Mm'kay. This is a sequel to 'Hellhound on my Trail', but I am purposefully setting up so it is not necessary to read Hellhound in order to follow this, besides - a severe case of writers block messed up Hellhound a bit.
About this story: Competely AU. This story does not take place in Charming, it all takes place in Boston. The year is 2013. 34-year-old Mac is the President for The Saints. Chibs patched in to the Boston charter of the Sons (SAMBOS). They are engaged.
Some drama from Hellhound travels into this story, but I wish to reiterate that I will explain everything for a non-reader of Hellhound.
This is defintiely a romance story, my first (So please tell me your opinions), but there is going to be a lot of action after Mac and Chibs are almost killed during a drive-by that traces back to something that happened in Charming. Drama and violence ensues. My usual MO. ;)
Been To Hell is a song by Hollywood Undead and is the definite anthem for this story. I chose the song for many reasons, partly the lyrics but mostly because of the feeling and vibe of the song. Give it a listen, it's definitely worth your attention.
Pardon any typos, I don't have a beta and I only read through everything twice before posting, so some stuff slips through. If you spot a major one, just let me know and I will promptly correct the problem.
AS ALWAYS: Reviews fuel me, even if they're a one-worded response. Constructive criticisim welcomed. No flamers.
WARNINGS: Language, Violence, Drug-Use, Sexual situations (I gave my first shot at "smut" in this chapter- where I really tried to keep it from being a raunchy description of a porno). These are the warnings for the whole story, if an individual chapter needs a new warning it will be posted.
Chapter One: Southie, Southie (a play on Frank Sinatra's New York, New York - made a million times better by a band called the digital daggers)
Enjoy! :)
Welcome to a city that'll bring you to your knees
It'll make you beg for more, until you can't even breathe
Your blindfold is on tight, but you like what you see
So follow me into the night, cuz I got just what you need
It's a motherfuckin' riot, we've been dying to start
You better grab a hold cuz now you know you're falling apart
You thought these streets were paved in gold
but they're dirty and dark
Been to hell!
I can show you the devil!
Down you fell
Can't hold yourself together
Soul to sell
Down here you live forever
Welcome to a world where dreams become nightmares!
In the belly of the beast, I'm a wolf amongst sheep
At the bottom of the hill, but at the top of the street
Above the boulevard, schoolyard, victim of deceit
And you're running hard, but this wolf it's always at your feet Yeah you've seen it all before, but the wolf's outside your door
And you're old enough to run, you ain't hiding anymore
Another victim of the star spangled banner of the street
Now you're in the world of the wolves
And we welcome all you sheep
You need to wake up and face it
So you can taste my reality
Now you're stuck in this place you hate
And you came here so happily
Then it made you lose your faith
And that's what fucked with your sanity
Say goodbye to your soul and say hello to your vanity
[Southie] is your friend, and the undead are your family
We'll take you to the edge, and turn your regret into agony
And I'll never let you go, cuz I know you'll come back to me
I'm the reason you came here, I'm the American Tragedy
Been to hell!
Welcome to a world where dreams become nightmares!
- Hollywood Undead 'Been to Hell' [abridged]
Prolouge: Saint Valentine from Hellhound on my Trail
Left arm braced against the shower wall, her head bows low so that the scalding hot water runs over her sore back. Water streams over the slowly fading image of Rodin's great work, The Gates of Hell tattooed on her back. The grey scale piece of art that stretches from the base of her neck to her tailbone was once upon a time a great vision to behold but in recent months has made a gradual descent into decrepitude by aid of a laser that removes the dark pigments buried under her skin – little by little, and painfully so. The back piece she was once so proud of is slowly being erased, only to be replaced by different extensive ink when the process has been completed.
Mac carefully rolls her stiff right shoulder. The moderately healed bone inside her shoulder cracks and pops, protesting the gentle action with heavy fervor. There is no audible noise over the sound of hot water that gushes from the shower head and batters against her tired and aching body but she can hear the bones grind all the same. The old injury does not go one day or one even one minute without hurting.
Her emerald green eyes open slowly, greeted by the sight of pinkish water swirling around the shower drain directly below her. The pale pink colour of the usually clear water comes from the blood that once stuck to her face and her arms – not her blood, though she wore it as if it were. The blood that rinses from her body is from… Well, she doesn't know his name. Names are irrelevant, though; he shall forever be immortalized as crow number thirty-seven in the tattooed murder that gathers in the branches of a winter dormant oak over the left side of her ribs. The dendrite reminiscent branches of the tattoo are almost nearly filled with small black birds; pretty soon more than three will have to fly away from the tree. Crow number thirty-seven will forever be nothing more than a reminder of the violent bombing in Southie that Mac rectified with another violent deed. Violence for violence. It's a vicious cycle.
Through the hot water that dribbles over her half-closed eyes, she can see her wet, bare chest glisten under the bright bathroom light overhead. Just below the cursive script scrawled across her collarbones, a white scar runs the length of her ribcage, perfectly placed in the direct middle of her chest; nothing more a thin chalk line drawn between her breasts.
It is in moments like this that Mac always finds herself overly pensive upon the past; rare moments of solitude and silence when her memory takes absolute hold of the reigns and transports her to a time not of the current. It is in moments such as this that Mac wonders where time has disappeared to, for surely there is no way so much distance is now placed between her and the vivid memories of waking up and finding that her chest had been sawed into in a life-saving surgery that she had no likelihood of surviving.
Pushing her memories down, Mac reaches for a bottle of shampoo with her right arm. As her once destroyed shoulder moves, a numb tingling creeps over her nerve endings, extending all the way to her fingertips. She grabs the wet bottle with fingers that refuse to feel and it slips from her weak grasp. Glaring at the bottle of lavender scented shampoo on the shower floor with nothing but pure detest for the innocent object, she clenches and unclenches a fist to quell the numbness in her right arm.
Simple things such as washing her hair are difficult these recent years. While she retains full movement of her right arm, the nerve endings are irreparably damaged and her entire arm goes dead numerous times throughout the day. It never fails to irritate her.
But there's nothing Mac can do except grab the bottle with her left hand and carry on. Such is life. Such is her life.
Mac's wavy blonde hair no longer reaches her elbows and has not been that incredible length for quite some time. Now it falls just three inches below her shoulders, a much preferable length in her opinion. It's so much easier to take care of. She quickly brushes through her wet hair without much regard for technique then hastily gathers the pale blonde locks behind her head and ties off a pony-tail with a black elastic she finds on the beige tiled floor in the small bathroom with warm red walls.
Going through the motions of getting dressed for the second time today, Mac quietly gets into the night attire she brought with her into the bathroom: a pair of black pajama bottoms and a grassy green hoodie sure to keep her warm despite the cold that permeates through the poorly insulated walls of the downtown apartment she calls home. Even though her modest abode has adequate heating it is simply not enough to completely overwhelm the distinct coldness of New England winters. Especially on days such as this where the snow falls at a fast rate of over an inch an hour and the wind howls with gale force, her house remains enveloped by an awakening chill.
