Author's Note
Hi and welcome! I'm missing writing Tig too much, so this fic is based on Tig in therapy. There will be club stuff, but it will start with exploring his character with a shrink - it's going to be fun, but hopefully it'll get quite nice and deep. Plus there'll be some trouble, because there always is.
Please do let me know what you think - I love your thoughts and feedback, so I'd be really grateful for that as I develop this! Enjoy.
Sara x
"This is bullshit."
Tig Trager let out a monstrous growl as he was manhandled back out of the courtroom, his wrists bound tightly behind him in thick metal cuffs. Lowen sighed as she exchanged a look with Clay, who was behind her in an instant, demanding an explanation.
"You didn't get time, that's all that matters," Lowen snapped as they were ushered into a small, sticky little waiting room while a police officer set about undoing the lock on the cuffs. Tig snatched his hands away as soon as he could, rubbing the sore spots on his skin from the abrasive metal, and Clay crossed his arms as he leaned on the edge of the desk.
"He didn't do it," he muttered. Tig's lip curled into a smirk and Lowen rolled her eyes.
"What he did or didn't do doesn't matter, it's what they think he did," she said, jabbing her finger back towards the judge's room. Tig stetched his arm out behind his back as he hopped up onto the table, swinging his legs like a petulant child as he sulked.
"But I don't have that kind of cash," he pouted, looking at Clay with those crystal blue eyes. He knew that Clay would help him out, he always did, and, sure as sure could be, Clay instantly patted his knee.
"I got you, brother." He chuckled a little as he wet his lips with his thick tongue. "But the other bit, that's all you."
Tig looked like he was going to have a meltdown. He kicked his foot into the desk panel with annoyance. "What the hell am I going to do with a shrink, huh?" he frowned, a pleading look to Lowen. "You can get me out of that, right? We could send the prospect," he suggested to Clay with a grin. That thought cheered him right up. "Prep him, you know? He can just be me."
Clay snorted at that as he stood up and paced towards the door. "Nobody can be you, Tiggy. Promise you that."
Tig paused to give Lowen a gentle, prickly kiss on the cheek as he murmured his thanks and followed his president out of the holding room. His eyes roamed around the hall as he walked out and he blinked in the bright sunlight as he stepped out onto the court steps. Clay passed him his sunglasses with a grin and motioned to the bikes waiting out front.
"She missed you," he teased, pointing to the Harley as he watched Tig drop down to his knee beside his bike and nuzzle the handle lovingly with his nose.
"And I missed her," he purred, his hands running longingly along the metal. "And now I'm gonna ride her until-"
"You've got an appointment," Lowen called as she skipped down the stairs towards her car. "In an hour. Shriek's office is in Oakland, you better get a move on."
She handed him a printed order as she walked past and gave him a supportive pat on the elbow. Tig groaned, looking at the page in his hand, and wrinkled his nose as he looked up at Clay.
"You sure the prospect can't do this for me?" he pleaded softly. Clay slumped his arm around him, screwing his hair beneath his knuckles like he was a screwy little kid.
"There's some shit we just can't pass the buck on, brother." He looked at the order as Tig lit a cigarette and took a long drag, looking up at the blue sky and enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face after too long in that dingy room in lock-up. "Shriek. I don't know this one. Sounds like a creep."
"They're all creeps," Tig whinnied. "What kind of freak wants to know all about a person anyway?"
Clay laughed at that. "Just play him, it'll be easy. Tell him how Mommy breastfed you 'til you were twenty-one, he'll think he can solve all your problems in, what, ten sessions?" He looked at the order. Ten compulsory sessions, it sounded like hell. "Just keep off the weed, they'll test you here and there. You break this, they'll make you go in." His nose wrinkled. "And black ain't too happy right now, you're not taking that risk, Tiggy, you hear me?"
Tig tipped his Harley slightly as he climbed on, pressing his crotch to the leather to satiate that need to be touched. Clay couldn't help but laugh, if Tig had been alone with the damn thing he'd probably be sprawled naked against it already.
