Insert disclaimer here.

I know I shouldn't be starting a new fic, but here it is. Been popping around my head for the better part of this summer, and SOA's premiere finally prompted me to post. Let me know if you'd like more, yeah?

Newly revised as of 7/9/12.

For Blue Skies

I'm losing the reasons to breathe I never lived
Never lived, never lived, I'm in love
These are my reasons the truth is never filled
I'm never filled, never filled, I'm in love
-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, "Red Eyes and Tears"

I glance between the impossibly far away entrance, the man blocking my way, and feel my heart double its beat inside my chest. It's so loud I can hear it thunder in my ears, but it fades to the background along with the eleven o'clock news playing on the wall-mounted TV behind the counter of the convenience store. A shooting that claimed the life of a local woman a few days ago has suspected connections to a local gang, but nothing's definite yet. Nothing's ever definite in this world.

Returning my attention to the man standing before me, I fight to regain control of my racing pulse. The heightened awareness of my situation almost makes me dizzy.

"How 'bout it, mamacita?"

The guy is looking me up and down and sideways - any and every way. It makes my skin crawl. His eyes are half-lidded, almost bored, but the way he's been eyeing me since he walked into the store betrays his seemingly relaxed stance. He's got brown hair and eyes, tanned skin. He might be Mexican or Colombian by the accent that shades his tone, wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket - a jacket that marks him as a gang member.

I read the bold lettering with trepidation: MAYANS OAKLAND.

My heart rate quickens again. The IRA - or any of its branches, for that matter - doesn't wear jackets like the gangs do in the States, but I know a cut when I see one. It's just my luck that some late night shopping would land me in the sights of the sordid. A Mayan, not even a gang that I can claim blood ties to. They seem to be big on that here, sticking with one's "own." I suppose it's the same back home, if only a little less obvious because of the lack of racial diversity.

I shove my things on to the counter for the clerk to ring to buy me some time in answering the guy - deodorant, razors, toothbrush, gum and a bag of potato crisps. In my haste to get to California, I forgot to pack the little luxuries that make staying in a motel five-thousand miles from my home bearable.

"I said. . .how 'bout it?" His voice takes on a subtle, sharp edge.

He's taller than me by a couple inches, but it's the look in his eyes that worries me the most. I've seen that look before far too many times, in the eyes of boys turned to soldiers back from war. Half-dead, half-gone. They're there but not. Souls left in tatters, forgotten, on a battlefield they had no busy fighting on to begin with.

I finally look at him, and swallow the lump in my throat.

"I. . .gotta get 'ome," I manage to say, sounding only half as shaky as I feel. "It's late, y'know?" I try for lightness.

A slow, lazy smile spreads over his face as I hear the clerk hesitantly ring up the items I placed on the counter. He takes a step towards me, and I stiffen.

"What is that?" He says softly, almost chuckling to himself. His smile pulls into a smirk. "Where you from, girl?"

I know he's referring to my accent. I've been trying to cover it up since it marks me as an outsider. I'm thankful my black hair and light blue eyes don't stick out nearly as much as they did back home. Black Irish, my mother used to call me. I suppose I need more than ten hours of silent practice on the plane ride over. Actors make it look too easy.

Buggar.

The clerk wordlessly bags my items and puts them on the counter for me to take. He shifts his eyes away from me as he busies himself at the cash register. It's a silent refusal and apology; he won't help me. He doesn't want trouble in his store. I'm on my own here. Then again, I've been on my own for a very long time, it's nothing new.

I grab the white plastic bag off of the counter, my other hand stiff at my side, and keep my eyes on the ground. "Not from around 'ere," I mutter, trying to go around him.

But he blocks my way.

"I got that, blanca," he tells me, his smirk deepening. He flicks his head in the direction of the door. "Come on, my bike's out front. Let's take a ride."

He says the word 'ride' like it holds more meaning that just a trip on a motorcycle.

I feel my heart sink to the pit of my stomach. Something close to fear settles at the base of my spine and the tingling turns to burning too quick for comfort. I need to get out of here, despite the fact I've only been here a few days and staying under the radar hasn't been a problem until now. Really, how important is deodorant and a few razors? Who am I trying to impress anyway? The answer is no one, and going at night to the local store in a town that's as alien to me as anything in my life is not one of my brighter ideas of late.

It definitely doesn't speak for my sense of self preservation, that's for damn sure—

The sound of the door bell chimes twice in the background, but I don't look up right away. I've got bigger problems than having two witnesses instead of one.

"No thanks," I say as lightly and quietly as I can, again trying to step around him. I manage two paces before I feel one of his hands wrap around my forearm and squeeze ever so slightly, prelude to a real threat.

"That wasn't no suggestion, blanca." This time the nickname sounds like a sneer instead of playful flirting.