Careful not to wake her sleeping partner, Mac exits the bathroom and walks down the short hallway with muted yellow walls towards her kitchen – in search of something sure to battle the insomnia she's been dealing with for the past week. Gin, as always, is her favourite sleeping aid.
Draped over the back of one of four chairs surrounding a painted black round kitchen table is her leather cut, the back bearing only the simple image of The Saints patch and rockers displaying locale and affiliation. The front of her cut has changed drastically in the past few years. More patches have been added atop of the ones displaying city of registry and rank; a diamond-shaped 1% patch, a skull with red wings, a fat pink pig with a knife stuck vertical through its head and a square patch simply reading 'RFFN'. While a Boston patch still remains over the left breast of her black leather cut, her rank of Hellhound is no longer there. It has been replaced by her new rank – a rank that Mac holds with more pride and love than a mother would have in a newborn child.
Indeed, the white patch with green lettering stitched into the thick leather barely above the right breast pocket fills her with a sense of fulfillment she thought she would never experience, if only because she does not have something dangling between her legs, but more so because it took a while for her club to realize that she did not kill Ace with malicious intent; Indeed, the title of President always felt like a pipedream.
Yet it has become her reality.
Taking a gentle sip of gin, Mac fondly smiles as she gazes upon her cut. It seems her life has finally overcome the despair that for too long kept her soul shackled to misery. Happiness is finally not only on the approaching horizon, but it is firmly in her grasp.
The door to the bedroom creaks open, her slumbering mate having been awoken. Mac says a hushed cuss under her breath that she woke him – something she tried rather hard not to do when she came home at the ungodly early morning hour she did. The older man she has made a home with has not had much rest in the past few days, partly a product of her own sexual appetites (Mac is sure he's not complaining, though) but mostly his lethargy is because he's still jet-lagged from his most recent trip across the Atlantic to visit his family. A family that Mac supposes she will soon consider her own.
Her emerald eyes unconsciously take a quick glance at the simple engagement ring on her left hand as he staggers into the kitchen. His scarred face shows the obvious signs of sleep deprivation and Mac tries not to be too concerned about how dark the bags are under his brown eyes.
Chibs sighs tiredly, "Come to bed, Mac." He sounds almost like a crying child, demanding that the teddy bear he needs the comfort of for slumber to come be returned to him.
"Aye, I will in a minute." Mac takes another sip from the glass cuddled in her left hand, the modest princess-cut diamond on her ring finger sparkling under the bright kitchen light. Continuing with the lengthy battle against numbness that has yet to leave her right arm, she again shakes the tingling limb while clenching and unclenching a tight fist.
Chibs walks over, almost bumping into the stainless-steel refrigerator because he has yet to fully wake up. He takes the small glass full of gin from her then places it on the counter behind her, an act that forces an eye roll from Mac. Chibs instantly noticed the way she tries to rid her arm of the uncomfortable pins-and-needles feeling she too often feels when he spotted her leaning against the kitchen counters, drinking her signature straight-up drink. So, being the man he is, Chibs takes Mac's right hand in his then places a tender kiss which she can barely feel in the center of her palm. Even though she can barely feel the dry kiss, she feels it in her heart that swells with love inside her chest.
"Come now." He demands, firmly taking Mac's hand in his own. He leads her down the hall and to their mutual bedroom.
Mac smiles the whole way, letting Chibs lead her, loving the way his hand feels wrapped around hers. It feels so right. As if this is what was always meant to be – which is the reality of their relationship. It was never a question of if. It was always merely a question of when.
Their love is so simple but stronger than anything found in the greatest romance novels. Chibs and Mac may not be grand together. They may not be so entangled with each other that they are a singular entity. They may not be perfect. But they are and that's all that really counts.
Mac passes by a framed photograph of herself and Sarah on the hallway wall as Chibs takes her towards the bedroom and her eyes follow it as she goes, saying a silent thank you to her sister for posthumously making her order that piece of pie she craved for too many years.
Happily ever after and all that bullshit...
Boston, Southie. March. 2013.
With Chibs' arm wrapped around Mac's broad shoulders, they walk close together down the cobblestone sidewalk on their way to The Half - A bar in the city, in the historic district where the streets are cobble stone and shops are named silly little things like Ye Olde Shoppe. The whole neighourhood is over played and filled with hype, lacking the promise of excitement displayed in luring tourist ads. Most of the old buildings circa the eighteenth or nineteenth century are antique shops and over-priced coffee joints, art dealerships and stores filled with useless, over-priced knickknacks. It is not exactly known for its riveting night life, though one of the best bars in Boston resides here - although it's location is something of a secret. This bar is in the middle of the historic ward, a little hole-in-the-wall sort of place that is only assessable via a small alleyway between 1102 Hill street and 1103 Hill Street. The address of this particular bar is 1102 ½ Hill Street. It gave birth to the clubs name, The Half, a name that is never advertised, not even over the old wooden door painted a forest green in the alleyway. The only way to know for certain this particular green door belongs to The Half is to have been there before. It's solely a word-of-mouth establishment. You even have to tell a password to an imposing bald man named Alf behind a small cut-out in the door.
Blonde hair tied up into a pony tail that sway with her motions, Mac walks down the alleyway, slightly in front of Chibs because of the narrow width between 1102 and 1003 Hill Street. It is March, still a very cold month in Boston and the thick sleeves are returned to her leather cut for need of warmth. She wears a pair of dark boot-cut jeans and, of course, her black Doc. Martin's that are a staple of her existence - the clunky black boots with buckles around the ankles that clink along with her every step. Chibs, patched over into SAMBOS, wears a black leather jacket as well, his own club colours proudly displayed. Same top rocker, different bottom rocker. He switched from SAMCRO to SAMBOS when the club went through an overhaul. It was revealed that Clay had John Teller murdered when JT wanted to end the relationship between SAMCRO and the Irish. That might not have been enough to cause a complete uproar, but the fact that the Clay had proposed the idea of running drugs for the cartel long before they needed protection inside Stockton pushed them over the edge. Chibs couldn't believe the deadly deal with the cartel had already been hatched when some Sons were sent behind bars.
Clay was impeached, forced out by everyone else. They rallied, formed a rebellion and overthrew their king.
Jax was temporarily in charge until the club got back on its feet. The coup happened after Mac and Chibs started their relationship, after Mac became President of The Saints. They wanted to be together, they wanted to get married and she couldn't step down from her position. So, Chibs made his case to Jax.
Jax let him leave, wishing him the best of luck, then handed the gavel over to Opie. He misses his brothers in NorCal, but the boys of SAMBOS are his family now, too.
