A/N: So here is where I'd like to put a good excuse for why I'm late in updating, and I think this says it all: College kids are effing crazy when school lets out for the summer. :D. So, here's chapter ten.

As always, enjoy :)

Chapter 10: Saint Raphael the Archangel

When the clock strikes midnight most people have filtered out of the club. Surrounded by nothing but soft songs from the jukebox and empty tables, Happy and Mac sit together in the corner with a bottle of 120-proof bourbon between them. With only a few sips of the liquid that is more accelerant than drinkable alcohol, paired with the whiskey she shared earlier with Jax, Mac's cheeks glow a bright pink. Her feet are up on the table with her ankles crossed as she leans the chair back onto two legs and chews on her numb lower lip. Happy sits low in his chair, his pelvis on the edge of the seat and his legs spread out in front of him. He lazily swirls the bourbon around the bottom of his glass in between his casual nips.

Mac takes a sip from her glass and channels her attention on the person slouched in his chair across from her. Considering the man with the shaved head has testified for her in front of his whole club it has prompted Mac to want to learn more about the Unholy One, but so far her attempts to strike conversation have been fruitless. He answers with one-syllable grunts, half of which Mac can't even understand.

Happy's title of Unholy One, hidden from direct eyesight down on the lower right side of his vest is not nearly as cryptic as the Sons probably like to think it is. With one look Mac knew what Happy's patch stood for: someone who has committed the most gratuitous acts of violence in the name of the club.

Knowing that their ranks are fairly similar she feels an instantaneous connection with the dark man. While many outlaws may know what it is like to take a life, few know what it means to be able to take a life without batting an eyelash. While some may have their hands stained with blood, both Happy and Mac know what it means to be drenched by it, and that is a bond that can either make a relationship tough as steel or as cool as ice.

"So, Happy, when you're not taking care of club business what do you do?" She inquires, breaking the comfortable silence they have so easily settled into since her last attempt to spark conversation.

Happy shrugs, "Stuff."

"That isn't an answer." Mac says, taking another slow sip of the strong bourbon.

"I like to tattoo." He offers. His comment catches Mac's fancy; she brings her legs down and leans into the table with her elbows.

"Think you could do something for me?"

Happy pauses mid-sip and looks up at the wavy haired woman. With a quirked eyebrow he silently asks her what she means.

"I need some stuff added to a tattoo – three crows on my ribcage." Mac says.

Happy doesn't press her for more information. All he hears his 'ribcage', which means she'll be shirtless, and he agrees.

Happy sets up his equipment on top of the intricately carved redwood table that resides in the Chapel. Mac has already stripped off her t-shirt and taken to a laying down position just beside the reaper. The artwork that stretches from just under her bra strap and disappears beneath the waist band of her loose-fitting jeans is of a very detailed oak tree with winter barren branches that stretch out like dendrites. Flocked within the branches is a large gathering of crows. To be precise, nineteen little black birds take perch in the tree.

It's a tattoo that Mac rarely shows and has never told anyone the direct meaning of, but Happy understands what the ink represents the instant he sees it. It's a fairly clever play on words by Mac that is only slightly less than obvious to the Unholy One. But, then again, he's someone who has his own collection of similarly themed smiley faces tattooed by his hip. Most people are completely blind to the metaphor of her tattoo. For even if a normal person were to associate a flock of crows with the correct name, a murder, it's highly unlikely that the person's next thought would be that the murder stands for those she's murdered.

"So," Happy says while pouring black ink into small caps, "Three crows, right?"

"Aye."

The doors to the chapel are wide open as she lies on their precious table in nothing other than the grassy green bra that perfectly cups her breasts and jeans that slump loose around her hip bones, giving room for top of her white boy shorts to peak out. Being topless nearly the entirety of her tattoo collection is exposed, and the artwork is beautiful to say the least. The colourful sleeves start where the spider webs over each of her shoulders end and extend all the way down onto the backs of her hands. The images on her arms form one cohesive, slightly macabre tattoo, chained together by the words scrawled across her collarbones. The largest tattoo on her arms is the Scottish flag over her left bicep directly above the MacLeod clan crest. The crest is composed of a raging bull circled by a thick belt, with her clan's motto of Hold Fast engraved within. Those two simple words are something that Mac considers the motto for her life, not just her lineage. Hold fast means to always stand your ground and fight for what you believe in, never letting yourself waiver. Her heritage is the one thing she's grateful that her father gave her because to Mac, it means something. Not just the idea of knowing where you come from, but the words hold fast themselves. When she was a girl she used to constantly tell herself to hold fast whenever she was being used as a living punching bag. She let the phrase fill her up and give her the strength to become who she is.

