Title: "We Own the Sky"
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13/Light R
Character/Pairing: Clarke, Bellamy, Clarke/Bellamy (the rest of the cast in minor roles)
Spoiler: N/A
Length: multi-part
Summary: When Jake Griffin dies, Clarke goes home for the funeral and uncovers a secret she won't let stay hidden. What's intended to be a short visit turns into a lengthy stay, especially when a former love comes back into the picture. Or the "Sons of Anarchy" AU where Bellamy's in a motorcycle club and Clarke's the high school girlfriend that got away.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs.
Author's Note: So many things happening here. 1). I've been wanting to write a SoA AU since the summer when I basically mainlined the first five seasons and become completely obsessed with the lives of SAMCRO. 2). Tara Knowles is an amazing character that was robbed of the ending she deserved. 3). After over a decade of fanfiction (yes, I'm old), I'm itching to write some original fiction and this is good practice, taking established characters and setting but crafting my own story around it. 4). You don't need to know anything about "Sons of Anarchy" to understand the fic, although fans of the show will notice references and a terminology. 5). Updates really will happen once a week. I'm starting a new job Monday *and* having back surgery in two weeks, so my time will be limited and updates will be less frequent. If you've gotten this far and still want to continue reading, thanks! I'm really looking forward to your comments and feedback. This kind of fic is new for me. Title courtesy of M83. Enjoy.
We kill what we build because we own the sky
The sun shines the day Clarke puts her father in the ground. It shouldn't come as a surprise – the funeral is in California – but it still seems wrong. Her dad, the greatest man she's ever known, is no longer among the living. There should be dark clouds blotting out the sun and thunder bolts splitting the sky. Pathetic fallacy, her 10th grade English teacher would have said, but when her plane lands in Redding, her heart is so heavy and there's not a cloud in the sky.
She's groggy from the flight, six hours to San Francisco, and then another hour north. It takes a minute to find her bearings, to remember why she's there. It's been ten years since she's seen the west coast and this wasn't how she wanted to make her triumphant return. She'd never planned to return at all. But her dad's dead and it's the least she can do, throw dirt in his grave and say a benediction to his stone. He loved her, despite it all; he deserves a goodbye.
She rolls her shoulders and slides sunglasses over her eyes. They're bloodshot, and the bags beneath them are deep enough to carry a lifetime's worth of baggage, but they're sharp enough to take in the dingy linoleum floor and worn leather chairs. The airport is the same as the day she left. It's comforting, how it's frozen in time, but depressing too. It's been a decade – she shouldn't be the only thing about this place that's changed.
She lets a porter call her a taxi and gives him her mother's address when the cab rolls up in front of the airport. It's seen better days, with torn seats and a splotchy paint job, and the engine protests each time the driver presses the accelerator. She spends the drive assessing the damage and estimating the cost of engine parts. "I can get you a good deal," she almost says, bites her tongue to keep from suggesting a local garage. It's not her world any more, even if it's still a part of her.
She caught an early flight and there are few cars on the road, but she hears it as they approach the exit for Arkadia, the guttural groan of a bike on the open road. She tells herself not to look, that it could be anyone, but she can't keep her head from turning anymore than she could stop herself from coming back. She sees nothing but a flash of black and chrome but she knows those arms, those shoulders, the curve of that neck, and it makes something stutter inside her. He's gone before she can blink and she falls against the seat, closes her eyes to keep from looking again.
She sleeps the rest of the trip. There's nothing like a blast from the past to knock a girl out.
The house is how she left it: one-story, ranch-style, painted white with gray trim. A simple house for simple people, a police chief and his doctor wife, the pig-tailed princess that grew up between its walls. She ignores the way her hands shake as she pays the cab driver. There's not much to bring inside, just her purse and a Vera Bradley weekend bag, but they both feel impossibly heavy as she stands on the curb and stares up at the house that built her.
She laughed with her mom in that house and danced to old records with her dad. She practiced softball in the backyard and piano in the den, learned to make pancakes on Sunday mornings while her mom slept in. The curtains are drawn in the window of her room, and she instinctively looks for the faulty latch that always squeaked loudly and foiled her plans. In that room, she studied for the exams that would get her out of this town, snuck through the window with kisses drying on her lips. It holds secrets, but memories too, and her eyes blur from remembering the last night she slept in her childhood bed. She'd been crying then too, because the choice was right but felt so wrong. Sometimes, she can still feel the anger coming off them in waves, all those people who wanted to hold her back when she ached to be free.