They reach the door, Mac knocks with the knuckles of her left hand, a motion that if she were to do with her right hand – with her irreprarbly fucked up knuckles – it would instantly results in a dead-arm. The narrow cut-out in the door open, eye level to a 6'9 man on the other side. Mac says nothing. The green door opens.
Mac does not need to give the password. She does own the place, after all – albeit through a shell company.
Alf opens the door, at just shy of a very stalky seven feet tall, his head is close to hitting the ceiling. He is not a member of The Saints, but only because he doesn't want to be. Mac tells him all the time that if he ever wants to join, all he'll need is a vote-in. No prospecting. He's already proven himself capable and loyal.
"Hey there Boss, Chibs." He greets in his deep baritone, nodding with his cleft chin to Mac and Chibs as they enter the foyer – a small room with old black and white checkered flooring and peeling danmask wallpaper. The only thing in the room aside from a chair for Alf to sit in is a police scanner on a small table that crackles calls and codes all night long. The Marine door-watcher knows all of the semi-clandestine phrases and numerical codes spoken over the frequencies, ready to alert anyone down in the bar of possible legal issues.
Mac pauses just in front of the second door which leads to the steps that take you down to her basement bar, "What's the crowd like?"
"Usual suspects. Four of from Sugar Hill, two of Murphy's, nine from the club and twenty-one walk-ins." Alf was hired for a reason beyond his intimidating size – he has an incredible memory.
"Come down and catch some of the show, get a drink." Mac says with a smile – just like always. She always tells him that it's okay to come downstairs for a bit, but Alf never leaves this tiny room.
"Sure thing, boss." He always replies, and this time is no different.
Chibs and Mac go down the winding narrow steps to the basement, Been to Hell by the Hollywood Undead getting louder with each foot they descend. It starts as a beating against the walls and by the time they reach the bottom of the steps it is a deep thumping in their chests. The pub is packed, crammed with people sitting and standing, socializing with drink and laughing. The walls are brick, old crumbling vermillion red stones with grey mortar. There are few half-circle windows with black trim, high up to street level with darkened panes and blocking out any view or sun. The area is spacious, with dark hardwood flooring circa 1903, worn-down iron nails heads slightly sticking up through the lacquer. There is a square dark wood bar coming out of the eastern wall, with thirty some-odd wooden stools pushed up against it. Tonight, every seat is taken and people crowd around the backs of their friends.
There is a small lifted stage in the back, a platform with wood flooring just slightly lighter than the rest of The Half. The platform is where the house band, nothing more than five members of The Saints who get together on the weekends and play for everyone here – something Mac is a part of. Tonight is no different, Mac is due on stage soon. Three of the Prospects from the Saints: Otis, Punky and Skinny Paul all stumble around the platform, setting up equipment for tonight's gig.
Being the owner, Mac comes here almost every night. Chibs only accompanies on occasion. He has his life with SAMBOS and she has hers with The Saints. About a year ago Chibs was promoted to Sgt. At Arms of SAMBOS, resulting in more responsibilities. SAMBOS does not own a garage, so Chibs works for Ricky's Autobody here in Southie, taking up another fair amount of his time. Mac, however, does not need to work. She does what she does for The Saints, from keeping an eye on their growing fields to gathering more connections and gaining solid ground as the first female President of The Saints. In the previous twenty-four months The Saints have expanded their marijuana emporium nearly double-fold. They're now one of the top producer in the States. It means some heat from the DEA, but said heat is easily extinguished with pay-offs and executions.
Mac got the dead pig patch for killing three DEA agents in an explosion. Something that the police have no idea she was even a part of. The Saints are smart; a young Patch named Leo took a lengthy course of Forensic science classes. So, they know what they're doing. They know how to stay ahead of the advancements made to sleuthing.
There is a chorus of greetings from the pub patrons as Chibs and Mac reach the bottom of the smoky bar that smells sickly sweet of the finest herb and beer.
Mac waves a quick greeting to everyone. Since becoming the firm President of The Saints she has become something of a pinnacle within Southie society, beyond just being a Saint. This bar had a lot to do that, because she allows anyone to come in so long as they don't start shit in her pub. She got a grand social status, leading her to become something of an outlaw mediator.
She has a quick drink with Chibs before joining four fellow Saints on stage: Charlie, Gonzo, Oz, Dizzy and Dreads.
Mac is a skilled guitarist by even the highest standards, a technique honed from a love for early blues and all things Hendrix, BB King and Eric Clapton. Her perpetually numb right hand has not inhibited this, rather it has forced her to work harder in order to be aware of her strumming. As always, she uses an old one Euro coin as her pique – the only thing she'll use. But most guitarists are like that; they find something to pique with that creates the perfect sound for them and they never use anything else. It would be blasphemy to.
She stands to the right of Dizzy, the vocals for this nameless band and Horseman for the club. He is a muscular 5'7 with long brown hair and full tattooed sleeves on his arms. Dizzy's voice is deep and dark, perfectly gravely – raw, perfectly fitting in with the fast-based music they play. With pounding drums from Gonzo, insane guitar riffs from Mac and a fast-spoken but melodic vocalist – this house band of Mac's is hard to describe. Something like punk, something like rock – yet neither of those. They play their own music, but do a lot of covers too. They are not exactly organized and maybe have ten songs that are of their own creations.
Watching Mac up on stage, jamming out with her head nodding along to the music rhythm and her foot tapping perfectly to the timing, Chibs realizes that he does not come see her play enough. He makes a quiet promise to himself to make this more of a regular thing. She has a powerful stage presese and a virtuosic way of playing.
Watching her be so enthralled in the ecstasy of jamming, Chibs feels a twinge of remorse – he misses playing, too. When he first met Mac, all those years ago in Belfast, she knew how to play guitar but did not have any sort of technique or grand ability. They spent a lot of time playing together just by themselves and she got more and more into the artistry of it.
Now, up on that stage with four of her brothers, she plays Purple Haze almost as well as Hendrix. She doesn't get a single note wrong but then again, the legendary guitarists persona can just never be recreated.
Up on stage, pouring sweat she is her own Nirvana. Knowing that she is happy also makes Chibs happy. He hoots and hollers along to every song. She glances his way every now and then, giving him a smile or a wink.
Everything is going so well for her right now. She's President of The Saints. She's getting Married to Chibs. She owns the best pub in Boston. She's in a fucking great band with no name.
Mac is truly feeling in her prime. Nothing could bring her down.
She feels invicible, if only fleetingly so.
After Mac finishes her set, her and Chibs spend most of the night around the bar socializing with each and every person inside. She knows everyone here, both criminal and civilian.
