"Clear out," I bark at the other men standing around in the workshop, my eyes darting from Juice to the prospect, "Close the door, Rat."

The long-faced prospect jumps to attention and draws the metal roller door down, leaving only myself in the garage with Juice. Juice is standing by his bike, wiping his hands with a dirty rag, succeeding only in smearing the grease around his knuckles. I take a moment to shrug my cut off my shoulders and place it on the bench behind me, noticing a familiar smokey pair of eyes peeking through from between the blinds in the office. I turn back to the young man before me, watching how he covered his nose with his hand, eyes dropping to the floor before coming back up to meet my own again.

"What's goin' on?" he asks, voice flat.

"I'm a bit worried abou' you, Juicy." I stare into those brown eyes, so shadowed with the weight of life in the MC. It breaks my heart to see the pit he's dug himself into, so naïve in thinking we – I, at the very least- could ever kick him from the club just because of his estranged father. The fact that he stooped to such a low level, to kill a brother, still rings loudly in my ears and the light in which I usually see Juice has dimmed and flickered.

Juice shrugs and his voice cracks in the most unconvincing way, "I'm okay man."

"No no no, not how you are," I interject, dangerously quiet, " I'm worried abou' what you might do."

His eyebrows crease and he continues to play dumb, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. "I don't know what you mean."

"You stole from us, to help a cop," my lip curls at the very thought of this man I consider family turning against the club, "and you killed a brother."

"No," he tries again, but it's half hearted and I can see the truth in his face even as he says, "Miles tried to-"

I didn't want to hear it, not the lies, not his excuses, none of it. I cut him off, "you ratted, and then you took a cowardly swing from a tree."

The disappointment in my voice lingers in the air and makes Juice shift uncomfortably on the spot. He looks lost and pathetic and I feel a small pang of sympathy wash over me, momentarily soothing the fierce waves of anger still crashing around inside me since the truth was brought to light. I squash it down and ignore the urge to embrace him; right now I needed to release the tension building up behind my knuckles. I remove my rings one by one as Juice breathes out another apology.

"Never meant to hurt the club," his eyes are big and wet when he looks at me properly.

"But you did, and for some reason, Jax has given you a pardon," I'm not sure how I manage to keep my voice so still and deliberate with all the white rage swelling up in my chest, demanding retribution for all the betrayal and lies, "and there's nothing I can do about tha'." I grimace, push myself off the bench and step closer to the Puerto Rican. "But I gotta get right with it somehow."

His body is rigid in the shadow of my own, lips tight and eyes set with understanding and acceptance. "I love you brother." The words fall from his mouth with a determined hitch of his throat and I know this is exactly what we both need.

"I know," is my answer, and I throw myself into a solid swing that connects perfectly to his cheek. The force knocks Juice back into the mobile workbench, but it only takes him a second to stand upright again and he's in my face, breathing fast and heavy as adrenaline courses through him. The way his eyes lock onto mine, the silent begging for more, the need for this wall he's built up to be taken down brings us both onto the same level, and he takes my next blow that sends him back onto his knees. Juice's composure wanes as he tries to collect himself, but it takes longer than I'm willing to wait, and I grab him by the shirt and lift him. He's breaking; I can see the demons of the last few months tearing and cracking into his features as he falls against me like a ragdoll. But this has to happen. I have to make the situation right again, he needs to feel how much he's hurt me and the club. I grab the front of his shirt, hold him on his feet and connect my fist to his face a third time, staggering back as Juice collapses to the floor again. The fire in my gut continues to burn, relishing the pain coursing through my hand; a beautiful, simple truth. Women may reconcile with one another through words, and apologies and gifts, but I am a man. A Scot. The apologies must be hand delivered, and the gifts to linger in the shape of burst blood cells and the metallic taste of blood on your tongue.

Juice is on the ground, taking every punch without resistance and I pause to cup his broken, bleeding jaw in my palm. His eyes are closed, his jaw loose and hanging open as he wheezes in pain. Slowly, the fire is dying down, leaving just an aching numbness. I clench my fist one last time, and release every last iota of anger into the final suckerpunch, careful not to break his nose. My ears stop ringing as I back away slowly, pushing my bloodied fingers through my hair and gripping at the strands to feel the sting. At some point the blinds in the office had closed, and the sound of a car driving off in the distance is the only noise interrupting Juice's shallow, desperate gasps for air. He lies on the ground, broken skin trickling blood across his forehead and mouth. I move back towards the table where my rings still sit, and lean against it, breathless.