"Don't speed," Clay added with a laugh as Tig fitted the key and the bike roared to life. "Last thing you need today is a fucking ticket."
Tig winked as he pulled away and set off. The ride wasn't too far, not really, not when all he wanted to do was enjoy the feel of the engine sending that rush through him, and he took a lonely, dusty route out. His hands flexed as he accelerated ahead and he took a breath. God, he had to stop cutting shit so fine. High and indecent exposure, it was an easy one to get over but the culmination of stupid things was what would end up putting him behind bars. He knew that.
He finally pulled to a stop outside a small office block. The engine stopped, and he tugged the order from his top pocket, unfolding it to check the address. He wrinkled his nose and looked at the place again, it must have been a set of four or six cosy little offices. The place was quaint, he hated it. It reminded him of the order and restriction of the life he used to live, before the Marines, before SAMCRO. Normality.
"Fucking prick, backward little washed up fuck."
Tig dragged himself up the stairs and buzzed the intercom. Doctor Shriek. He even sounded like a piece of goddamn work. He groaned as the door opened and slunk in, looking suspiciously around at the place as he did. A small little man at a desk smiled at him, pushing his glasses up his nose as he did, and Tig blew the air out between his lips as he looked towered over him.
"Shriek, right?"
The man laughed and motioned for Tig to sit. "No, just a few moments. They're running behind."
Tig threw himself down into a seat and tapped at an invisible watch on his wrist. "That's just not acceptable," he muttered. "That better be coming out of your time, not mine."
His eyes swung around the room, looking at the clean white waiting room. It was simply laid out, everything squarely placed, neat and tidy and eerily perfect. With no sound but the ticking of a single clock, Tig was sure he'd be able to hear the sound of the receptionist's heart beating if he focused.
"You seem nervous. Are you nervous?" Maybe Tig could amuse himself. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and he tried to gaige the receptionist's eye but he was ignored. "This guy, is he expensive?" He pursed his lips, looking around at an overpriced little zen sandpit in the middle of the table. "I mean, company dime but."
The receptionist didn't answer, he didn't even look up, but he sprung to his feet quickly as the door swung open. A terrified-looking hulk of a man scurried out, his eyes red from at least an hour of crying, and Tig watched him go, feeling his heart sink. Great, he was going to be made to talk about memories and bullshit. Just what he fucking needed.
"You can go in now." The receptionist had a little grin on his lips as he gestured to the room. "Good luck."
Tig let out a heavy sigh as he pulled himself up to his feet, his boots thudding the ground as he got up. He puffed out his cheeks and blew the air out as he trudged through to an empty room. There was a desk at the far end, with a long chaise lounge and a relaxer. He hovered for a moment, unsure of where he was meant to sit, and he had just started to lower himself onto the chaise when he heard a door shut behind him.
"Apologies for the delay."
Tig paused, frozen to the spot for a moment. Christ, she was a woman. He hovered, unsure whether to stand or sit down, and Shriek stood looking at him in amusement.
"Are you intending to lay an egg?" she asked, gesturing to his awkward squatting position. Tig snorted derisively, trying to settle his discomfort, and stood quickly. He wondered if he was meant to shake her hand or something, he didn't even know. She didn't seem interested, however, and she crossed to take a couple of bottles of water from the side. She placed one neatly in front of him and then took her seat, immediately taking up a notebook and writing in it. "You can sit for the session if you like, it doesn't cost anything extra."
Her little joke softened him and Tig allowed himself to relax a little. He sat down quickly, perching on the edge, and rubbed his fingers through his hair to try and bring his focus back. He smiled at her but stopped quickly, all too aware that it was probably unspeakably creepy.
"So… yeah." He rubbed his hands together for a moment. "Let's make this easy. "I don't want to be here. You don't want to be here."
"Why wouldn't I want to be here?" She had the tone of an Upper East Side New Yorker, and Tig felt himself backfooted by her question.
