burningxheaven

"Fuckin' hell Nico," Jason rasped out. It was all he could manage, and he didn't wait for a response. He just moved to bring it in and clap a hand to uncle's backside. "Proud enough to give me a hand?" A low laugh rumbled off his chest. "C'mon, lemme give ya the fuckin' tour, ol' man."

"Yes, give me the tour. I want to see everything. I also want to know everything you have been up to while I was away. How has the city been and all that crap too."

"Y'really want me to be the asshole to run this shit?" Jason went on, saying it like he needed to hear the words come out of his own damn mouth to actually believe them. "You're fuckin' with me, right? Both of ya.”

There was a pause, then a loud, humorless scoff that followed, filling the longing silence and echoing gruffly off the warehouse walls—his warehouse walls.

Jason didn't know what else to say. His jaw flexed once, then twice, but his answer was stuck somewhere in his throat, thick and suffocating, lodged between a knot of disbelief and something far more dangerous—that Damian wasn’t fucking with him; he was dead fucking serious.

Suddenly, those blues, usually so sharp, so piercing, looked too damn bright in the warehouse lighting. He blinked—hard, sizing up the space once again. Then, he looked over at Sophia, who was still jumping, and finally over to Damian, his president, his best friend. The excitement in his tone was a solid, undeniable. And like hell, Jason would refuse the call. He straightened himself up, squaring his shoulders like he might as well have been strapping on battle armor.

"Fuck it," Jason finally manned up. “Yeah, alright, let’s do this shit." He paused, then nodded his gratitude to Damian and nudged Sophia—the right asshole for the job through and through. “Drop and gimme 20, Soph.”

"We want you to run this place, Jay. It's yours. I will, of course, help, and I'm sure Ox and Hero will want to be involved, but it's all you, bud. Jay's boxing or whatever the hell you want to call it.

D waited and watched Jay's reaction; he wasn't one of outward emotion, but he knew all the excitement was reeling through his head, all those emotions he never showed.

Damian's smug spread wider into a smile as Jason agreed, "Ya hear that, Soph? We are doing this shit!" He said with a small laugh as she jumped on him and he picked her up.

"Oh shit. We are starting now, baby girl. You'd better get to work, and you better not disappoint." He teased, his voice was light and encouraging. She knew it wasn't out of a place of pressure. He dropped her on her feet, and she got right to work, doing the most horrid push-ups ever. "This is so much better than ballet!"

It was both awkward and comforting being around her sister. She felt connected to her, yet Brooklyn was a stranger now, no longer the older sister she'd once shared a bond with. The realization left the younger Pierce sibling feeling muddled, lost in a tangle of emotions she couldn't quite comprehend. "Cool, cool… yeah." Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she slowly rocked back and forth on the heels of her worn Vans. "Me? Just chilling… you know." She sighed, then quickly added, "You hear about what happened at the pit the other night?" A sickening feeling washed over her as the flashes returned, sending her back to that moment.

"I don't want to go into details… I just.. I want to say I'm sorry." The apology lingered in the air before Rav finally turned to take in her sister. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you."

Brooklyn shook her head. "You don't have to apologize Rav." She said softly. The last thing she wanted was Rav feeling guilty. "I didn't give you any reason to trust me to listen to me. That's on me for burning that bridge." She paused as she took a step closer, "I just hope that with some time, we could build a new one?"

"Neo…" Ivory sank into the tender flesh of her lower lip, delicate fingers constricting around her clipboard. "You'll be with me today." But the words tremor, her breathing a struggle to settle. "Um, this way, please…"

He schooled his expression; it was blank, sharp, and every bit of icy as he followed her back into the room. He needed to contain, to stay in control. He couldn't let his ugly side get the better of him. She wasn't deserving of that. She left him. She shouldn't get his anger. He should be indifferent

But he couldn't pull that off. Not as the door clicked closed behind him and he was stepping in close to her, taking in her scent, every little freckle on her face, ber pump lips. "What the actual fuck, Libby."

