Pairing: Wendy/Jax, Wendy/Oc's

Spoilers: Set during Season 1

Word Count: 1361

Disclaimer: I only wish I owned SOA

Warnings: Sensitive subject matter, but I'm going with a PG-13 rating

Summary: Abel isn't Wendy's first mistake. Wendy POV. Season 1 and pre-series.


Crimson and Clouds

Abel isn't Wendy's first mistake.

She has no illusions that "accident" is a kind word to describe her getting pregnant with their son. If the cold look Jax gave her when she told him the news wasn't enough of a clue, than when the only communication was checks made out for doctor's visits he would never go to, made it crystal clear.

The two pink lines had filled her with such a little rush of hope. Even now she isn't sure if she was altogether sober at that moment, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. She still would've been filled with naïve little thoughts that a baby would fix everything in her crumbled marriage that Wendy hadn't been able to.

She still thought there was a chance after he stormed out of the house, shaking his head no, disbelief in his eyes. She cleaned herself up and made all kinds of plans, but it all fell apart in just five months when it became clear that Jax wasn't going to be complying with any of her fantasies. He was never going to run out and get her ice cream at 3 am or rush over, hands outstretched to her rounded stomach, to feel their baby kick. Wendy's been alone before, but sitting in that house with nothing but a bundle of cells that no one else wants broke her.

But no… Abel isn't Wendy's first mistake.

The first time she stared at a little white stick with two pink lines, caused her already empty stomach to quake and roll until she was dry heaving over the toilet. Wendy hadn't even noticed the first month she missed until the second came and went. It took her four more days to actually buy a test and three to sober up enough to read the directions and take it.

Afterwards, lying on the bathroom floor, visions of a little girl with blonde waves and bright blue eyes danced across the ceiling. She wasn't high or drunk enough to completely lie to herself though. A circumstance Wendy regretted.

It had been at least four months since the last time with her husband. A few weeks after he left her, Wendy found herself in a bar up in Lodi hanging on the arm of some nameless leather wearing biker that more than likely knew who she belonged to… or at least who she used too.

She remembers the way his fingers brushed across the crow on the soft skin of her forearm right before he took her to the back room and lined up the fine white powder on a dirty mirror.

To this day, Wendy has no idea how Jax found her there. It had been so long since he had paid her any attention. She remembers the feel of hands gripping her waist and shaggy strands brushing her cheek as she was pulled from the bar stool. He dragged her out and forced her onto his bike, but it was all okay with Wendy because everything moved in happy spirals for her then. She was more than content to wrap her arms around the husband that had finally come after her.

Halfway back to Charming he pulled the bike to the side of the road and Wendy barely registered him pushing the stand down before he roughly hauled her off and dragged her down into the ditch. Wendy's spirals were slowing, but she was still weightless and floating as her jeans were pulled from her and thrown somewhere on the grass. Her hands moved to his belt buckle and when she tried to push his jeans down he batted them away and in seconds her panties were pulled aside as he pushed inside of her.

He grunted and groaned with an erratic pace that wouldn't let her catch up. His face was buried in her neck and his breath hot and sweaty against her ear. Blonde hair covered her face, her eyes, and got in her mouth, and no, he never even kissed her. His hand wrapped firmly just below her wrist and held her right arm above her head.

The next day, Wendy woke up alone in her bed that she didn't remember getting into with finger-shaped bruises around a crow that before last night, she was pretty sure had flown and gone away.

No, her baby girl wasn't going to have those bright blue eyes.

The only time she thought of a newborn wrapped in blue was the second time Wendy stood in the same bathroom holding a little, rectangular box that she didn't know would make Jax run further and further from her.

Maybe she would have had dark chocolate eyes and caramel colored skin like the street racer Wendy had cheered a little extra loudly for. Her almost friend Renee convinced her to go down to LA one Friday night, weeks after the last time her husband had touched her. While Wendy didn't care much for the little foreign cars, it didn't mean she couldn't appreciate the drivers.

That night she painted shimmery purple on her eyelids and bubblegum pink across her lips. With a short denim skirt and too high white heels she stood on the sidelines and pretended to be 20 again. A happy mix of just enough high and not too much drunk and she thinks that maybe that was the last of her control.

The tall, muscled racer took her in the backseat of his Honda. Her head pressed up against the door, knocking painfully against the handle. The opposite door had to be left open… because the tiny little foreign cars really are just too tiny… and Wendy's pretty sure shouts were made in their direction. Her knees were bent at awkward angles and her panties must have ended up under the seat or kicked out of the car. By the time she walked away, giggly on shaking legs, she was too drunk too even care.

There's also a chance Wendy could have had a baby girl with her brown eyes and black hair like the tattoo artist that let her stay after hours in exchange for the blue and red design on the small of her back. One night with only three beers in her belly and nothing but red in her veins, Wendy felt nostalgic tracing the now meaningless design on her arm over and over.

She walked into the tattoo parlour looking to feel the familiar sting of the needle against her skin, and ended up straddling the too pale man covered in black, blue, green, and red that all swirled together in an ugly rainbow that wouldn't let her find any release.

Or maybe her daughter would have looked like any of the nameless men that gave her drugs and watched her fly high, high up in the sky until she was a pile of boneless flesh that probably wouldn't have said no even if she could have.

Wendy's little girl has been Lily, Emma, Mia, Hannah, but all she ever got to be was scarlet and crimson standing out stark against white, white porcelain.

It was only a week after she found out that Wendy was pulled out of her clouds and awakened on the living room floor with a pain that made her curl up and wonder if she was dying and maybe wouldn't that just be for the best.

She lay in the tub long after the water coming from the showerhead went cold.

Wendy's never going to tell anyone about the blood that swirled down the drain. She won't speak about the little girl that only ever belonged to her. Wendy doesn't really have a lot of faith in anything, but she's glad her daughter was taken before she really had a chance to break her. If she could do that much damage before her baby was even born, imagine what she would have done to a breathing, crying, infant laid in her arms.

Only now Wendy doesn't have to imagine. It's all right in front of her, encased in plastic to keep her son safe the way she could not.

No, Abel isn't her first mistake.


AN: I know we all love Jax, but I find Wendy's character a little fascinating and I just can't help but write for her. Thank you so much for reading!