#soa requests

He realised his error as soon as you started at his barked query, precariously perched as you were at the top of a step-ladder and trying to lift a heavy framed print into position.

He was across the room in three strides to grab you and steady the ladder, before manoeuvring the artwork out of your now shaky hands, setting it down with only a little care and then hoisting you over his shoulder with only a little more.

“Hap!” you protested, as he carried you towards the bedroom and unceremoniously dumped you in the centre of the bed. “I nearly had it!”

“What, a broken neck?” he growled. “Told ya I’d do it.”

“Months ago,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes.

“Been busy,” he shrugged, rubbing a hand over his shaven head. “Ain’t like it’s going nowhere.”

“Clearly not on the wall,” you grumbled, making his eyes narrow dangerously.

Grown men would have baulked at that look, but not you. Because the leather and denim clad biker in front of you wasn’t Samcro’s lethal enforcer when he was with you, just the man you had – admittedly against the odds – fallen in love with.

He shrugged off his cut and you smirked in anticipation, leaning back on your elbows on the bed. Only for your face to fall when he turned on his heel and walked out.

“Happy!”

Realising his stubborn ass had gone to put an end to your nagging over the issue once and for all, you flumped back on the bed and let your eyes drift closed, disgruntled that you had got your way, but also done yourself out of precious time that could have been … spent in other ways.

Still, it was only one damn picture, how long could it take?

With that in mind, you hastily shimmied out of your jeans, leaving on the old button-down shirt of Hap’s you’d been wearing around the house, but undoing a few buttons – and then a few more for good measure. Until, in the end, there was just one button holding it closed over your lacy bra and panties. An impish grin tugged at your lips as you let your hair down and raked a hand through it to let it fall rumpled over your shoulders.

A quick check in the mirror, a slick of lip gloss and a dab of your favourite perfume and you dropped casually back onto the bed to lounge against the pillows and wait for your man to reappear.

But as the minutes stretched on, you got impatient and curious as to what the hell he could be doing. Then you heard the crash.

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

Oh shit. Scrambling off the bed, you ran barefoot to investigate, only to stop dead when you realised what must have happened.

God knows how it had happened or why, but your never-do-anything-by-halves man had managed to drive not just the nail into the wall, but the hammer as well, dropping the print in the process and smashing the glass. Which would explain the blood.

“Jesus, Hap,” you managed, once you realised he wasn’t quite as badly hurt as you’d feared, and trying to supress a smile at the outraged look on his face that things had not gone as planned. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Remind me to leave shit well enough alone?” he suggested darkly.

“You’re cute when you’re fucking furious,” you said, daring to offer him a small smile as you took his hand to examine the damage.

“Ow!”

“Baby,” you teased, something few would dare and even fewer would do and live to tell the tale. “Would a kiss help?”

“Depends what you’re kissing,” Happy said gruffly, having just realised the view he was getting. If there was one thing his possessive ass loved more than seeing you in his clothes, it was seeing you half out of them.

“If that’s how your mind’s working, I guess I can assume you’ll live,” you said archly, having satisfied yourself there was no glass embedded in his hand and the bleeding had almost stopped already.

He glared down at you, but anything he was about to say got lost when you kissed his fingers softly, looking up at him through long lashes as you sucked on the tip of one uninjured digit for just a moment, biting your lip coyly when you released him.

“Got this mess to clear up …” he started roughly, but you suspected he was only trying to provoke you – and this was one thing you weren’t prepared to wait for any longer.

Slowly undoing that one remaining button, you let that borrowed shirt slip to the floor and cocked your head to one side as you looked at him.

I was just lost, I couldn’t tell what was good in the world anymore, but I hid it from everyone. Something told me that there was no one who could help me, that there was no way to make it better. I was trying to be happy again, but no matter what I did I just couldn’t. I couldn’t tell him though. I had to keep it to myself. I had taken to harming myself to feel better, it helped for a while, but again I was so lost in my head. I couldn’t see what everyone else saw in the world.

This had started when the guys had gone away for a short time, I had needed help. I had been fine until one night when I just needed him. I got home and the fact that he wasn’t there made it worse because I couldn’t hide in his arms away from the demons inside my head. I needed to let them out, so I had picked up the razor and that was the first cut. Many had followed over the last few months.