None of her other tattoos come close to holding the meaning of her crest. All the others, the decorative candy skulls on her right forearm or the revolver that shoots a rose on the inside of her right bicep – not even the tag of affiliation on her neck can compare.

Mac looks out into the clubhouse that is now nearly deserted. Even the members that call the clubhouse their home have retired for the night. Only three very grim souls are left lurking about the living area, huddled around a table and talking in hushed tones. Clay, Jax and Tig all have rather stern expressions on their faces, but Tig is by far the darkest of them all. He sulks, sitting low in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. Ever since he regained the memory of Mac hitting him he has done nothing but glare at her with ominous blue eyes, making it clear that he is not going to let her act go unpunished.

But Mac is okay with that. She's fought bigger and stronger men then he and though she has not always come out victorious when outweighed, her opponent has never escaped unscathed.

"Bring it." Mac mouths to Tig, who looks over Clay's shoulder so his glare penetrates into the chapel. He turns his head away, giving Mac a view of curly black hair as he takes a hasty gulp of his drink.

Happy catches this interaction out of the corner of his eye.

"Watch your ear." He comments, leaning in so that his whisper can be heard.

"My ear?"

"Tig has this thing… He likes to bite off ears." Happy says with a shrug that he hopes conveys he is not entirely sure why Tig bites off peoples ears.

"I'd like to see him try." Mac says with full confidence. Cockiness and confidence are only wire-thinly separated and though Mac sometimes straddles the fence between the two, it is wrong to mistake her as cocky. She is so overly-confident because she has every right to be so.

And the latest demonstration of her physical prowess, knocking Tig out with one punch, has Happy thinking he'll bet the money on Mac if her and Tig ever enter the ring.

"You should probably take your bra off, too." Happy muses, trying to be indifferent about his suggestion as he pulls on a pair of black latex gloves.

"Nice try. It stays on." Mac smirks, not falling for his trick. The bare tips of the branches extended under the band of her bra and there's absolutely no reason for her to take it off.

Happy gives a shrug that is supposed to represent apathy but it's a little too rushed to be anything other than disappointment.

Mac sits up quickly to finish off the last of her drink and light up a cigarette before she lies back down. There is zero doubt that the additions to her murder are going to hurt. But, in a way, Mac is going to welcome it because it soothes her. The humming of the tattooist's needle is something of a lullaby for Mac. And the pain? Well, that's just kind of a bonus because pain is the one thing that completely erases everything from Mac's mind. As sadistic as it may be, Mac finds comfort in pain because when there's pain, there's only pain. Physical pain Mac can handle. Emotional pain, the type of utter agony that comes from losing everyone you've ever cared about, Mac can't handle.

So she opts for pain in moments like this. Whether it be purposefully self-inflicted, accidentally self-inflicted, or the pain from a tattoo – Mac prefers any kind of physical ache to the phantom pain inside of her that she can't seem to shake to matter how hard she tries.

Happy motions for Mac to lie back down, so she does. She stretches her abdomen as far out as it will go so Happy will hopefully not have to stretch her skin with his thumb and forefinger. All Mac wants is the needle, not extended touching.

"Move." Happy commands, tapping her left arm lightly with the back of his hand. Mac does as she's told and lifts her arm up so Happy can have full access to her flesh.

"Where do you want 'em?" He asks.

"You're the artist. Just put them wherever feels right." Mac says.

The hum of the needles starts up and it's time for bliss.

As the needles pierce her flesh everything is washed away as the nerves over her ribs protest the ink's intrusion. Mac embraces the pain and lets it fill her up to the brim...

The needle removes from her skin and now there's only the dulled burning of after pain that mirrors the dulled ache from her knuckles. She's been taking Percocet to keep the pain in her hand from being unbearble, and it's rather clear that is going to have to stop if she ever wants to forget about Sarah for more than five minutes.

"Don't get up." Happy barks. He rips some paper towels off of the roll he gathered while digging out some ointment from his kit.

"Naw, don't worry about it." Mac waves his actions off as she sits up.

Happy doesn't say anything, he barely lifts his eyes from his kit as he grips her by the shoulder and pushes her back down onto the table. Apparently, he's going to do what he intends no matter what Mac says.

But Mac is okay with that. It's easier to say yes than it is to start another fight over something she really has no right to be angry about, like she knows she does.

"You're the first person who hasn't asked me about the piece." Mac comments as Happy first wipes the freshly inked skin with a damp paper towel. He doesn't say anything because there isn't anything to respond to, the comment was merely a truthful observation.

