Some days Juice hated Tully. Hated him for failing to keep his promise, for purposely missing the fatal artery when he'd stabbed him in the neck. "Someday you'll thank me for this," he'd whispered into Juice's ear, holding his limp body in his arms until the guards came to collect him, drag him to the infirmary. Other days, he was grateful Tully had spared him, wanted to fall to his knees and weep tears of joy that he'd been given another chance, an opportunity to live. Those days hadn't begun to occur until long after he'd been released from prison, with thousands of miles between him and his former brothers.

It had been Wendy, bless that woman's heart, who had encouraged him to go East, put as much distance between him and his old life as possible. During those early days, when he'd first been released, when he was still not fully aware that he was safe, was free, he'd depended on her to guide him, to help him carry on. She'd written him while he was finishing his sentence, coming up to visit periodically, to see how he was doing. She'd been waiting at the prison gate when he was released, pulling him into her arms, kissing the top of his head. "You made it, kid," she told him, squeezing him tightly.

She'd done so much to help him, more than he could ever have asked of anyone.

She'd come to stay with him during the first few weeks on the East Coast, had looked after him as he went through withdrawal from the drugs he'd become dependent on during his time in prison. She understood, offered her solemn solidarity as he struggled with the early stages of sobriety. She'd dragged him to his first NA meeting, squeezing his hand as he sat rigid in a chair beside her, listening as other addicts shared their stories. Though he'd never admit it, he didn't care for NA, didn't fully buy into it's ideology, he appreciated her help, understood that she was trying to help him build a foundation, something to lean on as he started a new chapter in his life.

The first year had been horrible. He'd spent most of his time locked in his apartment, terrified to go outside, haunted by the ghosts of his past. He left his apartment for little more than gathering supplies at the store and to attend his weekly NA meeting. He'd promised Wendy that he'd continue to go, figuring he owed her at least that much. He didn't have much left, but he still had his word.

It had been one of the men in his weekly meeting, a young veteran named Ben, who'd told him about PTSD. Until then he hadn't had a name for the panic that haunted him, for the vivid flashbacks of his worst experiences with the club and in prison. It had taken him months, but eventually he'd followed through and made an appointment to see the therapist that Ben had referred him to.

It had taken time, but eventually, Juice had settled into a routine that he was comfortable with. He would never be the man he'd been before prison, before the Sons of Anarchy, but that was okay. He was alive. He was surviving. And that was enough.

With Wendy's encouragement, he'd gone back to school, finishing his degree in computer engineering. He'd never be able to get a great gig in the field, given his criminal record, but he did freelance work which suited him just fine.

He'd thought about getting his MC tattoos covered up, but had decided against it. Despite everything, the club had been his home. He loved his brothers, and while they'd turned their backs on him, he couldn't help but feel a nagging sense of loyalty to the club, to them. He didn't want to lose the one reminder he had of his old life.

Never, in a million years, had Juice expected to see Happy Lowman, perched on his bike, in Brooklyn. Juice slipped on his sunglasses, keeping his head down as he passed his former brother, hoping he would not catch his attention. He breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the familiar rumble of motorcycles. He was meeting with the Sons New York charter. He wasn't here for him, to finish the job. He settled into a nearby coffee shop to work on the code he was writing for one of his Brooklyn clients. He took sips from his coffee, brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote out lines of code. It took him several minutes to realize someone was hovering over him. He froze, shoulders tensed as he glanced up at the man standing behind him. Fuck. He wished had had his gun on him. "C-can I help you?" he asked, bracing himself for a fight.

"Juice?" Happy asked, his voice raspy.

"I go by JC, now," he told him, closing his laptop.

Happy grunted in response, taking a seat across from him at the table. "So what are you doing in New York?"

"If you're here to kill me, just get it over with," he mumbled, lowering his head.

He waited, holding his breath, for Happy to put his gun to his head, to pull a knife, something. When he didn't, he looked up, eyeing the other man warily.

"What do you want from me, man?"

"Saw you on the street. I'd recognize those retarded tattoos anywhere," he replied, nodding at Juice's head. "Just wanted to see if it was actually you."

Juice nodded. "So you're not here to kill me?"

"Prez sent me out here to check in with the East Coast charters, see how they're doing. SAMCRO is a different club than it was a few years back, Juicy."

"Don't call me that," Juice retorted, frowning.

"When'd you get out of Stockton?" Happy asked, shrugging.

"Three years ago. Came out here."

"Any particular reason?"