Tonight, though I was alone again, I knew he would be home soon, but I needed to do something. I needed the thoughts to go away. The ones telling me that I wasn’t enough. So here I was sat on the bathroom floor, staring at the razor in my hands. I made the first cut slowly, but once the pain started to go away in my head. I made more, the physical pain was easier to handle than the mental.

I was so lost in my head that I hadn’t realized he was home. That he was heading my way, he was calling my name. I was watching the blood seep slowly out of the shallow cuts I had made. “Babe?” I head him question, I looked up realizing the door was open I tried to hide my arms. I hadn’t moved fast enough though. “Babe!” he yelled moving towards me quick. “What are you doing?” he questioned reaching for the first thing he could to wipe the excess blood away.

“I don’t know” I told him honestly. “Making it better” I took a guess at it.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” he whispered. “I could help you” he was almost in tears now.

“I don’t know.” I whispered, tears forming in my eyes. “I don’t know” he pulled me towards him, hugging me to him.

“It’s ok. Everything will be ok. I am here” he whispered in my ear, rubbing my back. Once my tears had started to taper off, he let me move away from him a bit, so we could look at one another. “Let’s move to the bed so I can clean these and wrap them up” he said. Helping me off the floor. Leaving the mess for now.

I let him clean me up then he sat next to me. “If you ever feel this bad again. Call me. I don’t care how busy I am. I will always come to you. I will always be here for you.”

“I know. I know you will Juice.” I said. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you.”

It was a huge burden on his shoulders and, for all his usual confidence and authority, there was worry etched between his brows. You hated knowing you were a big factor in adding to that.

With a sigh, you let a hand rest lightly on the huge swell of your stomach. You had to admit you didn’t exactly need all this right now, not at just coming up on thirty-seven weeks pregnant and with the finishing touches still to be done on the nursery and so much still to organise.

You were exhausted and yet here you were, doing what you could to be of practical help and to show your support for your old man.

“Go lie down, baby – we can manage,” Gemma scolded yet again, on her way past with another armful of blankets to make their guests more comfortable. “You look worn out.”

“Thanks,” you managed, through gritted teeth, rolling your eyes at Gemma’s usual bluntness and too stubborn to be dismissed even if it was for your own good. “I’m fine…”

But you trailed off with a pained expression, your other hand going to the small of your back as the dull ache you couldn’t seem to shake only deepened.

“You good, doll?” Lyla stopped briefly in her tracks to check in, but she had her hands full too, trying to feed the impatient little kids who’d been voicing their needs loudly amid ongoing groans over being kept shut up inside, so she accepted your less-than-convincing nod more quickly than she otherwise might.

So left to your own devices again, you took a deep, steadying breath. Goddamn Braxton Hicks contractions. You’d been having them all damn day and… Really? Had it really been that long? Normally, they passed much quicker than that…

No. No, it couldn’t be. You had at least another three weeks to go – not to mention a lockdown to get through!

Maybe you would have that lie-down after all.

*****

“Jax?”

“What, mom?” the biker finally snapped, more sharply than he normally would, riled at having his attention diverted from a quick situation update from his grim-faced sergeant.

Gemma’s eyes narrowed in warning at his tone, but she let it slide, knowing full well the pressure on her son’s shoulders right now. And that she could well be about to add to it.

“Oh, nothing important,” she snarked nonetheless. “Just the small matter of your old lady. You know, the heavily pregnant one?”

That was enough to cut through Jax’s focus on the club and he was immediately on a red alert of a different kind. “What about her? She okay?” he demanded. “Where is she?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing… No one’s seen her in a while.”

“What?! Shit. Well, she can’t have left – no one’s left. Jesus, how do you lose a pregnant woman in here?” Jax bit out, raking a hand through his blond hair. “Sorry, Hap, I gotta go deal with this.”

*****

Gasping in pain, you tilted your head back against the seat, now regretting the seemingly bright idea of taking the weight off your feet in the rare peace of the big old car that had been left in for a service at TM before the shutters had been forced to come down. With every dorm room already full, it had seemed like the best chance of just sitting back and holding on until the pains you’d been experiencing had passed. And you had still been telling yourself they would pass. That there was no way you could be so unlucky as to be in labour in the middle of a lockdown.