She must know the leader and members of every criminal organization in Boston. She keeps the peace with the fellow syndicates, having to work rather hard at that ambition sometimes. Since she's been President of The Saints, she has formed rock-solid alliances with the most power groups and tries to serve as a mediator if any trouble arises; allowing rivals to discuss things like real men instead of temperamental children with guns. She told Chibs that her goal when she became President was to bring peace back to Southie; she wants nothing more than to irradiate the senseless violence has taken too many innocent lives.
Since Mac has been Prez, the rate of murder has gone down by 43%. The paper attributes the decrease to the Mayor's tough on crime campaign. No one knows that Mac has been the best thing to happen to Southie.
It warms Chibs' heart to see Mac in this position, mostly because he knows how much pride she has in what she does.
Which is why when a fight breaks out between a Sugar Hill guy and a walk-in in the middle of the bar, Mac is the first person to jump up from her spot in her booth and intervene. Seeing her dart towards the fight, Chibs has to fight an instinctual urge to rush and help. Whether he'll admitt it or not, it is taxing being a man enaged to such a strong, fierce woman.
Mac jumps right in the middle of the bloody brawl that has knocked over chairs and broken billiard cues. She inserts herself between the punches being exchanged like rapid gun-fire, getting hit in the jaw and in the ribs from a hang-around named Timmy Flannerty when she does so. Mac quickly returns with a vicious left cross, directly harshly at his temple which knocks him to the ground.
"ENOUGH OF THIS SHITE!" She shouts, brogue rolling deep, crossing both her arms and sweeping them down, like a referee declaring that a players slide into first was SAFE!.
Young Timmy Flannerty, sprawled out on the floor with blood flowing from his lip realizes how deep the shit he is in as he gazes up into the brimstone eyes of Mac. Mac is not tolerant of violence in her club and no one is immune.
Mac presses her heavy boot against his chest, pinning him forcibly to the ground while she turns her torso to look at a Sugar Hill member, 25-year-old Liam Bulger. He abruptly took a leap back when Mac jumped into the middle of the fight, knowing full well that Mac's bad side is the one side you never want to be on. He holds his hands up, showing no more harmful intent as she glares at him with fiery emeralds.
"You get the fuck out of my bar and don't you ever think about coming back!" She growls, sweeping her arm around and pointing an irate finger at the bar's exit.
He leaves with no arguement.
Mac looks down to the man beneath her boot, the stupid boy who hit her so hard in the kisser that she bit down hard on the inside of her inside of her mouth, biting out a fair sized chunk of flush that bleeds profusely. She spits out the flesh in her cheek along with a fair ammount of blood onto the floor.
She kneels down onto one knee, coming in closer to the cowering man's level. She grips him roughly by his shirt collar, yanking him up into an awkward position. "You stupid piece of shit. The one rule around here is no fighting. How fucking hard is it to do that?" She yells at full volume despite the fact the is directly in his face.
Though her right arm is numb, is it the only one free seeing as she grips him tight with her left, so she curls her hand into a fist and bops the man hard in the nose – instantly making it squirt blood. Then quickly she punches him again in the ribs for good measure, making him twitch on the floor.
She gets up off of him, shaking out her tingling fist. He groans a little, dazed head rolling off into the side.
She spits out the blood that has accumulated in her mouth onto his blue Boston Red Sox t-shirt.
"ALF! Get down here and throw this piece of shit out – make sure he never comes back!" Mac hollers up the stairs.
Everyone watches silently as Alf pounds down the stairs, his heavy footsteps echoing around the still club. Alf comes down, looking somewhat demonic, as he yanks the bloodied man from the ground, easily hurling Timmy over his shoulder.
Alf literally throws him out of the bar, lifting him up by his clothing and hurling him into the unforgiving brick wall opposite the front door.
The dulled thump of his body crashing against the wall is heard all the way in the sub-terranian pub.
When everything is done, Mac spits out more blood in an empty glass Cindy, the college co-ed bartender with a familial relationship to Oz, quickly carries over and the bar activity resumes as normal, as if nothing happened at all. Mac mumbles a quick thank you to Cindy, who also hands her a napkin before she walks back over to Chibs – shoulders rigid and posture wound-up.
Timmy was lucky get got away with just getting a beating, in reality.
Chibs had watched Mac the whole time, completely transfixed by his future wife. In all these years he's known her, every time she dominates a lesser being is quite the sight to behold. It's bloody and powerful – amazing to be witnessed. It always turns Chibs on. It always makes him love her more.
Wiping the trail of blood coming from the corner of her mouth with the back of her wrist, Mac retakes her seat in front of Chibs in the booth.
Chibs doesn't ask if she's alright, because he knows she is, "Go Xena." He hoots playfully, raising his glass in salute.
Mac scoffs with disdain, "I fucking hate those kids." She tears up a square drink napkin, placing a piece against the chunk missing from her lip and applying pressure. The injury is no big deal, not to her anyway.
"They're always coming in here, thinking that they're the hottest shit in the fucking universe." She rants, fuming with flustered cheeks about the whole ordeal.
Chibs chuckles, poking fun at his partners nature, "You're getting cynical in your old age."
Mac's eyes narrow at him. She holds the ripped napkin in her fist, angrily shaking a finger at Chibs, "34 is not old!"
Her anger being displayed towards him is starting to change from playful to serious; Chibs can sense it in the tenseness of her voice.
He sighs shallowly, speaking gently, "Relax, Mac – you took care of the arsehats with no problem and they won't be comin' back."
Mac audibly slams her back against the booth before slouching down into the crook between the vinyl cushions, keeping a finger pressed against the napkin absorbing all of the blood gushing from her lower lip.
He's proven to be the only one whom can do that – calm her down. It must be something about his voice or the way he looks at her with those puppy dog brown eyes of his because he has little trouble getting Mac to just breathe and relax. It just take some gentle words, occasionally some sort of physical connection. His favourite way to calm her down is a kiss.
It works instantly every single time.
With her lip still bleeding, he leans across the table and kisses his love gently on the side of her mouth that isn't hurt.
Before the kiss is even done he feels that Mac relaxes; her muscles become much less rigid underneath his lips. They pull apart. A faint smirk is on Mac's face, her posture clam.
"We're quite the couple, huh?" She muses with a faint chuckle.
Chibs nods, smirking, "Aye."
He knows what she is talking about. They are both bound to violence, partly by choice, partly through personality and partly through occupations.
But that is how they are content with themselves. They are each other's equals, people that enhance each other. Most men would find discomfort in being involved with such a powerful equal partner, but not Chibs. That's how he's always liked his women: Independent, head-strong and powerful in multiple ways. Though sometimes he wishes she were just a little more helpless, just enough to need him.
Mac and Chibs are imperfectly perfect and they wouldn't have it any other way.
