#your-space-brain

You were head over heels for the man and there was no stopping it. He was all brooding, troubled and mysterious and you could do nothing to stop yourself from the head first dive that you’d taken since you met him.

He hardly spoke, but he left you notes here and there. You’d been assisting SAMCRO for the longest time since Chucky arrived, who was a good friend of yours, and you’d caught one another’s eye. After that, it was subtle glances and a smile here or there, or even a wink if you were lucky.

‘Have a good day.’

‘Here’s a shitty daisy like flower.’

‘I hate the color of this sticky note.’

‘How’s our two fingered friend doing?’

‘I’m keeping this pen.’

Those intimate sticky note letters were barely legible and hardly anything to scoff at. What he thought was just a running joke, you enjoyed, and kept each one in a little container beneath the bar top. He didn’t know the effect he had on you, or anyone for that matter, since he lost both Donna and his kids.

“What’s it say today?” Chucky was the first one to ask as he began to wipe down the top of the deep mahogany bartop.

“‘What’s the sky look like from your end?’” You read to Chucky with a little laugh. “He asks me these questions but doesn’t give me a place to reply to them at.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want you to.” Chucky offered as he shrugged, getting back to work on making the bartop shiny and clean.

“How would you put it? ‘I accept that’?” You teased, earning a smile out of the chipper, barely fingered man.

A roar of bikes signaled that some of SAMCRO’s finest had returned, making both Chucky and you raise your heads slightly to peer through the window.

Opie was trailing Jax and Bobby as they pulled up, his long hair flicking beneath his helmet as he pulled into the drive. He stopped a bit after his parking space and backed it in, before hitting the kill switch and discarding his helmet on the handle bars.

He didn’t speak when he came in, all leather and hair being smoothed out below silver ring clad fingers. “Hey darlin’.” Jax greeted as she threw him a wave, ignoring his charm, but Opie didn’t stay long and disappeared down the hallway.

“He doesn’t speak too much, does he?” You asked Jax, and he shook his head.

“Nah, not too much. It’s been a while since he spoke freely.”

—

Every Friday night was a Crow Eater party. It was a time when you would come for a while, before things got too terribly wound up, and then you would leave. You were sipping a beer, leaned on the bar, looking around but there was a pair of familiar eyes missing.

“Where’s Ope?” You asked Chucky, who shrugged.

When you didn’t get a reply, you handed the amber bottle over to Chucky for safe keeping before you wandered off down the hall to see if he was in his dorm.

Lo and behold, through a crack in his dorm door, he was kicked back in bed, still fully clothed minus his boots, an arm over his eyes with only the lamplight on. He looked peaceful, until you disrupted that by lightly knocking with one knuckle.

“Come in.” It was a slurred mumble as his eyes finally opened again. They were dark and swirling as you stepped into the meticulously neat room, the only thing out of place being a couple of motorcycle parts out on the desk.

“Hey, not joining the party?” You asked as you came to sit in his wooden desk chair.

“Nah. Not my scene.” He replied as he grunted, moving to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, his back popping while his muscles protested wickedly.

“Oh, that’s fair.” He nodded as you said it, having been half asleep, but he just yawned quietly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

He wasn’t prepared for what you were going to ask him next. “Why don’t you ever give me a chance to reply to your notes?” The man, for once, looked absolutely dumbfounded. He ran a hand over his beard as he thought about a reply, before clearing his tatted throat.

“I guess… I didn’t think you’d want to.”

This shocked you. Your brows knit for a moment as he calculatedly watched him, a frown on your lips. “Why wouldn’t I want to?”

Several reasons popped in the burdened man’s head. He was a killer, he lost everything he loved to this club and if he let you in, you were pretty much signing your own death warrant to Mr. Mayhem. You were putting a black listed card in your own hands.

Finally, he gave a heavy sigh and replied, his eyes dropping to his socked feet. “If I let you in, you very well could be ending your life by picking me.”

This caused you to recoil a bit. “So you’re not even giving me a choice?” You asked him.

“No. I’m not worth anyone getting themselves killed or hurt.”

He seemed so cut and dry with this response, as if this was already made up in his head, as if he didn’t want to risk being the sole reason another life dropped for loving him. He already beat himself down to know he wasn’t worthy.

“You don’t get to make that choice. You don’t… get to pick what’s best for me.” You told him with a shake of your head. “Why can’t you let me try?”

The words were stuck in Opie’s throat as you reached out and caressed his beard. He swallowed carefully, before he pressed his lips to your palm.

“I can’t make your decisions for you. I can only advise you that this might not be best.” He murmured, before you made him look you in the eyes.

“I’m picking you.”