Ha, if only that were true.

Trying to remember everything you’d been told about breathing, you couldn’t hold back a cry in response to a particularly strong contraction.

“Oh god, please not now…” you all but sobbed, realising that even if you called out for help, it was highly unlikely anyone back in the main clubhouse would hear you.

But just as panic was about to set it, you heard your old man’s voice calling your name, concern already obvious in his tone. And somehow you found the strength to respond.

“Jax, I’m here!”

“What the hell are you doing out here? I’ve—Oh, shit!”

As soon as you saw him staring at you, you could let your eyes close in relief, knowing at least you weren’t alone in this now.

“Now? Seriously?” he grimaced, before quickly realising that wasn’t exactly the reassurance you needed. “Hey, hey, easy now, darlin’. It’s gonna be okay. We can call an ambulance and see if--”

“I … I think it’s too late for that …” you managed, panting for breath. “I’m so sorry, Jax. I thought it was just Braxton Hicks and--”

You broke off with another cry of pain, making your old man wince in response.

“Fuck,” he swore. “Okay, two seconds, I swear – I’ll be two seconds.”

“Jackson!” you yelped. “Don’t leave me, you asshole!”

“Two seconds!” he hollered back, dashing towards the clubhouse, yelling for his vice president at the top of his lungs – literally turning on his heel and racing back to you as soon as he’d managed to get the attention of a startled Chibs and had the Scotsman running to catch up with him, convinced they were all mere moments from being blown sky-high. Again.

But Chibs skidded to a halt when he realised the truth of the situation, his eyes widening.

“Ah, Jesus Christ, Jacky – I’m no a fucking midwife, brother!” he declared in alarm.

But seeing you sobbing in pain as you caught your old man’s hand in a death grip, the VP crossed himself, kissed the rosary that hung around his neck and heaved a heavy sigh.

“Towels, hot water, and a bottle o’ whisky,” he ordered.

“She can’t drink in her condition,” Jax protested.

“The whisky’s fer me,” Chibs clarified.

*****

It was rare for the clubhouse to fall so quiet in the middle of a lockdown, but with word about what was going on having spread, a hush had fallen over all those now waiting for news – or at least a hush periodically broken by screams drifting through from the garage, making the mothers among those gathered exchange sympathetic, knowing looks, while even the most battle-hardened Sons could only cringe in something close to horror.

And in the backseat of that godforsaken car you’d sought refuge in, you no longer gave a shit who heard what as you struggled in agony, exhausted by your body’s efforts.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” you panted, your hair sweaty and falling in your flushed face. “Please, just make it stop.”

“I know, darlin’, I know,” Jax tried to soothe you, his hand still caught in your death grip, but his well-meaning words enough to make you round on him with renewed energy.

“Do you? Do you really, Jackson? Are you also pushing something the size of a watermelon out of your vagina, darlin’?” you snapped, your voice rising shrilly. “Oh my fucking god, someone just get this baby OUT OF ME!”

Chibs could only chuckle, looking at you over the top of his glasses as he patted your knee gently while your words turned into a roar as you pushed through yet another agonising contraction. “Atta girl. Come on now, lass – nearly there…”

“I can’t…”

“You can, baby,” Gemma coaxed, from where she was hovering anxiously in the background with an armful of towels. “And you’re damn well going to – I want to meet that grandbaby of mine!”

You could only grit your teeth at that, more than tempted to take out all your pain and discomfort on everyone around you, but starting to lack the energy for that. Just when you really did think you couldn’t take much more though, it was done.

And a small whimper turned into a full-throated cry.

“Welcome to the Reaper Crew, wee fella,” Chibs declared, shooting you and Jax a little grin, tears shining even in his brown eyes as he laid the tiny wriggling bundle in your arms.

“A son,” you whispered tearfully, trying not to cry, even as Jax blatantly wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, his arm curled protectively around your shoulders. “We have a son.”