Chibs and Mac stagger from the bar together, waving exuberant drunken farewells at Alf. Chibs' arm is draped over Mac's shoulders, the sound of their leather jackets rubbing together being caught on occasion as they walk through the alleyway. Due to its narrow length, Mac leans into him yet they are barely able to fit without bumping into the gritty brick walls. They begin to make their way home, weaving down the cobblestone sidewalks in an incoherent path, laughing about how scared Timmy Flannerty was of Mac.
Timmy is someone, very loosely affiliated with the Irish mob, but he is really nothing more than a testosterone-fueled twenty-something with a Napolean complex.
...He was nothing but a scared little bug under Mac's boot tonight in the bar.
"I thought the lad was gonna piss himself!" Mac manages to breathe in-between the chest-burning bouts of laughter that have infected her.
Chibs and Mac and are fully engaged in themselves and their laughter; they are completely and entirely enjoying their life in the very present. Life seems perfect in this bare moment during the cold night, walking in and out of the light from the old fashioned street lamps that glow orange.
It comes out of Mac from nowhere, perhaps the quiet Catholic inside of her needing to confess her deepest desires, "I love you." She says. Her head rests against his shoulder, her tall height perfect to make it an extremely comfortable position on her part.
And his. He likes that she puts her head on his shoulder; he likes that she has little, loving actions that mean worlds.
Chibs smiles, "I love you too."
Those are the last words, the last sounds heard before squealing tires.
It all happens so fast..
As Chibs and Mac walk down the sparsly lit sidewalks towards their home, they hear the squeeling tires. They take a lightning fast look over their backs and see a silver sedan barreling towards them, the shadowy shape of gun muzzles visible through the opened windows.
Chibs wraps a protective arm around Mac's back, rushing her forward so that they duck behind a black Kia parallel parked on the street. There are no other people walking around, the neighbourhood dead at the pre-dawn hour.
Gunfire fills the night, a loud series of bangs that gives rise to a cacophonous symphony of shattering glass and the cars being shot.
The gunfire stops just as quickly as it started, lasting a few seconds at most while the car continues to speed down the road. Mac looks up from her crouched position, watching as the darkened sedan takes a squealing high-speed turn onto Oak St.
Slightly shocked, Mac breathes with wide emerald eyes, "What the fuck was that?"
Remaining stunned in the instant after the blitz attack, Chibs can do nothing more than shrug even though Mac can't see it because she's still staring at the spot where she last saw the car – at the corner three hundred feet away. He gives a quick visual inspection of first Mac and then he, finding that they are both thankfully uninjured.
But just to be sure, "You alright?" He asks.
Mac just nods, Chibs seeing nothing more than a bobbing blonde pony-tail. She can't look away from where it happened as her train of thought barrels down dangerous paths, attempting to find an answer as to why this just happened and who the fuck did it. But each and every path her mind speeds down is a dead-end.
She has no answers.
That bothers her more. A lot more.
Chibs reaches out and touches the obviously vexed woman lightly on the back of her shoulder. Mac blinks - snapping out of it. She turns around, still crouched down behind the Kia and look at Chibs, "You okay?"
"Aye," Chibs says with a quick nod, "Did you catch the plate number?" He asks.
Mac shakes her head a firm 'no', "I got a good look at it though. It was a 2005 Silver Taurus with out-of-state plates." She attempts to rise up from the ground but her the soreness from getting punched in the ribs proves a little difficult, she moves to wrap her hand around the underside of the Optimas wheel well but Chibs reaches out quickly and stops her.
Neither of them are wearing gloves. It would not be good for their finger-prints to show up on the black sedan littered with bullet holes. Chibs tries to help her instead but Mac pushes his hands away and braces herself against the cobble stone side walk instead.
Brushing her plams on her denim-covered thighs to ride her flesh of tiny dirt specks, she looks around the deserted street. Chibs stands pushes himself up with aid of a knee and joins Mac in the surveying the damage done - quickly and with only flashing glances before the inevitable presence of the law appears. Five shops on their side of the street have large front window panes that are now non-existant, shattered to pieces by the automatic gunfire. There are divets in the stone exteriors, mostly brick but some wood exteriors looking like they recieved a bombardmnet of tiny-cannon fire. A row of ten cars look more like giant blocks of metallic swiss cheese than any thing else.
The weapons were high powered. They were lucky to be so quick in using a nearby car as a shield. Each realizing that in their own right and as they share a glance they also realize how this means that things are going to get very crazy very soon.
"They meant business." Chibs remarks. There must be hundreds of holes in the cars and shop fronts.
Mac nods, still staring in awe at the pure wreckage caused by so much gunfire – absolutely amazed that both she and Chibs were quick enough to get behind that Kia.
Good car, those Kia's. Strong and sturdy – solid, too. Damn near bulletproof.
As Mac takes one last quick look at the crime scene, just as she begins taking backward steps away – she looks in the car behind the Kia. With everything else being nothing more than a fleeting generalized glance, she hadn't looked inside the cars. In a late model Tahoe parked one spot behind the Kia's, right under an orange street light, Mac can see a head resting against the streering wheel - a head that is only half of what it should be. The part of the head that hasn't been completely blown to bits is covered with long brown hair, matted with blood.
Someone was caught in the crossfire.
"Shite – Chibs." Mac taps him lightly on the stomach then points at the car, his brown eyes following her directional finger. Chibs looks at the obviously dead body in the Tahoe, the bloody corpse of some innocent bystander fully visible under an orange glowing street lamp.
No matter how bad a drive-by is, someone getting caught in the cross fire makes it far worse. This fact is especially important to Mac; one thing that always proves to melt the steely woman are the senseless deaths of innocents. Even now, a disguised sense of guilt etched into her femininely squared face, from the way her lips purse in the slightest to the faintest of wrinkles forming around her narrowed eyes. It is simple things with Mac that speak soliloquies.
There's a rue filled silence as they both look upon the murdered woman that lasts not quite long enough to be considered a moment before Chibs is grabbing Mac's hand, pulling her forward and forcing her to run along. He eventually lets go and the two flee the murder scene as quickly as they can.
It's always one fucking thing after another in Southie.
Mac gets on the phone the second she gets inside the apartment to find out what happened, angrily punching in numbers on her cellphone and giving rude, demanding greetings through the contact list she works through.
Chibs makes her a gin and pours himself a whiskey, knowing he's being nothing other than an enabler but also knowing that it would be hypocritical for him to drink and deny Mac.
Yelling hasty words into her phone, she takes the drink from Chibs' hand and takes a brief pause from spewing insults at the person who is apparently denying knowing anything only long enough to toss the whole drink back likes it is a shot.
"I don't give a fucking shit how much it costs! If this bitch knows why me and Chibs were the targets in a fucking drive-by, you get that fucking cunt to talk!" She snaps.
