough of her torture, and they’re home. Finally. Clay has never been happier to see the goddamn front door, and that says a lot. Gemma grabs the plants from Clay’s hands and he puts down the bags with a relieved sigh. He follows her into the greenhouse, which is more of a brightly lit room packed full of plants and lined with windows. He leans against the doorframe, watching as she tends to the blooming flowers, and bright green shrubbery.

He pushes off of the door, and walks up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder.

“I got somethin’ to wear. Special for you,” Gemma smirks mischievously, putting down her watering can and turning to face him, her hand moving to rest on his broad chest.

“Oh yeah? I’m startin’ to think I deserve somethin’ special after all that,” Clay teases back, his blue eyes meeting the same hazel ones he’s been goddamn lucky to look into for years.

“I love you,” she says, a soft smile on her face.

“This love is going to kill me,” he responds with a deep kiss, feeling her wrap her arms around his neck. After all she puts up with, it may just be worth it to see her smile. Even if their house is starting to look like an overgrown jungle.