But he’d agreed to catch up with some fellow former nomads in a bar they used to frequent back in the day and had ended up drinking more than he’d intended. Not that he couldn’t hold his liquor. But yeah, all things considered, it had been a weird night. So much had changed. Just not for him.

Tank cutting out early had been the final straw. It turned out the burly biker who’d left the nomad life behind to land with the Samdino crew a couple of years ago, a man who had once swore he needed nothing more than his bike and his cut, now had an old lady and twin babies to consider. Tank, for Christ’s sake. Two babies.

Happy – fearless, intimidating Happy – found the mere thought mildly terrifying.

Actually, of the six of them – six guys known to put the fear of god in those who dared cross them or their club, six die-hard bachelors who lived their lives on the road – four were now firmly tied down in a way they’d always vowed they never would be.

That left Mouse and Happy himself still free to indulge in whatever the hell they pleased.

Where once that would have made Happy smug though, now it rankled at him. Not least because he knew nothing would please his ma more than to see him finally settle down. Landing in Charming with the mother charter had been the compromise that allowed him to check in on her, given her advancing years and sometimes poor health. But where his Samcro brothers had old ladies, kids and community ties, he still might as well have been a nomad in all but name – living out of the clubhouse, indulging in the easy pussy that flocked to the place, but never letting anyone get too close. There just wasn’t anyone who—

“Watch it,” he growled, as someone bumped into him, sending his drink sloshing over his hand. “Or I’ll… You.”

“Uh, Happy, hey. Sorry, shit, I’m such a klutz.”

The tall, gruff Son had no idea what to say to the woman stood in front of him. He never did. Not when she was holed up in the Teller-Morrow office with Gemma, not when she was casually strolling across the yard or through the garage, and especially not when she was stood before him in some dive bar in a tiny dress that barely covered her ass, those big eyes slightly hazy with alcohol as she gazed up at him.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, genuinely surprised to see her out of her usual habitat, but realising too late that the simple question unintentionally sounded less like small talk and more like some kind of interrogation.

“Uh, you’re a little hostile right now…” she said, somewhat defensively. “I am allowed a life outside TM, you know.”

Was she? Of course, she was. Well, it depended on what she meant by a life. The concept hadn’t really crossed Happy’s mind until now, and he found himself frowning at the thought of it. As far as he was concerned, her place was in the TM office. And unwittingly starring in the vast majority of the fantasies that drifted into his mind when he wasn’t entirely focused on work.

Obviously, he realised that the scenarios he pictured all too vividly were utterly incompatible with reality. She wasn’t some croweater, easy pussy. For a start, unlike most of the club girls, she had absolutely no idea the effect she had on him. For all he knew, this life she was apparently entitled to could include a boyfriend. Husband even. The thought rankled him more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

“Just… didn’t expect to see you here,” he muttered, realising he was just staring at her and shifting his dark gaze almost guiltily from those tantalising bare legs. Taking in her plump, glossy lips instead didn’t help in the slightest.

“I’ll get you another beer,” she offered, with a little eager-to-please smile, swaying on her heels just a little as she flagged down the barman. “Since I made you spill…”

And in the end, he’d let her. That was how they’d ended up talking most of the night, slow though the conversation was to ignite. Turned out she was there with a girlfriend who’d abandoned her in favour of some guy. Going back to the clubhouse had eventually been Happy’s idea. He was just surprised it was one he’d voiced out loud – and that she’d agreed. Maybe that life of hers didn’t actually include another man after all…

So that was where they’d ended up, back at TM. Both of them were now on more comfortable turf in familiar surroundings and, having raided the clubhouse bar, well on their way towards a new level of drunkenness.

“This might be the most we’ve ever talked,” she giggled, leaning against his shoulder as they sat on top of one of the picnic tables outside in the growing darkness. “You never talk to me, Happy. Don’t you like me?”

The Samcro enforcer didn’t know how to answer that. How could a man with his reputation admit that he didn’t have the courage to talk to a woman he actually liked the idea of for more than a quick fuck? As it turned out, her own Dutch courage negated the need for an answer from him.

Instead, her mouth simply crashed onto his.