She takes a deep breath and walks the few steps to the front door. She rings the bell too, even though she has a key. She hasn't seen her mother in ten years – she doesn't want to be presumptuous and walk into the house uninvited. Abby's still beautiful when she opens the door, but harder too, thin and sinewy, like she's been whittled down to the most basic components of a human being.
"Clarke!" she gasps, presses a hand to her chest in surprise. It's a very un-Abbylike motion, but Clarke's been gone a long time. Apparently her mom's developed new mannerisms.
"Hi Mom."
Abby snaps out of it and bolts through the door, wrapping her daughter in a tight hug. She smells like Obsession, like the scents of Clarke's childhood, and she can't help but return the hug. There are tears in Abby's eyes when she lets go, and she frantically brushes them away, leaving dark streaks on her cheekbones.
"I messed up your mascara."
Abby glances at her hand and waves it away. "I don't care. I'm so glad that you're here." She waits a beat. "I wasn't sure that you would be."
Clarke sets down the duffel bag. "I wasn't sure either, but here I am." She gestures at her jeans and button down. "Is there a place where I can change?"
"Of course. Your room hasn't been touched." Abby's tone is formal, but she can't quite hide the note of hurt, like she's offended by Clarke's question. And here she thought she was being polite by asking.
Clarke nods stiffly. "What time is the funeral?"
"Noon." Abby glances at her robe and slippers. "I was just changing."
"Let's meet down here in half an hour. We can ride over together?"
Abby's face relaxes. "I'd like that."
Clarke gives her a head start before following her up the stairs. She keeps her eyes down, studies her worn red Toms as she pads down the hall. She doesn't want additional reminders of the man she's burying today. Other than the closed curtains, her childhood bedroom is as she left it. The bulletin board is still covered with awards and certificates, and her bookshelf sags under the weight of various trophies. Her yearbooks are neatly stacked on the desk and a photo collage hangs over the bed. She stares at her younger self, a photo from senior week at the lake. The round face and sun-streaked hair had followed her into college, but that smile…she doesn't think she'll ever feel as infinite as she did that day. Because she remembers why she's here, the things she has to do today, and seeing that girl makes her sick. She hasn't been that version of Clarke Griffin in a long, long time.
She manages to shower and dry her hair without incident, put on makeup and slip into a plain black dress and simple leather pumps. Her only attempt at adornment is the strand of pearls her dad bought for her med school graduation. He'd flown out east by himself, with a sheepish grin and thin apology, but she hadn't cared because the most important person in her life was there the day she accomplished her greatest dream. She wears the pearls in honor of him – to honor him – and her mother eyes them when she meets her in the garage. They've never spoken about why Abby stayed home on that important day, but there are few things they talk about that hold any weight.
"He spent a fortune on them," Abby says and puts on her own sunglasses. They're dark and wide and hide half her face. Clarke ignores her and slides into the passenger seat.
"He was proud of me."
Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke can see Abby's hands clamp around the steering wheel. Her voice is just as tight as she backs the car down the driveway. "We were both proud of you."
"I'm not doing this today," she says and turns to look out the window. Her childhood flashes by, the spot where she learned to ride her bike, her favorite house for trick-or-treating, the park where she practiced corner kicks. Her dad was there for all of it.
For the first time in maybe ever, Abby says nothing and focuses her attention on the road. They don't speak for the rest of the ride.
Wells is waiting when Abby pulls up in front of the funeral home. He's taller and broader than when they were teenagers, and his posture is straighter thanks to a tour with the Marines, but Clarke still recognizes him, even in his dark, formal suit.
He envelops her in his arms and she rests her cheek against his shoulder, breathes in the starchy wool of his jacket. He smiles at her when she pulls back, that warm, familiar smile of her youth, and it makes her more confident that she can get through this day. "I would have picked you up," he says.
She ducks her head. "Until I got on the plane, I wasn't sure that I'd actually come."
He tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Next time, call first."
"Okay," she promises, although it's a lie. After she buries her father, she hopes to never lay eyes on this town again.
It's cooler inside, but darker, so Clarke has to take off her sunglasses. Wells' dad is standing with her mom, talking quietly with the staff. He looks older too, with a white-streaked beard and gray in his hair, and it suits him. He's just started his second term as mayor and he wears the mantle well.