"I'm from here… seemed to make sense. Put some distance between me and Jax…" he trailed off, tapping his foot anxiously. He glanced at his messenger bag, debating pulling out his anxiety medication. Deciding it was better than having a full blown panic attack in front of his former brother, he grabbed his bag, pulling the orange medicine vial out. "Excuse me," he said, tapping a pill into his hand, chasing it down with a sip of his coffee.

"Jax is dead."

"What?"

Happy nodded. "Went out on his bike, just like his old man. Chibs is at the head of the table, now," he elaborated.

"I see," Juice said quietly, beginning to gather up his things.

"Going somewhere?" Happy asked.

"I've got therapy," he offered, shrugging. "I'm on a pretty strict schedule. Keeps me stable."

"You finally get your head straight, kid?"

Juice shrugged. "Not all the way. But I'm better than I was."

"You know, Chibs half expected you to show up at the clubhouse once you got out."

"I thought you guys hated me, wanted me dead."

"We found out a lot of the shit Jax kept from the club… we never voted Mayhem on you, kid."

Juice nodded. "That's… good to know, I guess."

"Juice-"

"I really need to get going… my appointment's in Manhattan… and traffic this time of day," he paused, shifting the weight of his bag to hang in a more comfortable position.

Juice slipped into the bathroom the moment he arrived at his therapist's office, dropping to his knees and voiding the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, acutely aware that he was shaking. He struggled to open his anxiety medication, taking two pills, hoping to quell the pounding of his heart rattling in his chest.

His therapist, Dr. Knowles (and isn't that ironic?) immediately recognized that Juice was in the midst of a panic attack, quickly sprung into action to talk him down.

"Do you have any idea what may have brought this panic attack on, JC? You haven't had an episode in almost two months," Dr. Knowles asked, offering him her sunny, professional smile.

"I ran into one of my brothers… from the club. Haven't seen any of them since…" he trailed off, feeling his heart begin to race, once more.

"Take a deep breath. Okay, exhale. You're alright, JC. You're in a safe place," his therapist coached him, eyeing him with concern.

"I didn't think I'd ever see any of 'em again. Thought I was dead to them," he mumbled, burying his face in his hands, struggling to regulate his breathing.

"He's going to tell Filip he saw me," he said finally, after several minutes of painful silence.

"Filip?" Dr. Knowles asked.

Juice nodded. "Yeah. You know… I told you about him… he was my…" he paused, frowning. "My best friend," he said firmly, sighing heavily.

Dr. Knowles frowned. "I thought you'd said he was more than a friend, JC," she said gently.

Juice frowned, cracked his knuckles. "Yeah…" he mumbled, looking down at his feet. "We never… you know, but I kinda figured he knew how I felt…" he trailed off, began picking at his cuticles.

"There's nothing wrong with being bisexual, JC."

"I was trying to forget about him, doc," Juice noted, shaking his head. "If I pretended that he was gone, I didn't have to think about it. But Hap, he said his name, and it all came rushing back."

His therapist remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"It makes me feel sick. Not because… not because it's him. Because the club would call me a faggot if they knew I felt that way about another man…." he paused, picking more at his cuticles, drawing blood.

"JC," his therapist interrupted, shooting him a pointed look. "You're engaging in a behavior," she reminded him, nodding at his bloody cuticles.

"Shit," he swore, accepting a Kleenex from the woman. He dabbed at his hands, slipping them under his thighs, to distract himself from continuing to pick.

"What exactly makes you feel sick, thinking about Filip?" Dr. Knowles asked, nodding encouragingly.

Juice sighed, stared down at his feet. "Prison. Having… thoughts about him, wanting to do things with him… it brings back shit that happened while I was inside. When I was…" he trailed off, biting nervously at his lower lip.

"You can say it, JC. Own your past."

"When I was raped. Thinking about wanting to be… desiring Filip, it makes me think about the rape. And it makes me feel sick," he said lowly, voice barely above a whisper.

"You said before that you haven't experienced any sexual desire since you were released from prison. This is the first time you've had thoughts about intimacy since then?" she asked.

Juice nodded. "Yeah," he agreed, worrying at his lip, drawing blood.

Juice returned home from therapy, taking care to lock the door behind him. He knew he was being paranoid, that no one was coming for him, but still, the old practiced habit of locking both deadbolts was comforting to him. He tidied his apartment, scrubbing at non-existent dirt until his muscles ached from fatigue. Exhausted, he undressed, curling up in bed. He stared at his phone, biting at his lip as he reviewed the unread emails in his inbox. He froze at the sight of a familiar name. Filip Telford. "Shit," he mumbled, finger hovering over the screen, considering his next course of action. He closed his eyes, dropping the phone onto the bed beside him. Tomorrow, he told himself. I'll read what he has to say tomorrow.