A/N: A farewell and smooth roads to Clay, as I will miss Ron Perlman terribly!
Disclaimer: Kurt Sutter owns Sons of Anarchy. I own nothing except my views and thoughts in the condensation of this episode.
Clay Morrow knew himself inside and out – even more, now that he'd all but given up on a future and had nothing but plenty of time to get it straight in his mind. Sometimes it was in his own hands to survive the hour to hour and the day to day. If it was up to the odds stacked too high against him, he knew how to offer himself to die. To invite death in this prison hell hole was his one sure thing to believe in.
He had to wait for the plans of others on the outside to firm up while he used his fists and some favourable contacts to stay alive. He was ready to see the failure of gaining his freedom, but it could happen if all the moving parts on his side fell into place. His age, arthritic hands and partial lung should have been disadvantages, but he wore his tough as nails exterior like a spiked shield. He'd been too long the president of his outlaw brotherhood to appear as less than the steel pounded on the anvil of his past. No matter what their gang affiliations, no other inmates were his problem for very long. None of Clay's fights came one on one. Stand up to it, handle it, get stitched up. He'd survived his tours of duty in 'Nam. Getting tag-teamed was nothing. If he was strapped down and beaten up by screws when they had revenge to take, they were still treating him as a man – who was too dangerous to tackle unrestrained.
And like a man ready for death, he'd asked his still beloved Gemma to make a visit, and turned over all his holdings to the wife who had nothing left but hatred for him. She was everything that a breathing old soldier could lose. And he'd finally earned her sincere, if startled little parting smile when he told her, "See you on the other side."
Clay's stoic, hardened features were marked by his share of the pounding, bruising and bleeding that were part of the favours traded back and forth. Fear had no hold on him and surprise was as unreadable, even on the day when the man who broke him out of his prison transport, unmasked himself. His stepson, now one of the unexpected moving parts, was still one in a long lineup who wanted him dead.
And then Jackson moved fast, taking Clay to watch his three Irish saviours shot down dead. In that room of fresh corpses, the ex-president saw the cold, full circle of his fate close around him. No one needed to guard him from escape. In this gathering of his former world people, Clay relaxed and accepted. He gave his blessing and a last chaste kiss to his estranged wife.
For all to witness, Clay peacefully walked between the fallen and took his place within that room of the dead. Whatever else he had been that brought him to this, he had always been immoveable; the formidable leader of his men in the face of danger. He steeled himself and locked eyes with Jackson's self satisfied, hate frozen stare. The pistol was raised and aimed.
And the alpha male whom Gemma had once loved, turned a final soft gaze on her across the distance between them. She was all he wanted to see. Clay Morrow – outlaw, lover, murderer, husband – offered himself to die, as the fatal shot ripped through his throat.