"Clarke, I'm so sorry for your loss, " Thelonious says and takes her hands. "Jake was very loved. He'll be missed."
"Thanks," Clarke says. She tries to step away, but Jaha won't let go.
"I know the circumstances are tragic, but I'm glad you could make it home. It's nice to see you again." He smiles at her, the kind of smile that doesn't quite reaches his eyes, and it takes her aback, how much that smile looks like her mother's.
"Thanks," Clarke says again and this time he releases her hands. She smiles politely but watches him suspiciously as he goes with Abby.
Wells nudges her shoulder. "Ignore him. He's a politician. Being smarmy is in his blood."
She nudges him back. "But not yours?"
He ignores her question and gestures to the receiving line where Abby and Jaha are already holding court. "We'd better get inside."
They avoid the line and take seats in the front row; Clarke keeps her gaze fixed on the worn carpet to keep from looking at the coffin. The coffin, the box that holds her father's body. His body, a scrap of muscles and bones that used to be a living, breathing person. Wells asked her mother to keep the casket closed and to her relief, she actually complied. Her father's death will always be an open wound, but she won't let her last memory of him be of his corpse.
Clarke doesn't remember the funeral well. Her mother gave the eulogy and she stood at Wells' side to watch, dry-eyed, as they lowered Jake's casket into the ground. There's also a dim memory of throwing a handful of dirt into the hole.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," she mumbles to herself as she examines the buffet during the reception. There are more casseroles and deli platters than she can count, but she doesn't have an appetite. It feels gross to eat when she just saw her father buried.
"Hey Griffin." Raven sets a plate of cookies on the table. "I can't stay, but I wanted to come by and express my condolences." She's wearing a gray dress and flats, but there's an oil smear behind one ear.
"Reyes!" Clarke blinks away her surprise. "Wow, hi." An awkward silence follows. They'd tried to stay friends after high school, but time and distance proved to be too much. Or maybe Clarke was too much, too desperate to sever all ties to her life before.
Raven smiles kindly. "I know the timing's terrible, but would you want to get a drink tonight? We'll celebrate your dad before, you know…" Raven trails off and smiles again. It remains unsaid that with Jake dead and buried, Clarke will only run again.
"Yeah. I'd like that."
"You staying with your mom?" Clarke nods. "I'll pick you up at nine."
"Okay," she responds but Raven's already gone, weaving through the throng of people with a familiar feline grace. Clarke feels another pain of regret; it shouldn't have her dad's death to reunite with her friend.
With Raven gone, she also realizes how many people are in her house. It's not every day that the chief of police dies in a fiery crash, and most of Arkadia has come to pay their respects. They're crammed into the living room and kitchen, her teachers and doctors, coaches and neighbors. It's suddenly very hot, impossible to breathe.
Wells appears. "Wanna get out of here?"
She uses what little energy she can muster to nod. "Take me away."
He snags two beers on the way out and they sit on the back steps while she cries. Cries, like she did the night her mom called, but like she hasn't cried since. Her lungs are clogged with pain and tears, but it's still easier to breathe. She hadn't realized how much she needed the release. When she pulls away, her nose is running and she's soaked Well's jacket, but she feels safe.
"I'm really glad that you're here."
He presses a chaste kiss to her temple. "Always will be."
She curls into his side to drink her beer, like they're kids again, sneaking peeks into the kitchen for fear that Jake will catch them. When she starts crying again, it feels less like grief and more like a tribute.
Raven honks her horn at 9:00 on the dot. In high school, she drove a beat up Cutlass that she inherited from her grandfather, but when she pulls away from the curb, it runs like a very different car. She chatters about the restoration work she did, the parts she salvaged and traded for, and manages to keep it up all the way to the bar.
They end up at Grounders and Clarke's spine tenses from the amount of leather and denim filling the tables. She sees lots of kuttes, but none boasting a phoenix, and she's loosened up some by the time that Raven finds them a booth.
"Tell me everything," Raven says and flicks her ponytail over one shoulder. It's something Clarke watched her do countless times in high school, and makes it easier to start the conversation.
Clarke tells her about college and med school in New York, her residency in Chicago, and the little Brooklyn walkup that's currently home. She talks about being a pediatrician and her fellowship at a clinic in Canarsie. She talks about her boards' trip to southeast Asia, makes Raven laugh when she tells a story of riding an elephant in Thailand. She avoids sharing anything of importance, the actual details that turned ten years away into a life, but Raven doesn't offer up much either.