She tasted of the vodka she’d been knocking back and something sweet that might have been whatever was slicked on her lips to make them look so damn irresistible and he kissed her back with a hunger that wasn’t exactly a familiar sensation for him. For once, he didn’t just want to get his dick wet courtesy of the first willing body – he wanted her. Specifically her.

“Not here,” he growled, drunk on booze and the intoxicating scent of her perfume, but not too drunk to register that they were too close to the main door to avoid an audience for long. And he wasn’t okay with that, not with her.

Making it to his dorm room was something of a blur though, as if the world flipped into fast forward, only to grind back down to slow motion when somehow she was under him on his bed in just tiny scraps of hot pink lace. He was pretty sure those delicate panties ripped in his big hands in his determination to get them off her, but he had to have her before she drove him out of his goddamn mind.

The groan he drew from her when his tongue plundered her wet heat went straight to his cock.

“Oh god, Happy…” she moaned, her short, neat nails raking over his shaved scalp and practically sending a shiver down his spine.

Part of him wanted to just eat her out until she screamed for mercy, but another part – the part of him that was achingly hard for her – needed something more. And it seemed that was what she wanted too, as instead of complaining when he pulled away, she simply lay there breathless and taking in the sight of his lean, inked torso while he retrieved a condom from the night-stand.

His hand curled lightly around her slim throat and, in one long, slow thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, muttering dark curses at the feel of how tight she was around his throbbing cock.

“Happy…”

His name on her lips was practically a whine as her legs wrapped around his pistoning hips, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs and her hands reaching back to grip the headboard of the bed, stretching out her gloriously naked body for him.

“Fuck, yes,” she groaned, her laboured breath hot on his ear. “Harder…”

For once, Happy did as he was told.

The hand around her throat slipped downwards the fullness of her tits, cupping, squeezing the firm flesh, pinching her dusky nipples as he slowed the pace of his thrusts, wanting this to last if it was probably going to be the only chance he got.

She bit her lower lip, her head thrown back and her hips meeting his perfectly as she focused on chasing the orgasm that seemed to be brewing low in her belly.

“Happy, please…” she ground out, one hand leaving the headboard to trail down her own stomach and between her legs, her fingers grazing his slick cock as it slipped in and out of her, before finding the tiny bundle of nerves they had been seeking out.

He only let her rub frantically at her clit for a second, then firmly gripped her wrist and drew her hand away, guiding it back to the headboard with a glare and a shake of his head. If she wanted to cum, he didn’t need any fucking help getting her there.

The biker picked up the pace again, slamming into her hard and fast as she cried out in pleasure, her eyes squeezing closed. His hand cupped her cheek at that, getting her attention.

“Look at me,” Happy demanded roughly, his own breathing getting ragged with his exertions.

Her eyes opened, meeting his and he swallowed hard, letting his thumb trace over her full lower lip, prompting her to gently suck on the digit. When his hand finally slipped away, it trailed down her body, over skin flushed and covered in tiny beads of sweat, and sought out her clit just as she had.

It was somehow too much and not enough all at once and her hips arched helplessly towards his, her thighs clenching and her body trembling as she cried out.

“Oh, Happy, fuck, fuck, fuck…” she all but sobbed. “I’m… I’m gonna cum… I’m… Oh, fuuuuuck!”

With a flare of masculine pride at the response he could induce in her, Happy held out for as long as he could, jaw clenched as he fucked her through the intensity of her orgasm. But the vise-like grip of her soaked pussy around his cock quickly won out and he soon came hard and with a roar that he muffled against her throat, before collapsing down on top of her.

“Jesus…” she sighed breathlessly, as he shifted his weight off her to lie on his back by her side, trying to get his breath back and dashing sweat from his brow with his forearm.

Neither of them spoke. Nothing that came to Happy’s tongue seemed right and the silence soon stretched out between them uncomfortably, even as his brain berated him and told him he was in danger of completely fucking up whatever the hell had just happened.

Sure enough, she started to shift away from him, awkwardness creeping in and, despite what had just transpired between them, making her wrap herself in the tangled sheets and clutch them to her chest.

“Uh, I guess you probably want me to go…” she said softly.

His head snapped towards her at that, but she already had her back to him and didn’t see the look on his face.

