Summary: In the wake of Clay's arrest, Gemma reflects on what she has, or doesn't have, with Nero. Set between season five and six; title comes from "To Sir With Love," one of the many songs Katey Sagal sings for the show.
If You Wanted the Moon, I Would Try to Make a Start (But I Would Rather You Let Me Give My Heart)
She doesn't remember immediately what all happened that night, but it comes back in bits and pieces. She remembers asking Nero about the scar, peeking nonchalantly out from the top of his shirt. She remembers thinking - briefly - that the Rico Suave routine was dated, and then, somewhere, because of the amount of beers she was swilling back or because, even in her alcohol-soaked mind, that there was actually something genuinely charming about him, and so she'd let him buy her yet another drink and told him her name was Rose and then, apparently, had gone home with him and sucked his dick.
The sex comes back, too, in the somehow familiar feel of Nero's large hand pressing against her hip, or the next time he kisses her and his brief beard scruff tickles her face. He'd been generous that night, in more ways than one, both giving and receiving, and she knows he's not lying when he says his barely-legal employees had had nothing to do with the amount of times they'd both come.
Sometimes, Nero throws her a bone. "You really like that one," he chides affectionately as she sleepily traces the tattoo on the right side of his chest with her index finger, post-coital and content. He kisses her forehead and whispers, "Rose," and watches her start to smile.
"Guess I'm predictable."
Nero's hand brushes mussed hair off of her face. "Nothing wrong with a little routine."
Nero wants out of the business someday, he tells her; she knows he's not lying, precisely, but she also knows how difficult it is to leave, how easy it is to settle into the familiar patterns, into the routine. Still, it's a nice endgame; he genuinely loves his son, that much is clear just from a handful of minutes spent watching them interact. Nero had brought her to meet him after her car accident with her own grandchildren; 'here,' he seemed to be coaxing her. 'We all make mistakes. The important thing is to keep trying to make up for them.'
They talk about guilt sometimes, about regret, about how the choices they've made have led them both to this point. Nero traffics in fantasy, but seems to understand that it's all temporary, that even with his grandiose plans to get out of Charming for good in some capacity other than in a body bag, shit can happen in the blink of an eye and spin everything off of its axis. After Carla's suicide, Nero doesn't seem to want to talk much at all, but eventually, they return to these familiar motifs. "She said I was the only one who cared whether she got better or not," he confesses one evening. "I think that's why she thought she was in love with me."
"It's an honest mistake," Gemma murmurs, and Nero's face is warm in her hands as she pulls him closer.
The birds seem restless tonight. "Calm your tits, Carl and Carla," she says, but they don't stop hopping edgily around their cage, nor does she really expect them to. It's not as though she's a paragon of Zen right now, after all.
From a logistical perspective, it had been a simple enough matter to set Clay up. Still, the selling point, she knows, had been her reaction, her play-acting shocked realization that he'd 'gone out for a few hours' when everything had gone down. She could have further sold the terrified wife bit by patently avoiding meeting her estranged husband's gaze; and yet, pride, the need for revenge, the compulsion to show him precisely what happened when someone fucked with Gemma Morrow, had gotten the better of her. She'd looked him dead-on in the face, nearly heady with triumph, and he'd looked back, grave understanding slowly replacing disbelief, followed by a defeated slump of broad shoulders as he'd been led away in handcuffs. Slowly, she'd released her poker face; Clay was in chains, and now, she was free.
The birds continue to totter around restlessly. She watches them for a while, vaguely aware of the irony of her own freedom being contingent on someone else being caged. It's not just Clay, either; Tara's own arrest had been something of a shock, for all of them, but Gemma had taken one look at Jax, floundering, helpless, surrounded by young children he'd spent far too little time getting to know, and knew that this, too, could be used to her advantage. "Mama's here," she'd crooned, and Jax's face had flashed myriad emotions before settling on begrudging relief. She'd had visions, then, images cobbled together from misfortune and patience, brief, fleeting fantasies of her and Nero, doting on grandchildren, covertly holding hands at a park, being a family. Nothing so idyllic had ever come close to happening to her, but sometimes, when Nero was there, she could almost let herself start to believe in fairytales.
Speak of the devil: "Hey, Mama." Sturdy arms wrap around her waist protectively, like it means something that she's there. Nero doesn't know yet precisely what transpired to put Clay in jail, but there's no sense in pretending it's going to stay that way forever; Nero's been around the block a few times, after all.
"Hey, yourself." In all honesty, his potential nonchalance at the depths of Gemma's treachery gives her pause, if nothing else, because it implies that Nero can match her note for note. She's not so naive to assume he wouldn't hurt her if it became absolutely necessary - in fact, that's probably part of the appeal, for both of them. And yet, it had still hurt to overhear Nero's recent conversation with Jax, not so much because it had meant the varnish had (at last) begun to peel and strip away, but because Nero had suspected (known) that it would disappoint her, enough that he chose to confide in someone else first.
Still, Nero's breath against the side of her neck is warm and inviting, and the slight pressure against her backside, not to mention, Nero's gradually increasing heart rate, assures her that this is still doing something for him, too. It's enough for now, and so she turns, grabs at Nero's cock through his pants with one manicured hand, laughs indulgently into his mouth, lets Carl and Carla's chittering serve as a familiar backdrop to their foreplay, and tries not to think too much about whether this is a beginning or end or if it's indulgent for her anymore to ascertain if there's a difference.