"You work at Blake-Kane, don't you?"
Raven takes a huge sip of beer but can't weasel her way out of the question. "How'd you guess?"
"I know you, Reyes. You're loyal."
"I've been there since graduation," Raven confesses. "Worked my way up the ranks. I run the floor now."
"Good for you." Clarke hopes she sounds genuine. Despite her history with the men that haunt that body shop, they do good work. Raven should learn from the best.
"You know, he – " Raven starts, but a shadow falls across their table and the words die in her mouth. Octavia Blake stands in front of them, arms crossed and scowling. She looks older, with braids in her dark hair and an intricate tattoo twined around her arm, but her eyes are the same: sharp, blue, missing nothing.
"I figured you'd be back."
"Hi Octavia." An awkward silence fills the booth. "How are you?"
Octavia's stare remains hard, but she drops her arms. "Fine. I'm sure Raven can fill you in."
"We're having a girls night," Raven reminds her. "No need to kill my buzz."
"You're right," Octavia says. She smiles suddenly and Clarke feels tension build at the base of her skull; she learned long ago not to trust that look on Octavia's face. She turns her attention to Clarke. "We're having a party at the clubhouse on Saturday. You should come."
The invitation hangs in the air and even Raven looks surprised. "I don't think – "
"Nonsense. The guys will want to see you."
"But your brother – "
"Is a big boy." Octavia's face settles and her smile begins to look more sincere. "You've been gone a long time, Clarke, but you're still part of the club. That makes you family."
It's that word – family – that seals the deal. She remembers those days, misses those people, and she doesn't know if she'll see them again. It can't hurt, to say goodbye one last time.
"You'll be there?" Clarke asks Raven. Her friend nods. "Okay. I'll come."
Octavia's smile is all guile. "Great. Can't wait."
"What did I do?" Clarke buries her face in her hands. She came home to lay her father to rest, not rip open her past.
Raven pushes her beer across the table. "Drink up. You need this more than me."
She finishes it in one long pull even though she'll need more than beer to get through this.
Clarke has no idea what to wear. In high school, a short denim skirt and thin-strapped tank top were more than enough, but she's not that girl anymore. She wears scrubs and Crocs during the work day, jeans and t-shirts on weekends, and only brought three changes of clothes, but she hasn't seen these people in a decade; she wants to make a good impression. She also wants to show them the girl she's become, not the girl they knew, so she ignores Raven's raised eyebrows when she climbs into the Cutlass.
"Let's go," she says and stares straight ahead as Raven guns the engine. She can feel Abby watching her from the front window. They've done nothing but dance around each other the past two days, eating meals in silence and avoiding the space between them. Jaha stops by a lot, and it makes Clarke resentful and furious but helps fill the gaping hole that's become her home.
"Everything okay?"
"My mom is driving me nuts."
Raven smiles. "This is starting to sound familiar."
"I can't slam my door and make it go away this time." Jake had been the mediator then, refereeing the constant arguments between his wife and teenage daughter, but he's not there to negotiate anymore. It's just Clarke and Abby and ten years of resentment.
"I really am sorry about your dad. He was always good to me."
"He was the best of us."
"Yeah, he was." Jake Griffin always had a kind word or ready ear. He let Raven stay over when her mom's boyfriend drank too much, or spent their rent money on drugs.
Clarke leans forward to fiddle with the radio until the Top 40 station comes on. It brings back memories too, singing in Raven's car with the windows down, driving to the clubhouse on a Saturday night.
"We live a life like a video
When the sun is always out and you never get old"
She switches the radio off with a snap. High school's over and ten years are gone. She didn't need to lose her dad to know real life doesn't have a happy ending.
Clarke regrets her fashion choices when she walks into the party; she should've bought a pair of combat boots or rimmed her eyes in kohl like Raven. Instead, she's wearing a gauzy shirt and jeans and flats and looks like the doe-eyed virgin she was at fourteen.
She can feel Aurora's eyes on her the moment she walks through the door. They're the same as her daughter's, but they pierce deeper, like they can see all the way inside Clarke. She looks mostly the same – tight jeans, stiletto boots, dark nails, platinum streaked hair – but her eyes are even harder when she sees what Raven brought with her. She nudges a young man with shaggy hair that Clarke realizes is Jasper. He's grown six inches since high school and he's covered in tattoos. She looks for a hint of welcome in his eyes, but he just nods at whatever Aurora says and darts away. Clarke keeps her gaze pinned straight ahead. She already knows where he's going.