"Do you get it?" Mac lifts up her head to be able to see Happy. There's a crooked, sly smirk on her lips that comes from being wrapped up in one too many highs at the current moment.

Happy and Mac lock eyes for just a moment or two before he begins to lather the soothing ointment over her side. He gets it.

"You've got more than me." He says with just a hint of bemusement in the undertones of his otherwise gravelly voice.

Outlaws are a people accustomed to talking cryptically so perhaps that is why outlaws are so apt to read between the lines. In those two simple sentences a whole conversation was held between the blonde and her tattooist.

And Mac likes that. She likes having to read between the lines because it leaves room for interpretation.

Only when the ointment has been administered and the clear wrap taped down does Happy allow Mac to sit up and check out his work.

Mac takes off for the bathroom, hub to the only public mirror within the SoA clubhouse. Happy follows behind her, catching the back drift of Tig's homicidal gaze as he passes by. Happy shoots him a threatening glare from over his shoulder just to let his Sergeant-At-Arms know he doesn't support how Tig has been acting. Considering that it was Tig who laughed when Happy got punched by Mac, the Unholy One has absolutely no sympathy for Tig's sulking.

Mac stretches up to see the tattoo in the mirror, leaning forward on her tip-toes so that the three newest editions to her nine-year-old piece of artwork are visible. Among the nineteen black crows that huddle in the branches, three news ones with swollen edges fly out.

"You made them fly." Mac says with neither disgust nor happiness in her deep accented voice, much as if she had said the grass is green and the sky is blue.

"It felt like the way to go." Happy says.

She likes that he made them fly, because he unconsciously just added a whole new level of symbolism to her tattoo. The three murders that surround Mac having to flee from Boston are represented by fleeing crows.

It's almost like Happy is psychic.

"You know around here crows mean you're someone's old lady." He leans against the door frame, one foot bent back behind the other as he ignites a cigarette inside his cupped hands. Even though there's no wind in the clubhouse, it's a habit of Happy's to guard the flame of his lighter - a habit that he isn't consciously aware he has.

"I must be a black widow then, huh?" Mac quips with a light laugh.

"That's not a funny joke. You ever kill one of my brothers, and I'll be gettin' a new tattoo." Happy says, though a small smile betrays him.

The night drags on, painfully slow. When the pale blue of twilight creeps up on the skyline Mac is the only one left awake within the compound. Hours ago everyone had taken off for favor of home or their perspective dormitories inside the clubhouse. Chibs has yet to come back from his ride but that fact barely brings out the pessimism within Mac. The longer he's gone, the longer he rides and the longer he rides the clearer his head will end up being. So, as far as she's concerned, Chibs can stay out all night if that's what it takes for him to see the situation with the same pair of emotionally detached eyes as his brothers. Mac is simply the easiest and best option to get to The Russian Kings. For once it is a perk to be a woman in the ultimate boys club, because Mac has not only the strength to handle herself in case shit hits the proverbial fan but she has the right anatomy to be the last thing The Russians see coming. She can go incognito and slink about their club without setting off any radars.

Mac lays stretched out on the top of the picnic table with her knees bent over the edge as she watches a large flock of birds rise up from the towering tree tops and fly over the clubhouse. She can't sleep tonight, not that she ever truly tried. Mac knows rest on a night such as this isn't a possibility. The atmosphere in the SoA compound is too tense, almost to the point where it's suffocating. Everyone is itching for action and it has charged the air in an oppressive manner. It is similar to how the air feels just before a lightning strike.

Even now, though Mac has completely relaxed into the stiff wood of the picnic table like melting butter, her nerves twitch with anticipation. She takes slow inhales off the joint squished between her lips but it does nothing to calm her inner core.

The Sons of Anarchy are taking the situation of the Russian invasion with osmium weight; they are reacting as if Alexandria's death is a personal attack against them. Mac understands the severity with which the Sons are reacting. When someone comes in and takes a shit on your carpet, you deal with it seriously - that's just the way it is. Besides, The Saints claim to fame is that above all else they look out for the residents of Southie who no one else cares about. Mac has spent many a night chasing down some douchebag who dared to take a shit on The Saints' carpet. Hunting down muppets who insult The Saints by messing with Southie is one of her favourite past-times, ranked somewhere right under fighting and above drinking. Though she knows she lives for the thrill of a hunt, Mac had wrongly assumed that being removed from the situation she would not feel the anxiety of insult and the pure need to snuff the Russians. But she feels it deep within her.