“It’s okay,” she continued, obviously not wanting to make the whole situation any more awkward than it had to be. “I’ve been around enough to know how it works, Hap.”

“Stay.”

His low voice was rougher than ever, more hesitant than he’d ever been about anything. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Stay. Uh, please?”

She turned, wide-eyed. The Tacoma Killer didn’t say please.

“You… You don’t have to do this,” she tried hesitantly, trying to second-guess what was going on here. “One night, that’s the deal, right?”

He shrugged, feigning a casualness he really didn’t feel. “Doesn’t have to be.”

“So… not just one night?” she said, quiet and unsure, clearly mulling over what that might mean.

Tig knew, perhaps better than most, what it was to carry guilt, remorse, self-loathing. He’d been there for the near-apocalyptic series of clusterfucks that had torn right to the heart of their club and all but destroyed it, so he knew the burden Chibs now had to bear in trying to see what could be salvaged from the ashes – all while desperately trying not to ignite any simmering embers that could flare up and burn them all to the ground all over again.

But it never got any easier to see him struggle under that weight.

He was about to speak, to make his presence known, when Chibs downed whatever was left in his glass and slammed it down on the bar, before stumbling to his feet and crossing the room to stand in front of the framed mugshots of members past and present, those honoured and those who now hung upside down, crossed out, disgraced and a warning to those who may come after them not to stray too far from the club’s rules, spoken and unspoken.

Tig knew from his own reaction to that wall, once a source of pride, how deep it cut Chibs to see it now. In both their minds, Jax Teller still deserved better than to be remembered solely as having brought shame on the patch. Their young president had lost his way, had made mistakes – catastrophic mistakes at that – but he had suffered for it enough and, at the last, had owned his part in his own downfall. Those he had left behind couldn’t help but cling to their love for their young president, or else what had it all been for?

But they had to put up a façade to appease Packer and the other club presidents. They knew the enormity of Jax’s crimes and the price that had to be paid. It didn’t mean they had to like it.

But as Chibs’ hand reached out for a different photo, touching it lightly before his fingers curled into a tight fist, Tig knew there was a fate that was even more complicated for the Scot to come to terms with. He had loved Jax like a brother, like a son even. Juice … Juice had been something else.

That fist lashed out, shattering glass that bit into flesh and drew a hiss of pain, even through what was undoubtedly an alcohol-induced fog. But despite lifting the hand to examine the damage, despite seeing the shard of glass still embedded in it, Chibs only slowly clenched that fist again, forcing it deeper as blood seeped from the ragged wound.

Tig was the one who winced.

“Please don’t do this,” he blurted out, unable to witness any more of this without intervening.

Chibs slowly uncurled his fingers, never turning around. “Go home, Tiggy,” he murmured, the words slurred and his accent thicker than ever.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m gonna leave you in this fucking state,” his VP scoffed, finally galvanised into action and snatching up what he hoped was a clean cloth as he strode across the clubhouse to take charge. “Lemme see this mess. Jesus…”

He had to force himself to be less gentle than he’d have liked, for reasons he didn’t care to fully explore, but he was still careful as he examined the bloody hand Chibs had been left nursing, tutting over the shard of glass before slowly working it out and pressing the cloth to the wound to stem the bleeding. It looked worse than it was, but it was still bad enough.

“You might get away without stitches,” Tig decided. “So you wanna thank your lucky stars, brother, because I can’t sew for shit.”

“Lucky,” Chibs echoed dully, with a bitter little laugh. “Aye, that’s me – real fucking lucky. I need a damn drink…”

“No, you fucking don’t,” Tig insisted, grabbing him by the shoulders to steer him away from the bar and into a seat.

“Just leave me be, Tigger,” the weary president sighed, raking his uninjured hand through the salt and pepper of his hair. “I ain’t exactly good company right now.”

“What’s new?” Tig snarked, but there was nothing but sympathy and concern in those sharp blue eyes as he sat down opposite his closest of brothers. “You can’t go on like this, man. Ain’t right.”

“Got a choice, do I?” Chibs demanded, the raw agony in his voice and in his brown eyes making even his battle-hardened VP flinch. “Want me to throw up a rope and have done wi’ it? Like… Like Juice.”