He was looking down at it for a long while, long enough for his words to hold some weight and for Brooklyn to tease him about them. “Nah, not like that.” Jason said, but didn’t elaborate—couldn’t.

There was just something so oddly sobering about the drunken honesty. The weight of it like a gut punch. It jabbed right where the warmth of the alcohol and the nostalgia of the past had settled in the pit of his stomach, bringing with it a renewed sense of clarity Jason hadn't asked for but didn’t fight. 

He wasn't eighteen anymore, and he didn't want to be. 

“Y’know what,” Jason went on, his eyes finally lifting up from the empty glass. "Just forget ‘bout it—the whole thing was fuckin’ stupid.” he shook his head, giving her a short, rough wave of his hand like the movement alone could take back the words. “But I’ll hear out whateva ya gotta say to me.” 

His brow ticked up next. Brooklyn must have been more shitfaced than she was letting on, because Jason had been talking to the woman behind the bar when he’d asked to put the drinks on the MC’s tab. He didn't get the chance to clarify before Brooklyn was up and out of her seat. She was going on about fights and ideas and trust with a familiar glint in her eye that Jason had come to learn only meant one thing: trouble.

“Nah—c'mon. Not fuckin' here." Jason tried to stop her, his hand shooting out and closing in on nothing but the stale air. “Goddammit.” He gritted his teeth as she scampered off, bringing that same hand back up to his forehead like tomorrow’s hangover hit him right then and there.

It wasn't just that he still didn’t trust her. O’Malley’s was an MC spot; he was a regular, muscle for them from time to time. He wasn't about to burn a bridge in the name of the good ol' days—not when the Veil was still at large. And sure as hell not when they were on the payroll. All he wanted was to knock back a few cold ones, catch a buzz, and watch the game in peace. Not relive some bullshit they used to do back in the day. 

Yet, Jason still pulled himself upright. The movement in his ribs was stiffer than usual but never enough to keep that old, familiar rush at bay. He knew what to do with it—what that punk-ass kid would do—and he choked that shit down, far down. He could play along—but on his terms. 

Jason waited until the last play. The Yanks clinched, and he pumped a quiet fist just as other patrons flooded the bar to celebrate, completely obscuring his view of Brooklyn. That's when Jason caught the eye of the other bartender, sweetheart—an older woman the enforcer had come to respect over the years. She was the anchor of O'Malley's, could manage a dozen rowdy bikers without even batting a lash, and like hell Jason was about to get on her shit list. 

“This, too.” He mouthed as he reached over and helped himself to the Jameson behind the counter. “And give yourself a fat-ass tip.” She shot him a knowing glance, and Jason tapped the bottle against the counter as his confirmation. The MC was good for it.

Then, Jason made a clean break for the door, drawing his hood to really sell it. He waited outside with his boot kicked up to the brick beside the entrance. The bottle was dangling from his fist, and those blues—they narrowed, then sharpened. "You're gettin' slow."

The kind of drunk that brought out the reckless carefree side of her that had her skipping through the bar trynna distract the bartender. Brooklyn wasn't very up to date with the MC business, what bars belonged to where, tabs, and all that shit. She knew this was one of his favorite spots, though.

She had a feeling Jason would follow her wherever she dragged him. In her heart, she was helping. He needed this distraction, to have some good memories and remember baby. She also enjoyed spending time with him, but she wouldn't admit that to me. Admit that this night has been great so far.

Brooklyn talked to the younger bartender, capturing his attention by some random ass question, though everyone's attention fell on the screens as the last play of the game went out and the Yankees were able to secure a win.

Looks like they will have something to celebrate tonight.

Once she saw Jason move for the two, she saluted the bartender, raising her forehead and waving off like a soldier before spinning on her heel and skipping out. Brooklyn pulled her bottom lip between her teeth in an attempt to hide the shit-eating grin on her face as she looked at him with his head pulled up and the bottle in her hand.