"I… uh… figured." Good God, she had the same piercing blue eyes as he did, if not two shades lighter, and she was staring at him as if she could see right into his soul. He was sure his heart was freezing over. Is this how people felt when he looked at them? "It's a job, right? Nobody likes working."
"I like working." Her tone was clipped as she continued to scribble on her notepad and Tig could see that he was going to get nowhere trying to bunk off on this damn session. "Don't you like working?" He shrugged and she looked at something in his file. "What is it you do, Mister Trager?"
Tig smiled a little, he almost wanted to tell her, just to spook her. Gun running. Drug shifting. Bad guy murdering, when it was appropriate. "Work in a garage," he said, sitting back in his seat. He wasn't going to be put out of his stride by this bitch, that wasn't his style. "You know, automotive shop kinda thing. I'm good with my hands."
It was flirtatious, of course it was. Tig hadn't realised he might be able to persuade her attention. He had been so prepared for some boring old bookish type that it was only just beginning to dawn on him that he could probably soften up this uptight little bitch with his usual charm. When she didn't respond, however, he held out his hands, as if that might help make his point. She looked at them with something of a sneer and he shyly withdrew them, hiding his dirty nails away from her.
"You work in Charming?" she asked, her voice betraying how unimpressed she was. Tig shifted a little, suddenly too hot, and he moved to unbutton his collar.
"Great place. Have you been?"
He tried to give her a hopeful smile, desperate to engage with her, but she ignored him, focusing on her notepad. "No."
Tig pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going to be impossible, and he had ten hour-long sessions of this? He rubbed his palms down along his thighs for a moment and finally forced a smile, maybe he needed to approach this another way.
"Neither of us want to do this, Doc," he said. "So why don't we just, you know, sit here. In silence. Let time pass, I've got nothing to say to you and you've got nothing for me. So, end of the session, you can just give me a little prescription for some of the good shit and we can part ways friends. You know?" He licked his lips as he looked over her, pausing to look at her. He could see the curve of her breasts beneath her blouse and her long legs were stretched out, crossed in front of her. "Maybe more than friends…"
She didn't even flinch at his comment and Tig could see this was going to be a hard game to play. He stood up, pacing around the room, feeling locked in and caged by the situation. He hated this.
"We don't have to speak, if you don't want to," Shriek replied, observing him like an insect as he scurried around the room, touching every window and every wall to familiarize himself with the space. "I can tell everything about you I need to, Mister Trager."
That caught his ear. He turned, twisting to look at her. "Oh yeah?" He leaned against the back of the chaise, his thick muscles bulging beneath his shirt as he did. "And what do you know about me, Doc?"
She smiled a little. "Lots of things."
Tig prowled towards her, sure she was bluffing. Even though he was standing over her, she didn't move, nonplussed by him, and he lunged at her, snatching her notebook out of her hand. She stayed entirely still as he flicked through the pages, his eyes roaming over her notes.
Uncomfortable. Nervous. Anxious. Peacocking. His lips curled into a grin as he saw the word she had written in the centre of the page and underlined three times. Prick.
"Seems about right," he chuckled, flicking the book back towards her, suddenly feeling that they were probably on about the same page. He could tell she wanted to smile but was holding it back, and he sat on the table in front of her, stooping to catch her eye. "How about you and me, we, uh… we can have a little fun, you know? On the clock? Wouldn't that be kinda, I don't know, naughty?"
She drew herself up, bristling slightly. "I don't know how you usually deal with treatment, Mister Trager, but if you want any sort of medication, I can't give you anything if we don't sit down and have a chat." She gestured to the chaise lounge. "So why don't you take a seat, and we can start again?" She tore out the first note page and handed it to him. "You can even keep this, if you like. As a gesture of… trust." She caught his eye, a glimmer flashing through her gaze as she said it. Tig took it and folded it into his pocket, and she nodded, leaning back in her seat.
"Now, where shall we start?"