Tig stood up so fast his chair overturned with a crash and he jabbed a furious finger in his friend’s face. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he seethed. “Don’t you fucking dare! Tell me that’s bullshit. Tell me you wouldn’t. Tell me!”

“Aye, aye, fine,” Chibs reneged, taken aback even through his haze by the strength of the response to his flippant suggestion. “Fuck, I … I ain’t taking that way out. I ain’t, brother. Sit the fuck down.”

Still furious, Tig glared at him the whole time he was righting his chair and banging it back into place, before sitting down opposite him again. “Asshole,” he snapped, his glare only intensifying when Chibs actually managed a little laugh, wiping his hand over his face.

“Ah, Tigger,” he sighed. “Good to know ya care, brother.”

“Course I fucking care, shithead,” came the heated response. “You think I stuck around for the good of my fucking health? I said I’d always have your back and I damn well meant it. So you don’t get to punk out on me like a little bitch.”

“Your TLC could use some work…”

“Fuck you.”

Chibs chuckled humourlessly. “Love you too, Tigger. You gonna at least let me have one wee drink now me hand’s stinging like a motherfucker?”

“You’ve already had the better part of one wee bottle, by the looks of things,” Tig grimaced, before relenting and getting up to retrieve a couple of glasses and the nearly empty bottle of whiskey, pouring them both a drink and downing his swiftly. He figured he had a lot of catching up to do.

Seeing Chibs’ gaze land somewhere over his shoulder, Tig looked around to follow it back to the photos on the wall and specifically to the one that now hung behind shattered glass. And not for the first time.

“Do you still think about him?”

It was a stupid question, Tig knew that. The answer couldn’t be more obvious. But it was actually the only way he could think to even broach the subject of something deeper.

“I let that lad down,” Chibs mumbled, taking another swig of his drink. “I coulda done somethin’, stopped it ever gettin’ that far.”

“He was a rat,” Tig reminded him, although not unkindly. “That’s on him.”

“He was an easy target,” Chibs shook his head. “He tried to come to me wi’ it. I didn’t hear him out. Not properly. We were all he had and I didn’t listen, didn’t see what was goin’ on in front o’ me own bloody nose.”

For a long moment, his VP could only sit in silence, musing on all the mistakes he’d made in his own life. The hurt he’d caused, to himself and his family, to others caught in his crossfire. He knew what it was to bear that burden. He didn’t want that for Chibs.

“What’s done is done,” he said finally. “Can’t change it, any of it. Can only learn from it. But you gotta let go, brother. You gotta let go or this is gonna eat you up from the inside out.”

“Easier said than done,” Chibs said quietly, his forced smile wry. “You know that.”

“I do,” Tig nodded, after a pause. “But I had you. And you’ve got me. So don’t forget that, you prick. You’ve got me. And I fucking need you. I can’t do any of this shit without you.”

Chibs looked up at the crack in his VP’s voice to find Tig was the one with his head down now. Slowly, he reached out to let his fingers trail through those wild dark curls.

“Oi,” he said roughly. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, you hear me?”

“Didn’t sound like that,” Tig mumbled. “Never does when you start talking like that.”

“Look at me,” Chibs demanded, finally trying to pull himself together at the realisation of what he’d done. “Look at me, Tigger. I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I promise you, my brother.”

“How do I know you ain’t just bullshitting me again?”

“When have I ever lied to you? About anything serious?” Chibs demanded, albeit with a swift amendment to account for the creative ways he had been known to get around his VP when he had to.

“You said you’d stop blaming yourself.”

The hurt beneath the accusatory tone stopped the Scotsman dead and he reached out to rest a hand on his VP’s shoulder. “I am trying, brother.”

“I know,” Tig sighed, covering the hand with his own ringed fingers. “I know.”

Chibs pulled him close. “Would a kiss help?” he murmured, already planting a firm kiss on the other man’s cheek.

“You ain’t getting off that light, asshole.”

Chibs could only laugh at that despite himself, his lips grazing skin again. “Ah, Tigger, last two standing… Never thought it would be us.”

“As long as it ain’t just me,” came the quiet, yet fervent response.