"I am not!" She protested as she gave him a light yet playful punch to the arm. "These shoes were not made for running." She said as she kicked her leg out to show off a dazzling pair of silver heels. "Come on." She said as she opened the car door that was waiting for them. "Does a grampa like you with a flip phone know what an Uber is?" She asked as she slid into the seat.

Brooklyn made a point of not telling him where they were going. That little spot they loved so much down at the beach. There was something about it that let them sit in silence and enjoy each other's company. Some nights they would talk a lot, and others they would just enjoy the view.

It was the place she learned the most about him, and it could bring him some ease. She could see it in the way he carried himself, the tightness in his shoulders, and the ice behind his eyes. He was on edge, and who could blame him with the veil running around.

"Please tell me you have upgraded from the Nokia by now." She said as she looked over at him, knowing that was not the case. "It's giving Gibbs from NCIS."

Avoiding Neo Mancuso had been a battle. For three and a half years, she had done nothing but try to remain invisible, a shadow of the past, better forgotten than remembered. That hadn’t stopped her from missing him every day that slipped by. But fate was cruel. Despite all her efforts, they were now on the same team, and she could no longer remain a whisper.

"Mancuso," Glassy hues goggled at the back of his head, her heart enmeshed violently behind her ribcage, the sound reverberating in her ears. "-you're next…"

He went on to join the NHL and he had a few good seasons with his former team. But now he was in a new city, new apartment, new arena and a new team. He was drafted and now he was starting all over again making bonds, building relationships with his teammates and coaches. Neo was scrolling on his phone when his name was called out, the voice was soft, yet familiar. And when his head snapped up, his eyes meeting her's there were flames growing inside him, on the verge of escaping. His head tilted to the side in disbelief, utter shock written between his face for a split second before he schooled it in. "Libby?"

He was looking at the far wall now like he had the gym already mapped out in his head. Heavy bags, speed bags, weights, mats and an octagon dead in the center of it all. His knuckles curled, then slowly relaxed like his fist could already feel the rush, the pain, the fire of stepping into that imaginary cage—a void throwing drunks out of the Pitt and brawling for cash never could seem to truly fill.

And damn, Jason missed it.

“Not a bad cover for the other shit, too.” He ran calloused thumb over the edge of his jaw, snapping back to the logistics. “Just gotta find the right asshole to run the joint." His shoulders lifted into a shrug as he looked between Damian and his daughter. "Maybe Soph knows a guy."

Damian hummed in responce, it would be a good cover for the place, just what they need. "Got anyone in mind Soph?" He looked down at his daughter as she started jumping up and down. "Uncle Jay, Uncle Jay!" SHe cheered and a smile crossed his face.

"What do you say Jay? Want to open a gym here? I think Soph thinks you are just the right asshole for the job." He said with some excitiment in his bones. This could be the next big them for them, something they could do together too.

for: @burningxheaven (carrigan) where: dressing room at bergdorf goodman

Tallulah was on a mission now, rummaging through expensive dress after expensive dress in her fitting room suite. She tossed each away like she would last week’s edition of Harper’s Baazar, nothing seeming to match the vision Tallulah had etched into her mind for the upcoming charity gala she was organizing. She wanted something slightly tighter, a little shorter, more low-cut perhaps? Classy, of course, but an ensemble with just enough va va voom to say she was ready to get back on the horse after James' passing, and nothing was going to hold her down now. 

“Car–!” Tallulah called out from behind the velvet curtain, half-zipped in a Tom Ford number that was all wrong for her. “Absolutely nothing’s working." She sighed loudly, her magnificent pout adorning her high cheekbones now. "Please tell me you're at least having more luck than I am.”

"Let me see what you got on." She said as she looked at herself in the larger mirrors. "I love this dress, but this dress doesn't love me. You would think I worked my ass off to get my body back after Lily destroyed me, only to look this bad in a dress." She let out an exhale as she waited for her friend to come out.

