jax/tara + "why do you keep doing this to me?" (idek how hard you ship them, but i see you reblog them a lot?)
(i ship them with all the depth of my soul and thanks for sending me something x)
"Why do you keep doing this to me?" She thinks, watching as he winces removing his blood stained shirt. His blood, and someone else’s. It’s spattered across the white material, against the samcro logo. Its bright and angry and violent, and its all she can see.
There’s blood on his hands. These were the same hands that cradled her face as they kissed, that swung the boys in the air, these were the hands whose creases and scars she knew more than her own. The blood runs down his palm lines like rivers, and she thinks, there’s the life line she chose to follow, there is fate that she chose to believe in, there is head and heart, that she gave to him so completely and blindly.
He’s muttering some story about what happened, but she isn’t listening. Tara knows that he’s probably telling half truths anyway. There is a large red slash under his collarbone, just above the name of his son that lay across his heart. It only narrowly missed. Tara thinks about how the boys come to close to blood, and she’s the one fixing it before it can reach them.
She begins the task of putting stitches in the wound. Jax is looking up at her in that same intense way he always did (he’s thinking about how she’s casting shadows in the room, blocking him from and eclipsing the sun behind her)
She wants to be angry. A part of her is. It’s not the first or last time she’s going to do this, that they’re going to avoid talking about it, that they’re going to tell the boys daddy just had an accident, it isn’t the last time she’s going to watch him wash the blood of his hands in the kitchen sink, as the dishes from their family meal sit on the board beside him, with the kids spoons and a drawing of them all on the cupboard above his head.
But silently he draws a hand up and trails it over her wrist. She doesn’t know why he feels so different to everyone else. Why the pads of his thumbs feel like nothing else in the world, no other hands have the warmth of his. She finally looks him in the eye and nods without a word.
As he leaves, she turns to get rid of the things she used to help him and clean up. As she looks down to take her plastic gloves off, Tara sees a bright red smudge on her wrist where he had touched her. She stares at it, feeling it stare back, as if its a prophecy of darkness yet to come, and its staining her skin. She turns her wrist over, and sees the bloodied imprint of his fingers pressed over her skin, over her veins, colouring it like what’s on the inside is the same as the outside, like they’re made of the same thing.
Tara sighs and washes her husbands blood away. The question, she thinks, is not why do you keep doing this to me. It’s why do I let you?