Chibs leaves her be, reserving himself sitting on their beige sofa – a large L-shaped piece of furniture with a long chaise built in. He makes a quick call to a brother in SAMBOS named Okie, and asks if they know anything – the angry death threats Mac shouts into her phone seeping into the background noise. Okie says that neither him nor anyone from SAMBOS knows about the attack, that Chibs phone call is the first mentioning of it.
"What do you think that drive-by was about?" Okie asks Chibs over the phone after a minute. Okie, a half-patch who got his name because of his ridiculous Oklahoma accent, is not a fan of Mac's. And Mac is not a fan of his. They at least act civil towards each other now, though. Okie and Mac have gotten along well enough since they decided to settle their difference like men with a good ol' fashioned brawl. What they really did was beat the shit out of each other, leaving Mac with a broken rib and a horribly bruises face. Chibs, at first was enraged that his brother and his woman duked it out. So mad that he decided to give Okie a beating far worse than the one he recieved from Mac. No matter the reason, no one lays a hand on Mac. As time passed, Chibs quickly saw the good it did; he saw how it calmed their tensly aggitated attitudes towards each other. Now, he's god damn glad they fought.
Chibs sighs, giving his wife-to-be in the kitchen a sideways glance through the archway. She is still yelling into her phone, pinned against her ear with her left shoulder as she pours another gin.
The drive-by was meant for Mac. There is no doubt in his mind that the emptied AK clips weren't meant for him. First, she is President of The Boston Saints, the mother charter, so she is somewhat the head of the MC as a whole, every charter included. The Saints have a lot of enemies, and it is not uncommon for such powerful outlaws to have their heads highly sought after. Secondly, closed-minded people have quite the problem with a woman being President and a black man being VP. The liberal ideals of The Saints have rubbed a great deal of people the wrong way.
"This was about her. There's no doubt about it." Chibs says to Okie, whispering slightly so Mac doesn't hear him. Not that she could, in all likelihood – she's still yelling, only now it is at new a person. She hung up on the first a few seconds ago, calling him a worthless piece of shit as her farewell then quickly called someone else.
Chibs looks over at Mac again. She is frantically smoking at a cigarette and downing her third or fourth gin in five minutes. Chibs tries to not let the anger over what happened eat him alive. He wants nothing more than to run out and find whoever is trying to hurt her so he can quickly extinguish them. Even though Mac can take care of herself, Chibs is highly protective of her.
She never needs him though. Mac never needs Chibs to help her or protect her. That reality gives Chibs more grief than he expects. While her independece is great, one her attributes he loves greatly, for once he would like to feel needed. But Mac handles all her problems herself. She doesn't talk to him about what is worrying her.
She's stuck in the mentality of someone who is completly alone, wandering the earth in solitude. Chibs would hold her hand every step of the way if only she were to ask. He would do anything for her if only she needed him.
But she never will.
Mac calls an emergency meeting of The Saintly Twelve – the twelve members of The Boston Saints whom retain authority.
They gather in the back room of Saints headquarters, an old fire house converted to be a rather nice clubhouse, each in their respective seats surrounding the long birch table. Mac, of course is at the head. The current VP, Eli, a bulky 29-year-old man with skin as dark as coffee, sits to the immediate left of Mac. To the right of Mac is Gonzo, the current Hellhound. Gonzo is the shortest of the group at a very lean and aerodynamic 5'5. The 27 year old man is quite literally covered head to toe in tattoos – a skull even tattooed over his shaved head. He may look slightly like the boogey man but he is Mac's most trusted confidant within the club. The Sgt. At Arms is Oz, son of Red whom was the President before he died when his motorcycle crashed a year ago. That's how Mac became Prez. She was VP when Red died in a horrible accident. Oz looks exactly like his father, red hair and all, and he is the youngest Sgt. At Arms in its history at twenty-four, but he has been a part of the club since before he was patched in. His experience far exceeds most of the people who have been in here for ten years.
The other members: Otto, Monkey, Dreads, Stax, Dizzy, Charlie and Fitzy all gather too, intently awaiting for their President to speak. There is non of the buzzing talk that is usual to find before their weekly meetings.
The emergency meeting, the first one called in nearly a year, has just begun. It's palpable to those in the room that this is serious business, obvious from how tense Mac is as she sits in the high-backed chair with black leather at the front of the long table. She has one elbow bent up on the armrest, resting her chin against a white-knuckled fist, curled fingers over her mouth.
She has gotten better at controlling her rage since being President. After all, she needs to lead this group of sheep and if their Prez is a loose-canon living without regard… it doesn't instill the club with much confidence. The fact that she was the subject of this particular drive-by shooting barely even fazes her - she's used to it.
Mac is all about business now, but some things still get to her personally – as with the majority of evil doings that happen inside Southie, especially when innocents are maimed. This alleged over-reacting is not a flaw of her stalwart personality. It is a flaw of being human.
"You all know why we're here. Someone better have some fucking good news for me." Mac says – the first words spoken during this particular eaglais, Gaelic for church and what this sort of setting is mostly referred to as, along with the Scottish term kirk.
Everyone is silent at first, eyes jumping about the sun-flooded room with dark green walls.
The first to speak up is Gonzo, who leans hunched over the table, cigarette clamped between his ring and pinky finger, "I heard from some of O'Mally's boys that the Russians are taking claim for this."
Everyone is surprised because not only are they more than certain that there is no blood between The Saints and Russians, but there is one fact that makes Gonzo's statement improbable: There is no Russian presence of importance in Boston.
"That makes no sense." Eli says, serving as the voice for everyone else inside the smoky room.
Mac is not surprised. She has a personal beef with the Russians.
"It most certaintly does." Mac says, darkly. She sits up straight in her seat, quickly igniting a cigarette before she speaks, "Back when I was in Nor-Cal, I took out the top guys of this wannabe gangster group called the Russian Kings. I found out later that they actually had some serious connections to the Russian mob – and I mean the real Russian mob, from Moscow. If the drive-by is connected to the Russians, it's because this was a personal attack against me."
Because Mac so easily slid into the position of President and does such a good job, it is hard for the other members to remember a time when she was just a Hellhound.
"Shit." Gonzo quietly hisses under his breath, almost inaudible to Mac.
Eli looks at Mac with his charcoal eyes, his bulging arms up on the table his head turned over at her so that his strong chin brushes against his raised shoulders, "You never told us about that."
"It was a free-lance job I helped SAMCRO with; I didn't exactly see the relevance there." Mac says.
"Until now, when they shoot up a fucking street on our turf." Oz says with a bitter snort.