For a long while there is only the sound of our labored breaths, my own regulating long before Juice's. I slide down the leg of the table until my ass touches the cold cement, eyes glued on the young man before me. That's when the last of the wall crumbles. It comes in a ragged, uneven croak, but soon Juice is shaking and glaring stubbornly at the roof as the pieces fall down around him, leaving him raw and open; as fresh as the cut above his eye. He continues to tremble as I drag myself towards him and cup my hand around his neck.

"C'mon Juicy," I sigh, lowering my face close to his. "That's enough now."

His eyes move away from the corrugated roof and find mine, a world of emotion displayed in them for anyone willing to read. I do read it, all of it, and I pull him into a sitting position and thumb away the wetness over both his cheeks. Juice whimpers and leans into the touch in a way that makes a part of my stomach flop unexpectedly. His eyelashes flutter as he tries to look away, the air between us suddenly thick. I don't allow myself to think before my hold around his neck stiffens and I'm dragging his mouth to crash against my own. His lips taste of salt and copper and I swallow his cry of surprise, tightening my grip and refusing to let him pull back until I'm ready to let him go. When I do, his eyes are wide and frightened, and for a second I'm sure I've crossed a line. The impulse was so sudden, so urgent, I hadn't been thinking properly, I couldn't even explain why I kissed him if he asked me. Thankfully he doesn't, but he doesn't say anything else either. He just stares up at me, his hands resting unsure against my chest.

"Juice…" I begin, slowly retracting my hand from his nape, "I'm sorry, that was-"

I don't finish my sentence; it gets lost in Juice's mouth as he throws himself onto me, his lips frantically seeking mine. My vision blurs and all rational thought goes hazy, like someone had switched the tv over to an untuned channel. All I can smell is sweat and blood and I wrap my arms around the younger man, pulling him closer, feeling him melt into my touch as he balls his fists in the front of my jacket. The sensation in my stomach moves south and I can feel my cock straining against the denim of my jeans. I dart my tongue out to lick his bottom lip and he opens his mouth without a second thought, and a small moan escaping his throat. I delve in, tasting him and relishing the way he pushed himself up onto his knees just to close the gap between our bodies. My cock twitches again as blood pools into my crotch. I feel a similar bulge pressing against my thigh and Juice's shaking hands are moving down to tug desperately at my leather belt. The abrupt sensation clears my head just enough to realize what is about to happen and I break the kiss, catching his wrists to stop his clumsy fumbling.

"Juice," I pant, his name rolling off my tongue so thickly I'm even sure it sounds how it should anymore. He stops and glances up at me, still looking ever so like a deer in headlights, only this time his lips are swollen and pink from something other than my punches. His eyes are glassy and lidded, and I have to restrain from throwing all caution to the wind and capturing his mouth with mine once more.

"Fuck, I-" Juice seems to sober up and blinks rapidly. "Holy shit Chibs, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm not a fag I swear!"

His pleas shoot out at a ratio of six words a second and I shake my head at his naivety. "Juice, don't be like tha', you didnae even make the first move." I say softly, trying to dispel the sheer look of terror drawn into his sharp features.

"But, then," he says, his mouth opening and closing, unsure of what to say.

"I'm the one who should be sorry, I shouldn't have done that, not like this," I sigh, feeling much too old to be kneeling on cold cement kissing patch members. Kissing boys isn't new, I've had my fair share of experimentation in my youth, and decided it wasn't the worst thing in the world; to be truthful, with the right person it's more thrilling than kissing a woman. That's where my mind become fuzzy again, kissing Juice just then had been more thrilling than kissing any other person in my life, male or female, Fi included. But this, right here on the garage floor wasn't the right way to go about any of it.

"Chibs," Juice swallows, a deep blush creeping up his neck and onto his face, "please, can I-"

I shake my head, not wanting to hear anything that might trigger the stupid primal male instincts again and interrupt, "no, just come here and give me a look at these wounds."

Juice's eyes stray to the furthest corner of the room as I get to my feet, adjust my pants and find the first aid kit in the wall cabinet. The silence is comfortable yet awkward as I swab away his blood and place a butterfly stitch over the cut on his eyebrow. My hand lingers on his neck for longer than necessary when he's patched up and I squeeze his shoulder reassuringly.

"I love you brother," I say in a low voice, "let's get you home."