He looked over at Brooklyn more directly now, his eyes less shadowed, more honest. “Then ya got nothin’ to be afraid of.” Jason told her, leaning in just enough to make sure he was heard over the clank of pint glasses and the scrape of pool cues. "Cuz ya never disappointed me.” At least, that’s not what Jason would have called it, not exactly. Guys like him knew better—or should've, than to count on anyone other than themselves or be more than just a threat that everyone kept at arm's length. 

Then, lower, much lower, almost inaudible against the ball game on TV, the booze betrayed him, giving Jason up like it was facing twenty-five to life with no shot at parole. “But no one knocked the wind outta me like y’did though, and I've taken some fuckin’ brutal hits.” Jason paused only to huff out a breath, the sound bittersweet in a way that could only be blamed on the whiskey. “Scared the shit outta me, too.”

He stared down at the near empty glass that had ratted him out, shoulders lifting into a shrug while the corner of his mouth twitched into something that resembled a half-hearted smirk. “Always did.” Still might, even after everything. 

And, he hated it.

Jason couldn't have knocked back the rest of his whiskey faster, the burn still flaring in his chest when his attention snapped back to the Alina of it all. "Ya don't owe me an explanation or anythin',” he told her. Not anymore, not since they split, and Jason wanted to be clear on that. "But if ya wanna tell me,” he went on, setting his cup back down to the counter. “I’ll hear ya out on it."

At the rambles that followed, Jason didn’t say anything at first. Just huffed a low breath and shook his head as Brooklyn talked in a long circle. Because in that instant, it was like nothing had changed even though everything had. Like he was still eighteen in that same neighborhood dive watching those same damn Yanks about to blow the playoffs while Brooklyn was going on about something he was only half-listening to.

When Jason finally spoke, he almost laughed. Almost. He gave her a quick nod instead, recalling how the rest of that night unfolded. Somewhere in between the heckling and the shove Jason pressed squarely to the prick's chest New York managed to pull through all those years ago. “Yeah, it was.” He said, his eyes remaining fixed on the TV ahead. “Got us a win that night, too.”

It was the bottom of the ninth now, New York at bat with it all on the line, three outs away from repeating history. “Nah, c’mon, don’t do that.” Jason actually turned away from the ball game. For once, it wasn’t a pride thing—just a business thing. “Put it all on my tab, sweetheart.” He pushed his empty cup to the bartender, and like hell he was taking no for an answer.

Then, he turned back to Brooklyn. “The MC’s,” he clarified, though he figured she already had somewhat of an idea of what that really meant. “Y’know the club rate and shit. It'd just be stupid if ya paid.”

As he looked at her now, she felt herself relaxing somewhat, "Yeah?" she questioned. She thought she had disappointed him several times by now. She knew she wasn't perfect, far from it. And maybe it was trying to live up to her own expectations of herself that was her ultimate downfall. Jason always looked at her like she was worth a billion bucks.

"Well, good. I would have hated it if I did." She said softly, She knew she fucked up in the past. They were young and dumb. They made mistakes. She knew what she had to do to gain his trust back and build a semblance of a foundation on which they once relied. She wouldn't stop trying until she succeeded, until they were on better terms again.

And the first step was in the right direction.

Brooklyn leaned in at his words; they were low and barely audible, but they were there. She felt her lips part and a small gasp escape at his words, and a pink blush cross her cheeks. "I wondered why you were always so breathless. I just chalked it up to you being out of shape or something." An obvious tease, as he was the farthest thing from out of shape.

"Feelings do that to you, though, leave you a bit scared." She knew that well. It was the main reason she hadn't told him sooner. Fear of losing him, irrational yet strong. She wished she were stronger back then, braver. They could have been so great together if she had opened up and fixed their other issues, too.