Right eye twitching slightly as Mac tries hard not to be irritated by Oz's rude words, "Well now it's our problem and I told you. Get over it." Her fiery emeralds linger on Oz for a chastizing moment before she turns back to the rest of her club, "We've got to figure out a way to put a cap on this shit before it gets worse." Mac says through clenched teeth, angrily poking the table with her index finger to emphasis every syllable. "We need to get more intel – Dreads," Mac turns to Dreads, the clubs computer specialist, who looks up from rolling the ceremonial fat blunt, "Do your hacking thing and check out any cars that were caught on speed cams around the area, I guarantee you they ran at least one light given the way they were drivin'." Dreads nods along in silent agreement, returning his eyes to expertly crafting the blunt.
Charlie, a 26-year old woman with shoulder-length electric blue hair perks up, "Did you already reach out to Sugar Hill?" Charlie has vast connections deep within Boston, her family knowing or being affiliated with every criminal enterprise at one time or another; her family has been a fixture of the underground here since the late 1600's when they came over on a boat from Scotland. Charlie is the only other female in the Twelve; the pale-skinned woman with steely blue eyes and blue hair is the only other female in The Saints period. She wears a Sister of Mercy patch, a patch that is meant to be wholly ironic.
Mac nods, "Aye. I've already reached out to all our allies. MacManus' kid said he might have a lead on who did it – a hooker who works for Sugar Hill said something about being with a john who talked about the shooting."
Dreads takes a long hit from the blunt before beginning its rotation, handing it off to Charlie who is not quite paying enough attention to notice.
"What about the Patriarca's? Do we think this could be them?" Charlie asks. Dreads nudges her bare upper arm which is tattooed with a large version of her MacDonald family crest. Dreads holds in his hit while trying to pass the blunt on to her, quieted coughs coming from his throat. Charlie looks down, surprise briefly flashing across her round face before she gratefully takes the blut and continues on with proper smoking etiquette.
"No. It's been quiet them since we burned down all their shit." Oz says. The Patriarca's are an Italian mob family living on Boston's North Shore and collectively they are the Saints' archenemy. The hatred mutually and equally shared between the two groups operating on the fringe of society is decades strong. No side is even sure what started the feud at this point.
They just know they hate each other; they are the Capulets and Montegue's of Southie.
Charlie exhales a skunky cloud of smoke then hands the joint off to Otto before speaking, "So? They've waited to make retaliation before." She points out.
Mac nods slowly, agreeing with Charlie's point. As much as it is likely that this is a personal attack against her, a long-awaited vindication for her part in killing four very important vodka-loving cockroaches, it is far more likely that this is the Patriarca's. She almost forgot that two months ago she ordered that all of their crack houses and whore huts be emptied and set on fire. It was just another beat in the never-ending rhythm of violence and retaliation that they dance to.
"Gonzo, get in touch with Papa Coreleone," that is not the true name of the Patriarca's head, but rather a reference to the film The Godfather, "I want to talk to that mother fucker, see if he has anything to do with this." Mac requests of her Hellhound, who has a loose connection to the Patriarca family after doing some free-lance work for them before he was a Saint. Gonzo nods, accepting Mac's request. His deep set dark blue eyes are focused on her with concern, obviously thinking that the shoot-out was definitely a personal attack. He and his MC Prez are close, but he is also her body-guard and his first concern is that she does not get maimed.
"And everyone else, keep your ears to the streets and your eyes open. Ask around, but be discrete. Don't say I was involved, just ask those who could know more if they heard anything about the drive-by." She orders her soldiers.
Now taking control of the blunt, Gonzo pauses with the brown cylinder gripped between his thumb and forefinger, "What about the cops? Do we know anything from their end?"
Mac nods, "I put out a call to our boy O'Rourke in the BPD. They got the ballistics report in this morning, all 197 shots were fired from Mac-11's but they don't have any other evidence."
Seated near the opposite end, Charlie leans over the long table so that she can face Mac better, "What about the woman who was killed?"
Mac takes the blunt being offered to her by Gonzo and takes a long hit, completely filling her lungs with the thick smoke. When she speaks her words are light and airy, not fully pronounced as she tries to hold it in, "Dead broad was some soccer Mom from Sommerville, she's got three kids and no husband."
She exhales completely, taking a quick second puff then handing it off to Eli, "Her name was Emily Cushman. I'm gonna set up a collections box and I expect some good fucking donations." Mac says with a half-threat made casual by the smirk on her peach lips as she gives each Saint an individual, deamnding look. She knows how much money they all get. She knows how much they have to spare.
The meeting slowly morphs from being so serious to more of a party as the blunt gradually turns to ash. Then a real party quickly erupts, just like any other kirk. Loud rock music thumps against the walls, and the sound of multiple conversations being held creates a loud buzz of voices.
Mac is surprised to find Chibs waiting for her on one of the old fluffy green couches in what used to be the garage where the fire trucks were kept.
She slowly comes up from behind him, wanting to surprise her love. However, the buckles on her Doc's which gather around her ankles clink out faintly and he turns around when she nears, a half-smile on his scarred face as he catches her trying to be sneaky.
"What are you doin' here?" Mac asks cheerfully. She is without a doubt happy to see him, but it is unusual for Chibs to come to the Station. He's normally too busy to just drop by.
"I came to see you." Chibs replies. While he still sits Mac bends down over the back of the sofa behind him, running her tattooed hands down his chest and wrapping him up into an odd-feeling hug. She places a deep kiss on the intersection of his neck and shoulder, taking in a deep breath of his musky scent as she does so. She can feel him smile, she can also feel his loins twitch under her fingers that lie against his flesh just above his belt line. Kissing him where she did is gauranteed to always turn him on, each and every time.
"I was gonna see if you found anything out but now I think I'm going to have to take that sweet arse of yours upstairs." He whispers suggestively into her ear. The two top floors of the station are converted into ten dormitories, each of them having their own kitchenette and attached bathroom. Mac, of course, has her own rarely used room within the Saints station.
"I think that's a good idea." Mac whispers, her breath tickling his ear lobe. She nibbles lightly at the dangling flesh there as she brings up her arms, sensually running her fingers up his chest. They linger on his shoulder before she turns around and starts walking towards the stairs. Chibs quickly hops up from the couch, a spring in his step as he bounds after his future wife.
She walks, hips sashaying in front of him down the hallway on the second floor to her dormitory – Chibs' eyes are her shaking hips and firm ass.
They get to her dormitory, a wide room with pale blue walls and light hardwood floors circa 1920, which are shiny under a thick coat of polyurethane to preserve the old planks. The second the door is closed and locked, Chibs is pushing her up against the wall, his hands venturing up her green shirt under her leather jacket, roaming his calloused finger tips all over her smooth curves. He reaches up and massages one of her breasts, other hand working on the closure of her jeans. She grins into his neck as she shrugs off his jacket, a quiet moan escaping her luscious lips.
He places wet, loving and eager kisses all over her tattooed skin, biting lightly around her collar bone and the crook of her neck. He leaves behind a trail of faint red teeth marks in his wake.