"Better get this over with," she says and Raven squeezes her elbow for luck. "I'll find you later." Raven disappears into the crowd and Clarke takes a breath for courage. "Hi Aurora," she says as the older woman approaches.
"What are you doing here?"
"Octavia invited me." Her shoulders strain from the effort of keeping them straight.
Aurora's eyes narrow into slits. "My daughter is too kind for her own good. You're not welcome here."
Clarke sighs. "My ride isn't ready to leave yet."
"I'll call you a cab."
She's out of moves, ready to bow her head in defeat, when a strong arm drops across her shoulders. "Welcome home, Princess." Monty's shaggy hair tickles her neck, but she slides into the protection of his lean, muscled body. What happened to the string bean she grew up with?
"Sweetheart, this isn't your business."
"Boss's orders." Across the room, Marcus Kane and David Miller are watching them closely.
Aurora looks murderous when she gets in Clarke's face. "I can't force you to leave, but I'll sure as hell make it so you don't want to stay." Clarke's tempted to tell her that her flight leaves the next afternoon, that in less than 24 hours, they'll never have to see each other again, but lets her stalk off towards her husband and his friend. It's petty, but she doesn't mind letting Aurora seethe for a few hours.
Monty sighs sympathetically. "Lady can hold a grudge."
Clarke sighs in return. "She hated me even before I left."
"Wanna say hi to the old gang?" He smiles at her kindly and Clarke remembers why she adored him so much when they were in school. He doesn't judge or blame her for the ten years she was gone; he's just happy to have her back.
"I'd love that."
There are so many familiar faces. Nate is no surprise – his dad is an original member – and Atom and Murphy were both prospects when Clarke left town, but she never pegged Jasper or Monty for the club life. But she remembers their latchkey childhoods, understands the structure they get here. Once they only had each other, but now they have brothers, perhaps not in blood but in something even stronger. While Jasper gives her a bear hug, the others are more reserved, nodding hellos and saying how sorry they were to hear about her dad. She smiles politely in return, thanks them for their well wishes.
She's drinking with Raven and Harper, letting them distract her with stories about their adventures in high school, when silence falls over the room. Four men stand in the doorway, and while they're wearing leather and tattoos like all other males in the room, there's a grinning skull stitched to the back of their kuttes.
"Reapers," Harper whispers. "What the hell are they doing here?"
Kane greets them warmly and ushers them into the clubhouse. He holds up a beer and gestures for the others to do the same. "To new beginnings and new partnerships," he yells and the crowd cheers in response. The newcomers head for the bar, except one, the tallest and broadest of them, with a shaved head and intricate tattoo inked into his cheek. He casually sidles up to Octavia and lets a hand rest low on her hip. When she smiles, it's just for him.
"That tricky bitch." Clarke's annoyed, but also a little in awe. It was a very good plan.
Harper's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"
Clarke nods at Octavia and her boyfriend groping each other in the corner. "She invited me here to distract from that!" Around the room, Skaikru brothers are narrowing their eyes and fondling their weapons. Clarke hopes Kane can hold it together.
Raven laughs. "I'm impressed." Her expression changes. "Oh, fuck."
Jasper's earlier mission has been accomplished. Bellamy Blake is standing at center stage, glaring daggers across the room. There's a girl with him, all high heels and spandex dress, but he only has eyes for Clarke. He looks different – his hair is longer, his muscles bigger, and he's also gained a couple inches – but it's his eyes that haven't changed. They're a dark, blazing black, filled with the same betrayal as the day she said goodbye. There's something more too, something aching and pained, but the girl tugs on his arm and he notices what Octavia's doing, and then he's gone.
"You okay?" Raven asks. Clarke nods, grateful that she's sitting down. Her legs feel like jelly and they're not even supporting any weight. "I think we've had enough excitement for one night. You ready to go?" Clarke nods again.
They leave without saying goodbye and are quiet on the short drive to the Griffin house. "Hey Clarke?" Raven calls through the open window. "For what it's worth, I hope you'll stick around. I miss having a real friend around here."
"Thanks." Raven waves and drives away, like they're teenagers again, and it hits Clarke like a fist. It's easy here, the people and places she used to know like the back of her hand. She misses it too, but that doesn't mean she'll stay.
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