Brooklyn watched as he knocked back the rest of his drink, and she evened herself out at the bar, letting her gaze drift away from him. "I know I don't owe you one, but I do." She paused, "Want to tell you." Maybe it was what she needed to finally put that mess behind her. She had been holding on to it, letting the guilt sit at the back of her mind as a constant dull ache, never fully leaving her alone.

Brooklyn liked the feeling. Of the warmth the alcohol brought, but also how familiar this felt. Like no time had changed. They were those dumb kids all over again. Except now Brooklyn could hold her alcohol... a little better.

"You did always look good defending the yankee's honor in a sexy ass bar fight." She said with a soft laugh. She did mean that, though; she loved watching him fight. He was so talented and good at it. She wasn't one to shy away or cry to be careful or be overly concerned when he came home with bruises.

"Okay, okay. I'll let you win this time." She said with a bubbly smile, "Only because I love it when you call me sweetheart. Do it again." She leaned on the bar and looked up at him with a smile. She missed this. Missed nights like these. Missed him.

Brooklyn slammed her hand down and jumped off the barstool. She briefly grabbed his arm to stabilize herself before looking at him with wide eyes. "I got an idea!" She said brightly, a big smile on her face, the devious kind. It was paired with a familiar twinkle in her eye, one that said they were in for a good time and she wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Do you trust me?" She paused before shaking her head. "You know what? Don't answer that. We know you don't. Just go with it anyway." She said as she waggled her brows at him. She picked up the glass the bartender just set down and took a drink. "Drink up." She said as she whipped out her phone and ordered an Uber. "I'll distract the bartender. I believe you know what your job is. Just like the good old days, Jajy."

She raised her hand to her forehead and gave Jason a salute before chugging the rest of her glass and moving down the bar and calling over the bartender, leaning over the bar and twirling her hair to obtain all of his attention.

"A punching gym, daddy.” Sophia piped up before Jason could and poked a bruise at his knuckle. “Uncle Jay needs more practice. He keeps getting beat up.” His stare shot down to the little girl, all that tactical focus gone. Then, Jason laughed—he actually laughed, a rough bark of a sound that rolled off his chest.

“Damn, pipsqueak. That's cold.” He smirked and gave her a low-five before looking over to Damian. “Kid’s onto somethin' though.”

Damian's eyebrows raised, and he pressed his lips together at Soph's words. It was definitely a good idea. "You think?" He said with a smile, "Yeah, Uncle Jay, what is with that? I thought you were supposed to be a good fighter." He teased along with his daughter.

"What do ya say, Soph? Should we make Uncle Jay a better area to practice?" He paused, "You may be right Jay. I do think she's onto something. And, I think it's right up your alley."

His calloused fingers curled into a half-fist on the bar top, a reflex against the pull of the past, and he focused on the present now. The way Brooklyn challenged him right back and saw right through the empty threat—always did. “Bankin' on it." He didn't waver, holding her gaze like a challenge of its own. “Cuz ya never were afraid of me.” And that was something that still seemed to be true.

There was a pause, enough time for Jason to take one last look at the phone screen—at Brooke, Brookie, Alina. Whoever the hell she was back then. Then, for his eyes to drag back up again to Brooklyn, meeting not just her eyes but the firmness in her voice and the weight behind her words. It was grounding, and he probably should have given her more credit. Because even with all their shit, she still knew exactly where to find him, was still clocking his cheap shots, and still didn’t back down from them.

He gave her the smallest nod—one of those nods that said more than his words ever could. His way of telling her that he finally saw what she was trying to do too, the effort she was making. And that beneath all the scars and hardened edges the recognition of it was there, somewhere.

“Guess that’s why ya picked it, huh Brookie.” Jason used the old nickname on purpose. There was no heat to his words. No judgement, no ill will either. Just something that passed for understanding—or rather, trying to, a ceasefire in the wake of the Camaro. And a step towards wrapping his thick skull around the confession she'd laid on him months ago. Getting your shit rocked in a car wreck would do that to you.