"Please—" I say, my eyes glancing beyond the Mayan gang member to see who just entered the store. He's taller than the Mayan, by how much I don't know, with short dark hair and shades pushed up on his forehead. I wonder for a second why he needs dark glasses at night, but then I feel my heart drop again as I realize the black leather jacket he's wearing marks him as a gang member as well – probably not Mayan, but it can't be good.

"You got somewhere you're goin'?" The Mayan sneers at me me, ignoring the newcomer. All pretenses of flirting is gone and now I've pissed him off.

Something in my face – fear, confusion, maybe a silent plea – must be showing clearly, because I watch the newcomer immediately assess the situation. A scant few emotions pass over his face, too fast for me to name, until he finally seems to settle on a false expression of relief.

"There ye are, doll," he says as if I'm an old friend – or girlfriend – and the thick Scottish accent throws me for a loop.

The Mayan turns at the sound of his voice, his grip lessening on me as the Scot walks past him to stand next to me, his arm going around my shoulders as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Been lookin' all o'er the lot for ya," he says.

I can see the apprehension in the Mayan's eyes as he takes in the situation with the new player. Another gang member, someone taller, broader, at least ten years older - and probably more experienced - than him has entered into the equation. He's looking at me, trying to decide if I'm worth the fight. I could have told him I'm not.

"SOA, huh?" The Mayan nearly says cuttingly. His arm drops as his eyes flicker to the Scotsman's jacket.

SOA? Probably the man's gang affiliation. The man who has his arm protectively wrapped around my shoulders, protecting me from the other gang member.

What a fuckin' night, I think.

"Let's go, doll," the Scot tells me, leading us away from the Mayan and towards the door.

My fingers tighten around the handles of the plastic bag in my hand, almost forgotten during the whole exchange. I cast a glance over my shoulder to see the Mayan eying the both of us with a repressed rage. For a second, I think he's going to pull a knife on us or worse. But he just keeps on watching as the Scot stops to hold the door open for me.

I briefly meet his gaze before stepping out into the warm night air, too surprised to say anything. I can't remember the last time someone held the door out for me. It's then that I see, in the fluorescent lights of the store, the scars on either side of his face, a sinister ghost of a wide smile. They leave me with chills, and it crosses my mind that I might not be out of the woods yet. There's no guarantee this guy is any better than the one he just saved me from. I don't have time to worry about it too much before he takes my hand and leads me out into the parking lot.

If he has noticed me looking at his scars, he doesn't say anything. I let the silence settle between us, and note the roughness of the hand that holds mine. I don't have any calluses on my palms.

The Scot lets go of my hand and leads me towards a hulking black motorcycle. He swings his leg over the side of the bike, settling himself on the seat, then turns to me, holding out a helmet that'd been hanging off one of the handles.

I stare at him like a little lost chick, and after a moment, he just smiles.

"You took the bus 'ere, right?" He surmises, and I can't get over how thick his accent is. It reminds me of home - almost.

Not knowing what else to do, I nod, wary of how he knows that.

Again he's able to read my expression, and nods to the lot around us. "No'ther cars but the mingin's ride," he explains, pointing toward a smaller motorcycle parked a few spaces down.

Of course. Simple logic, not the thinking of a maniacal killer.

"Ah," is all I can come up with.

Still not moving, the Scotsman lets out a throaty laugh and holds out the helmet again. "I won't bite ye, I prohmise. Give ye a lift hame is'all."

My eyes narrow in uncertainty. I don't want to trust him, but there's something about his voice and face that remind me achingly of home, which immediately makes me want to climb on and head off, away from the eerie silence of the parking lot and the threatening presence of the second motorcycle parked just a few yards away.

The lesser of two evils, I decide, talking the helmet from him and pushing it down over my head. I push my hair back behind my ears and hope that'll stop it from whipping me in the face during the ride.

I'm about to put the bag down to clip the straps under my chin when his hands beat me to it. He gently clips them in place and tightens the strap because it's too loose on me. His proximity makes me acutely aware of the smoky scent that permeates his clothing, and the scent of something else I can't name. I wonder at the sudden awareness of a man I've only just met, not five minutes ago - but shake it off.

His gaze is focused on the task at hand, but when it's done, his dark eyes flicker to mine, and then – quite noticeably – to my lips.

"There ye are," he says, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. " 'Op on," he says with a flick of his chin, and suddenly the moment's passed.

I stop the instinctive smile before it reaches my lips, and tentatively climb on the bike, settling myself against him and wrapping my arms around his waist. Even through the leather and jeans, I can feel the lines of muscles that make up his shoulders, his torso and legs. In the dark it makes me flush like I'm back at university and catching the eye of a handsome guy at the local pub.

The engine revs, jarring me from my thoughts of the past. Just before he kicks off, he turns over his shoulder, his eyes catching mine.

"Name's Chibs," he offers lightly, testing out the throttle a few times; the engine roaring beneath us.

I hesitate for a second before saying in return, "Clare."

He smiles, then kicks off, and we ride into the night.