Disclaimer: Kurt Sutter owns them. No offense is intended. This is a work of fiction. No profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.
A/N: Inspired by the following prompt, sent by a friend - thewritingrealm- Her writing was on his skin. It was all he had anymore.
Also, written with epicusernamegoeshere in mind. There are cliches, and bits of thought in italics. Liberties are taken with regard to grammar and form. Heavy on angst. Hint at comfort. No slash, unless your mind supplies it. So very out of the ordinary for me.
"What the hell'd you do to your arm?" Happy pushes at Juice's sleeve, immediately suspicious, because: a. Juice doesn't typically wear long-sleeved shirts, and b. There's a splotch of red on the lower half of Juice's sleeve.
"Get the fuck off me." Juice shoves at him, turns away, but not before Happy sees him wince. He catches the edge of Juice's sleeve and tugs.
"Not gonna happen, brother," Happy says, refusing to let Juice pass him without finding out what's got the kid brooding like a girl on her period. He grabs at the younger man's sleeve, applies pressure; is satisfied when Juice hisses, turns on him, eyes flashing.
"Let me go, Happy." Juice's fists are cocked, and Happy knows that he's spoiling for a fight.
Happy'd give one to the boy, too, any other day, but he knows there's something more going on, something that's got to do with a bloody sleeve that Juice is trying to hide from him, and the others. Course, whatever the kid's done to himself would've been easier to hide if Juice hadn't worn white.
Stupid.
Foolish.
Adjectives that are much better suited to a puppy than a biker who's spilled blood.
Fucking idiotic.
"What's this?" Happy pulls at the sleeve.
Juice clenches his jaw, like a stubborn Rottweiler trying to bury its master's stolen slipper in the backyard, knowing it's done wrong, but not willing to admit it.
Stupid cur.
"None of your fucking business," Juice says. All bark no bite, though if looks could kill, Happy'd be six feet under.
Happy leans in close, nose-to-nose, tugs a little, almost relishes the way that Juice blanches, and tries to backpedal – face going pasty white, eyes comically wide. It'd be easier if Juice didn't have a motorcycle, parts lying on the ground, at his back.
Business is steady this time of year, and they each take shifts at the shop. It's Happy's turn to keep an eye on Juice, make sure he doesn't do something stupid that could potentially cost the club. Kid's a good worker, knows his stuff, and mostly focuses on the task at hand, clocks in and out on time.
It's his loyalty that's in question, not his skills as a mechanic.
His deteriorating condition which speaks of more than just drugs.
Skin and bones. Stray dog, looking for scraps, stealing garbage when no one's looking.
Shifty-eyed, always searching shadows, and finding darkness to jump at. Kid's spooked. Always has been a little skittish.
This, though, the blood on his sleeve, it's something else. May or may not have anything to do with the club, with Juice's own personal devolvement.
Kid doesn't have what it takes.
Can't kill and not care.
"The hell it isn't," Happy says, shoves the sleeve up, like ripping duct tape off the mouth of a hostage.
"Let me go." Juice's voice is whisper soft. Eyes closed, shoulders sagging, his head's turned away; jaw locked firmly in place.
He's not ashamed. No tail tucked between his legs this time.
He's not proud either.
Weary.
Pissed off.
Conceding defeat.
"What happened?" Happy doesn't let go, presses onward, ignores the way that Juice tenses.
"It's not important," Juice says, giving little away in the tone of his voice – guarded, defensive. Giving up nothing, and yet everything, because Happy's good at reading people, can see it in the way that Juice's lips twitch in a frown that doesn't quite materialize, because Juice has, of late, learned how to master his facial expressions. Has affected a sort of bluntness in his mannerisms.
Stunted.
Broken.
Bleeding.
"You do this to yourself?" Happy asks. Has to know, fears he already knows the answer.
He digs his fingers into the cuts that crisscross Juice's forearm, squeezes tight, watches blood ooze from the open wounds. They appear to be fresh. Deep.
Juice shakes his head, laughs. A dry, bitter sound.
"Would it matter if I did?" he asks, toying with his life. Gets right up into Happy's space, dares him to call his bluff.
Even holding all of the cards, Happy's not sure that calling Juice's bluff wouldn't cost him, in more ways than one.
"Yeah, brother, it would." Happy doesn't flinch, doesn't call Juice's bluff, doesn't back down.
Watches the blood run freely down Juice's arm and gather into a small, mirror-less pool. A fat droplet totters on the edge of Juice's wrist, grows heavy and finally falls. Spreads itself deep into the cement cracks. Drowns itself in an oil stain that's been there for years.
Juice shrugs, defies Happy with a small smirk. It's the most emotion that Happy's seen on the boy's face in days. Maybe weeks.
Dumb.
Playing with fire.
Dancing dangerously close to the edge.
'You didn't do this, who did?" Happy quirks an eyebrow. Raises the ante.
"No one," Juice says. Plays his hand, come hell or high water. No aces up his sleeve, blood spilling to the floor, cleaning up the oil spill.
"Stop fucking around," Happy hisses. Shakes Juice, watches his blood hit the floor, splash up and onto his boot, joining a multitude of others like it.
It's not that he minds the blood. It's the manner in which it's being spilled that's a personal affront. The suspecting, but not knowing.
"Fuck you." Juice counters, maintains his balance even when Happy applies a little more pressure to the wounds.
Happy nods, releases Juice's arm, lets it fall. The blood flows freely. Drips, unimpeded, from the tips of Juice's fingers.
"I ain't your enemy," Happy says. Not yet, hangs heavily in the air between them.
Juice shrugs, nods, moves to shove his sleeve back down, cover up the nasty cuts.
Reckless.
Careless.
Fucking irresponsible.
He'd give it up as a lost cause, let the pieces fall where they would, if he hadn't been tasked with keeping an eye out for the kid. If he hadn't drawn the short straw today.
And so he stops Juice's hand, catches him by the wrist, turns the bloody appendage over, and looks. Studies the arm as though it's a fucking piece of art. Wipes the blood away with a dirty rag. Gleans a small measure of pleasure from Juice's sharp intake of breath, because it means that the boy isn't completely gone, that there's something left of him. He's not a complete robot.
Idiot. The word's carved into his skin, flesh deep. No simple act of cutting. Not done with the sharp edge of a knife, or the tip of a pen.
"The fuck?" Happy isn't even asking anymore.
"It's all I've got left of her," Juice says, voice dull, eyes staring off at nothing.
"Of who?" Happy doesn't care. Women, outside of family, are immaterial. A means to an end.
"Megan, Alicia, Debbie…" Juice trails off, his eyes glassy. He shrugs. "Melinda? Fuck if I know."
"Some bitch carved you up?" Happy feels like beating the crap out of Juice. And you let her? doesn't need to be spoken.
Juice laughs. "Yeah. Hurt. Felt good."
Dimwit.
Moron.
Fucking space cadet.
"You're coming home with me tonight, brother," Happy says. Doesn't know where that's come from, because, fuck, he doesn't need this kind of shit. Doesn't need to babysit a fucking retard who doesn't have the self-preservation of a jellyfish.
Juice sways on his feet, nods in Happy's direction, and shoves his sleeve back into place. When he peels his shirt off, at the end of the day, it's going to sting like a son-of-a-bitch.
Happy's going to enjoy watching that, hammering home the fact that Juice isn't an island unto himself, that, in spite of himself, and what he's done, he's not alone.
He's still got brothers.
And, fuck it all, some of them still give a shit about him.
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