At her quip, Jason merely shook his head and leaned back into his seat, pressing his shoulder blades to the back of the stool. “Yeah, yeah,” he didn't fight her on it for the sake of moving on from this part of the conversation, voice low, steeled in that infamous gruffness he wore like a second skin. "I can live with that.”

Then, Jason shot Brooklyn a sideways glance and watched her drain half her drink. It was with the kind of swiftness that no amount of whiskey could wash away, but hell, he wasn’t about to stop her from trying. Nah—he was about to do the same and go sip for sip like they had some unspoken pact of needing to take the edge off.

He raised the glass, his eyes lifting to the briefly forgotten ball game on the TV. The Yankees were at bat again now with only an inning to go and everything on the line. “Nah, it was Chicago—White Sox." Jason told her, stretching his knuckles as if they remembered that game too and the wisecrack that got his ass thrown out. "Prick wouldn't stop runnin' his mouth." He shook his head, then took a long pull of his drink. "What 'bout him?"

Brooklyn let out a soft laugh, "Oh, never. You were not the slightest bit scary, I saw right through those frozen blue eyes as you started me down, that gun pulled and thought, wow, this kid is so dam cute, I could pinch your cheeks." She teased lightly. "Never scared of you." She paused. In a much softer whisper, "just disappointing you." A fear she let come true, and she was right to be afraid of it; she hated that feeling of disappointing him and yet she had done it a few times.

The club. The backroom, the Alina.

The thing about Jason was his face, movements, and expressions said more than his words ever could, and she learned how to read him. A quirk of his lip was his version of a smile; his tone was everything, and the intensity of his eyes could change the meaning of a sentence. The small nod told her what she needed to know. Recognition of effort, and she was trying like hell.

Brooklyn tilted her head to the side with a big smile as he called her Brookie. "Yeah, Maybe. I could have gone with anything." She said with a small nod. His tone now was different than the past few times the topic came up; this time, it was free of judgment. It wasn't out of malice. She never told him the whole story, though she was sure she would need another drink for that. She's never told anyone the whole story. Henry took the small bits of info and said Okay, she barely gave anything to Oxana. "I had a good reason for it all, you know." She pauses as she looks away from him. "Reasons I can get into here," She looked around, not in public. "But I'll tell you everything. If you ever want to know."

It's a peace offering, an explanation. So maybe someday he won't blame himself or have a dozen questions.

Brooklyn pressed her lips together and let out a pop sound as he graciously moved the conversation along. This wasn't the time to fall into that sad shit and get all deep and emotional. Well, Jason doesn't get emotional.

It wasn't the first time they went tit for tat in a bar, and likely wouldn't be their last. In these moments, though Brooklyn could hold her own, each drink was getting closer to not being true. Each one she poured down, she could feel the alcohol flush grow warmer on her cheeks and the warmth inside spread.

She let out a small laugh, "I don't know. I just remember him being so mad." She said with a smile. "We just kinda didn't help, egging him on and shit with the heckling." She looked back up at the TV. "I wasn't sure where I was going with that, but you know. It was another good memory."

"Excuse me," She called out to the bartender, "We will take another round please." Before she looked over at Jason. "Don't worry. This one's on me. I probably owe you for something, and if I don't, consider it payment for emotional damage or something."

“Dirt cheap is right, huh Soph.” Jason joked, giving her an Uncle Jay style nudge before she busied herself with Damian's phone. “Ya did good though, bro.” His voice trailed, a low, satisfied rumble. “Place really is huge. Big enough to run three friggin’ Butcheries out of if ya wanted. What the hell we gunna do with all this space?”

"Honestly I don't know. We could do anything with it." He said honestly. "We obviously need space for the butchery, and something as a front. Then we can really do what we want with the rest, I am open to ideas. What would you do with the space, Jay?" He looked around. "I don't want another club or anything along those lines."