They hurriedly strip each other of clothing. Chibs pulls away from Mac just long enough to pull his black shirt over his head, Mac taking the opportunity to do the same. Then Chibs presses against her again, passionately ravaging her body with his mouth. He grinds his hips against hers, proving how ready he is.
Her pants unbuckled and loose but still on, Chibs sticks his hand down her pants and explores her wetness, flicking and rubbing her clitoris. Mac moans deeply, grabbing him by the back of the neck to pull him in closer.
"Bed..Bed… We gotta get to the bed." Mac whispers into her ear with breath that tickles through the waves of ecstacsy that pleasurably fog her mind and steal her breath.
They gradually make their way to the bed, stepping backwards, until Chibs knees connect with the edge of the mattress and he falls down onto the king-sized bed with brown sheets, bringing down Mac with him so that she leans over his body. They feverishly work at getting each other's pants off, discarding the quickly forgotten items on the floor. Chibs grabs Mac by the hips and flips her around so that she is underneath him as he places a leg on either side of her pelvis. He begins my kissing her neck and then trails down below. Mac's fingers roam through his shaggy brown hair the entire time, encouraging him as he begins to expertly lick away at her pussy.
Chibs is an well-versed expert on how to pleasure a woman. Mac enjoys receiving oral from him - he's a fucking magician. She does not normally last long against his assaults to her pleasure center.
Her man is a fucking genius with that tongue of his. Scratching at his skull, pulling at his brown hair littered with wisps of grey and massaging his scalp all at once, her twisting fingers are nearly as frantic as his dancing tongue. Mac's hips bucks, aching to get closer to Chibs' magical touch.
It takes only a few minutes of his lapping, sucking and gentle nibbling before Mac's body tenses underneath him. She grips his hair tightly with her left hand, twisting the sheets besides her with her right hand as she reaches her first orgasm of what is sure to be many.
Chibs smiles, using the back of his arm to wipe her juices from his mouth and chin as he rises back up. Eyelids drooping half-closed, Mac watches him with emeralds full of lust.
He kisses her deeply on her neck, sucking away while one hand digs under her back to gain some hold before he pushes his rock hard member deep into her.
"Oh, Chibs." She whispers into his ear, words fading into a moan.
As he thrusts in and out he looks down, watching as her body quiver beneath him, her large boobs bouncing around with every penetration he makes. He loves her breasts, the supple D-cup mounds that jiggle along to his rough motions. Pace quickening, Chibs reaches around and grabs Mac's hands that claw at his back. He wraps his hands around her wrists and pins them above her head. Continuing to thrust faster and faster, heavy breath and deep moans freely fall from his lips as watches Mac get lost in the pleasure of it all. Her head throws back against the pillow, body arching closer to his.
He leans down, placing more bites that leave faint marks along her collar bones and neck. Mac moans the entire time, low and feral sounding. Each moan from her pushes Chibs to go furthur, harder, faster.
Chibs ravishes her but that's how she likes it. Mac likes rough sex, sex with a little pain in the mix and so does he. It is a perfect union between them.
Her long legs wrapping around him, forcing his penetrations to go deeper. The headboard bangs against the wall it is pushed up against as they rock the mattress to and fro.
Neither of them give a shit that everyone in station now knows what they're doing – if they weren't already made privy from the sounds of ecstasy that filter out from under the cracks in the door, the headboard is signing it out.
Besides, she's the President. She's allowed to do this sort of thing.
Mac's platinum blonde locks are an absolute mess, tangled and sticking up in random places; she has one of the worst cases of sex-hair that she's ever experience. Sitting up in the bed and leaning against Chibs' side, the only part of Mac's body covered is her leg which is entangled in part of the chocolate brown sheet. Chibs melts into the headboard next to her, a lazy smile on his lips. Mac is close enough that he can smell her lavender shampoo, her signature scent – one of the few things he actually asks of her is not to change shampoos. The blissful couple casually smokes on a wide joint they pass back and forth, eyes red from the dope and glossy from the multiple intense orgasms.
Mac blows out a skunky hit in smoke rings, popping her jaw to create the form. She watches the wispy circles float up towards the ceiling and dissipate into the air. She loves this more than anything else, just sitting naked with Chibs and smoking the finest herb from the plants she maintains herself. It's so simple; It's so peaceful; It's so perfect.
Chibs is slightly pensive beside her, looking down at the love of his life with dopey brown eyes. He loves her so much that it almost doesn't seem real to him. He loved Fiona deeply but even that love is nothing compared to how much Mac warms his soul. He loves her completely, almost to the point where it hurts.
And he always has, he realizes as he watches her take a hit and hold it in - desperatly trying to hold back a cough. From the very day he met Mac, Chibs loved her. He supposes he always knew this, too. When Fiona started to become distant in their marriage, Mac was the first female he noticed as something more than a conquest. There are two types of women to Chibs, those he wants to fuck and those he wants to love – the latter now a position solely held by Mac. He doesn't even give other women double-takes now. He has everything he desires right here beside him in bed.
Being around her, Chibs feels complete. At the end of the day, that is what a true relationship is supposed to be. A joining with someone who fits into you, someone who is the one-of-a-kind cut key to your heart; someone who enhances yourself as well as enhancing your life rather than overshadowing; someone who is your equal in every way imaginable.
The dangerous drive-by that happened last night reminded him of how temporary life is. Sadly, it also reminded him of what happened in California and how she has already died once. Life is fleeting, full of too many wasted moments.
Well, Chibs doesn't want another god damn second to go by the way-side.
"Why don't we get married?" Chibs asks, seemingly out of the blue to Mac's impression.
"We already are – see!" Mac giggles, lifting up her left hand to flash him a view of the ring on her finger, the ring Chibs held onto for almost three months before he worked up the nerve to ask her to be his wife, something that Mac does not know.
Chibs shakes his head, chuckling lowly, "I know, I meant now. Let's just get married now."
Mac lifts her head from his shoulder, joint squished between her lips as she looks at him, curious reservations evident, "Seriously?"
Chibs nods, a wide smile stretching apart his lips and illuminating his whole tanned face, "Aye. Let's do it. Let's just elope - go to Vegas or somethin' and just get married."
Mac thinks for a brief moment, just long enough to realize that this is something she doesn't have to think about.
A similarly large grin warms Mac's pale face, "Okay, let's do it!" All in, she nods exuberantly.
Mac never wanted a big wedding; she never wanted anything fancy. She never gave a rat's ass about bells and whistles at their wedding. She has said to Chibs numerous times that the only thing that she does care about is that Chibs is across from her.
All she cares about is that she says those two simple words, I do, to Chibs. Nothing else matters.
Chibs leans over and kisses his very soon-to-be-wife, the woman he loves with his whole heart – damn near giddy that they're finally going to get married.
They don't pull apart. They get closer and go for round three.
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