A/N: I wrote this a little while back. It was originally intended as a submission for Shawree's challenge ("Say It Like You Mean It") on the SOA Writer's Corner forum here, but I didn't quite meet the requirements. So now it's just a little Juice/Chibs thing. I realize second-person is a bit annoying to read, hence why this is short. I also wrote it all in one quick sitting & haven't made much for edits since, so my apologies for any errors.
Set episode 1, season 4.
You're sitting here because you don't think you can leave yet. It's been fourteen months and you've spent every day waiting. And you're still waiting – waiting for it to be socially acceptable to get the fuck out of the clubhouse and just be alone in your rental. It's probably drowning in dust right now.
You love your brothers, you really do. You've spent the last 426 days awake every second, watching their backs and watching yours. You've really improved your layups, too. Granted, you've probably gotten better at shoving back at the Mexicans on the court when they tell you that you took an extra step with the ball, more than anything.
You don't notice you've caught Gemma's eye until she's striding over to you, placing a hand on your shoulder. Go, she tells you. It's a command. She smiles small and you really like that; like when she smiles at you, like when she comforts you. Fourteen months is a long time to go without kindness.
You don't know where Chibs is and you tell yourself you don't care about that, just go home. Lay on your fucking couch. Play COD. But you do care, still. You saw him earlier today when you walked out of Stockton. He was waiting there and you like to pretend it was for you. Opie, Kozik, Piney, Miles, Filthy, V-Lin. They were all there. And the prospects drove out your bikes on the flatbed, you were so amazed at how shiny they got your Dyna. She was practically glittering, all chrome and slick black.
Chibs hugged you really tight for a quick moment, gave your new hair a ruffle and a tug, and slapped you on the back before letting you go. As you all rode away from the prison, Clay flipped his middle finger at the receding building. You found yourself grinning as all your brothers joined in, birds to the sky, yours right there in with them.
It felt so good to be on a bike, to be free, then. You rode into the compound, gates wide open waiting for your arrival, and there were hangarounds and sweetbutts and old ladies and kids and everyone you've ever met since you first stepped into Charming in '02. And that felt better than anything.
It's been a celebration in the many hours since, finally winding down now. You've got Gemma's permission so you step gingerly past all the snoring bodies and out into the lot, your bike still shiny, waiting in the line. The drunk and the high's worn off enough, it's okay to ride. You don't expect to run into Charming's new sheriff at 4am anyway.
You fumble a bit with the key in the doorknob, as if you've forgotten how to work it, but it's unlocked already. You feel panic. Your gun's comfortably settled in the holster under your covered Sons cut and right now you could really care less if your probation stipulates you can't carry. Gingerly, you turn the knob and let the door swish open, gun out of holster now. You've always kept the thing well-greased, so it's quiet as can be. The lights are on.
You creep inside. It's Chibs. Of course it's fucking Chibs. The desire to kill him and have a heart attack are simultaneous. He's lying on the wooden kitchen table you bought at a garage sale, back flat, eyes closed, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. He doesn't move when you put the safety back on with a click. He does, however, give a little raised eyebrow and tap the end of his cigarette into the bowl perched on the table next to him. That used to be your cereal bowl. Some ashes fall onto the wood beneath and you grit your teeth.
He's making a mess and you don't like mess, but you'll never tell him that.
You don't know what you want right now. It seemed like the guy ignored you all night when you really wanted to talk to him and now you're not in the mood. You want to stick to the original plan of being alone, laying on the couch, and playing some video games.
"Bought yeh a cactus."
He waves a hand towards the window sill. It's spiky and sitting in a small yellow ceramic pot. You have no idea why on earth Chibs bought you a cactus, but you nod.
"Thanks."
"Dusted, too."
You look around the room and finally notice the evidence of Chibs' presence. He did more than clean and buy you a cactus. His tea kettle's sitting on the stove, the ratty blanket his Gran gave him draped over the couch. Threadbare, but still hanging on.
"Made yourself right at home, hey?"
"You don't mind," he replies.
It's not a question, and no, you don't. He's sitting up on the table now – the guy seems allergic to actual chairs – watching you. It feels a little uncomfortable. Not that you believe in the whole 'seeing into your soul' thing, but if you did, it'd probably apply right now. Chibs looks a little more tired since the last time he visited you in prison, which was about a month ago.
"I'm gonna see what's on TV."
You decide not to kick him out, but you're tired now too. For the first time in over a year you're actually allowed to relax and the realization only makes you more exhausted. You turn and start walking to the couch.
"Juice."
And then his arms are around you and you're clutching his shirt so hard, it's too much. You're grasping for something and he's there, holding on to you. You're not crying, you won't cry, but your breathing is fast. He holds you for a long time and doesn't try to break the moment with a joke or a half-hearted pat, because that's not who Chibs is.
He kisses your forehead then and you notice – not for the first time – that your height makes it an easy gesture, natural even. He leans away, just slightly, and rests his hand again your cheek. Gives you that deep look again, watches you carefully.
"Yeh're alright, Juicy."
Once again, it's not a question, because Chibs seems to know all the answers to you already anyway. He kisses your forehead once more and hugs you again quick. It tickles a little where his beard brushed against your skin. You don't mind.
"You, uh, want to watch something?"
For some reason you're still really stuck on the idea of watching TV, except now you want Chibs to join. It's not like you didn't get television in prison, but it's just something to do in the privacy of your own home, and it'd be nice if Chibs were to sit on the couch next to you for company. Not cuddling, just... close.
"Nah. Gonna go, figure y'want some time alone."
His arms slip inside the leather that was thrown carelessly on the table, and he pats your shoulder.
"Just wanted to make sure you were okay," he says. The door closes.
In the morning, you sip an energy drink to combat the fuzzy feeling hangover, and examine the cactus. No one's given you a gift in years and Christmas was never really a thing with your family back in Queens either. The cactus is an ugly thing, all spiky and covered in white tufts.
You notice here's a little note sitting underneath the pot when you lift it up to examine closer. It's written in Chibs' scrawl and you're pretty sure he used the back of an old TM invoice.
Give it a little attention and water, and it'll stay strong.
You lay the note back down on the window sill and set the cactus on top of it again, making sure it's tucked safe underneath.