Author notes: Written for the SoA comment ficathon on LiveJournal. Sentential asked "Tig & Kozik: Maybe there were still fist-fights then but they were friends once and that means something." Alas, there are no fist-fights in this story. Thanks to Tanaqui for help, encouragement and betaing.
Too Close To Call
By Scribblesinink
"Hey." The soft voice made Kozik freeze where he was slouched, his nose buried between a sweetbutt's tits and his hand up her mini-skirt. Sitting up, he saw Tig looming over them. "You." Tig crooked a finger at the croweater. "With me."
Kozik instinctively tightened his hold on the girl. He felt her hesitate under his grip, torn between staying where she was—where Koz liked to think she'd prefer to be—and obeying the sergeant's order.
Then she pursed her lips and blew out a puff of air. "Sorry, baby," she muttered. "But—." She slapped her palm lightly against his right chest, where once he'd worn his own sergeant's patch. He'd given it up willingly on his transfer back to Charming, without quite realizing how much rank and standing he'd be giving up along with it.
He knew when he was defeated, and he shoved her off his lap. "Whatever."
He ignored the smirk Tig cast over his shoulder at him as he walked off, his arm slung around the sweetbutt's waist. Instead, Koz looked around the club house. The place was full of willing women, and he still had the pick of the rest of the litter. No way Tig could snatch them all from him.
o0o
"What?!" Tig leaned over Juice's shoulder to glare at the laptop screen, not quite believing what Juice had just told him.
Juice shrugged. "Sorry. Says so right here: Item sold." He indicated a section of the screen, as if he thought Tig was an idiot who couldn't read a webpage for himself. "To this dude, KSon."
"Try again."
Juice half-turned in his chair. "Tig—."
Tig grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. "I said, try again. Reload the page, or whatever it is you do. Maybe—maybe it's a mistake. A glitch in the system or something."
Juice sighed. "Computers don't lie." But he twisted back and hit a few buttons. Tig watched the screen go blank for a second before displaying the offending message again: Item sold.
But not to Tig.
He ignored the way Juice flinched as he pounded a fist against the back of the seat. Couldn't trust the goddamn internet, could you? He'd been thrilled when Juice had told him someone in Texas had put a 1954 vintage Harley brochure poster up for sale on some motorcycle auction site. The dude claimed the poster was in perfect condition, too: no folds, no tears, very little fading of the print. Clearly, he didn't have a clue what he had, 'cause he'd set the starting price ridiculously low.
Tig had told Juice to put in a bid in his name, and gotten him to check every day to make sure his offer remained the highest. Nobody else had shown any real interest in the poster, though. Except, now, at the last minute, when it had apparently been snatched up by someone going by the screen name KSon.
Hang on a sec... Tig straightened slowly. That sounded kinda suspicious.
Leaving Juice muttering about people sneakily gaming the system, Tig whirled around on his heel. His gaze locked on Kozik, sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and watching him and Juice through hooded eyes.
"Sucks, dunnit?" Kozik muttered as he met Tig's gaze. His lips were twitching.
"You—." Tig wagged a finger in Kozik's direction, but he couldn't come up with a proper threat. "Asshole," he finished instead, knowing how lame he must sound.
Kozik tilted the beer bottle in salute, and smirked.
o0o
"Ready?" The big-busted blonde croweater in the red bikini top raised her hands. Kozik watched her with narrowed eyes, for once not distracted by the way her tits threatened to fall out of her top or how her legs seemed to go on forever. His gaze was focused fully on her hands, waiting for the slightest indication she was gonna bring them down. He didn't even dare glance sideways to where Tig was undoubtedly also watching the woman like a hawk.
The bike vibrated between Kozik's legs as he waited: a customized accumulation of barely held-back power rearing to go. The air reeked of burned rubber and exhaust, and the crowd lining the edges of the cleared track was humming with anticipation.
"Go!"
The woman's hands dropped and Kozik opened the gas, the bike swerving a little as he released her from her constraints. He raced down the tarmac, seeing Tig do the same in the lane next to him from the corner of his eye. Was the other man pulling ahead? Was he?
They reached the finish line still locked together a mere five seconds later. As they braked, the referee—a pot-bellied Nomad who went by the name of Bully—gave a shake of the head. "Too close to call," he announced, meaning there was no clear winner in this race.
Boots planted on the ground, Kozik sought Tig's gaze, arching an eyebrow. Tig jerked a thumb across his shoulder toward the start line and the busty blonde. "Again?"
Kozik nodded, and began to wheel his bike around. "Again."
o0o
A soft breeze ruffled Tig's hair and stirred up tiny dust devils at his feet. He noticed neither. Propped up against his bike, he took another swig from the whiskey bottle he'd brought. The night was cool, quiet. Down below, at the bottom of the hill, Charming lay spread out, lights sparkling in the darkness.
It had been a bad couple weeks for Samcro. Ever since they'd gotten outta Stockton, really. Miles, a rat; that shit that went down in Tucson; Tara almost losing a hand. And goddamn Clay had gone off into a world of his own, not talking to anyone anymore.
And then today, Kozik...
Shit. Tig drew again from the bottle, concentrating on the burn of the liquor going down his throat so he wouldn't have to acknowledge the sting in his eyes.
"Sorry, man." He glanced down at the neatly-folded cut across his knees. Kozik had been nothing but an eager-to-please prospect, first time Tig put that cut on his back, but they'd had some damned good times those first years, hadn't they? Until Missy'd died, and Kozik had fled to Tacoma. And now they were both gone, and Tig had nothing to remember them by but a faded snapshot in his wallet and that damned poster on the wall that Kozik'd swiped from under his nose—before bringing it out as a birthday present a few weeks later.
Tig traced one finger over the reaper's scythe, rough callouses catching on the stitches. Crap, the guy had deserved better than to die without his colors.
Wiping his eyes with one hand—fuck it, he was gonna cry like some goddamned bitch if he kept this up—he put the cut next to him on the saddle. It'd go to Koz's brother, maybe. Or perhaps they'd keep it as a memorial, so nobody'd forget the sacrifice Kozik had made.
Getting up, Tig took another huge gulp of whiskey, then tilted the bottle until a thin stream of amber liquid soaked the dust at his feet.
"Goddammit bro, I'm gonna miss you," he muttered at the stars.
Disclaimer: this story is a transformative work based on the Fox 21/FX Productions/Linson Entertainment/Sutter Ink television series Sons of Anarchy. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without author attribution.