Nothing sets Mac off like men who get their kicks from raping and beating women. It is the one thing aside from pure bullshit that Mac has no tolerance for.

Even though The Russians will never know it, the second that Mac became involved was the very second that their deaths became a simple inevitability. She is determined to turn her scouting mission planned for tomorrow into a way to drag them into the outlaw version of court – where fines are paid with blood and sentences are served in shallow graves.

Lucky for the Sons, it's a dangerous thing when Mac is determined. The indomitable woman is relentless to say the least. Her determination means that she will make sure that the Russians are wiped clear from the face of the earth. Even if she has to hunt them down like the vermin they are and pick them off one by one, they will pay in blood and graves.

Mac takes the last hit from her joint and snuffs it against the table then sits up – a slight head rush making her momentarily dizzy. Her eyes scan the parking lot, searching for her beige Honda among the sporadically parked motorcycles. She finds it quickly and an eyebrow raises high up her forehead with mischievous intent.

Muttering under her breath about needing to shoot the ever loving shit out of something, Mac unlocks her trunk and digs her favourite .9mm Baby Eagle out from the secret compartment hidden underneath the spare tire.

Mac stands posture perfect two hundred yards away from a row of empty glass beer bottles. Her left leg is in front of her right, weight equally distributed as her left arm is extended in front of her. Her right arm, essentially rendered useless for this purpose hangs limp by her side as she stares down the extended barrel of the silencer with both eyes open. Her emeralds are focused on the first beer bottle in a long succession that lines the concrete wall on the opposite side of the SoA courtyard. It's an old Budweiser with blood caked to the bottom – Happy's from the other day. Silently singing along to Johnny, I hardly knew 'ya she looks up from the sights just long enough to double check her aim.

"Right in the middle o' the crown." She whispers to herself, calling her shot before taking it. She resumes singing along to Johnny, I hardly knew 'ya and squeezes the trigger after completing the first line of 'hurroo's'.

The noise of a bullet that passes through a silencer is more a rush of air then a boom, but the noise of the beer bottle exploding into nothing but dust and shards is a loud enough pop to make her flinch back – eyes darting about just to make sure she didn't wake anyone up.

Mac doubts any of the SAMCRO members would take kindly to her transforming their parking lot into a firing range.

But no lights flicker on, no one comes running out to inspect the loud pop. The sound has thankfully passed unnoticed.

She smirks, perhaps a bit cocky with herself, and lines up her next shot. She fires off the rest of the fifteen round clip into her glass targets, pausing only long enough to let the kick back from the powerful gun shiver up her arm. When she's done, the only visible sign left of the beer bottles existance is a fine powder that covers the ground. Directly under one of the tall artificial lights the glass dust sparkles bright, refracting the light spectrum and producing dozen of tiny rainbows that dance off the buildings surrounding the courtyard.

Mac laughs to herself, feeling a bit like a child filled with wonder during the first snowfall of the winter as she watches the colourful rainbows shimmer all about.

Shooting things always makes Mac feel better, calmer, and this time is no different. Her finger tips tingle and there's a very slight burning sensation left in her arm from the sheer power her Baby Eagle contains but her mind is peacefully silent.

From behind her MacLeod hears lethargic applause and turns quickly on her heel to face Happy. Unbeknown to Mac, Happy has been watching her since her first shot. He too has decided to forgo sleeping – but not for the lack of trying. He was lying pitifully awake in his dormitory bed for hours before he heard the familiar sound of bottles being shot.

Trying to be cool about the situation, Mac puts the gun down on the picnic table and leans her weight onto one hip, scratching lightly at the back of her head. She stares down at the dark pavement between her black boots while she tries to create an excuse to explain why she just opened fire in a place that is clearly a no-weapons zone.

"You're not in trouble." Happy says with a fair amount of enjoyment over her obvious fear of getting bagged. Mac relaxes into her stance, returning to her post-shooting calm knowing that Happy is not here to give her grief.

"You wanna take a shot, then? There's enough empties to do this for five years." Mac jokes, thumbing to the pile by the door. More boxes of discarded brown bottles are lined up next to the door, waiting to be used in Mac's recycling program.

Happy shakes his head. The only valid reason he had for coming out was to tell Mac to stop shooting. But when he was actually up close to Mac he could see the unbreakable focus she had and decided it was best to wait until she was out of ammunition. Happy has lived long enough to know when someone needs to shoot something for the pure release of it.

"You better hide that shit and pick up your mess. Clay would be pissed if he found out you did this." Happy warns, rolling one of Mac's spent .9mm shell casings under his boot. Mac shrugs, only looking slightly disappointed that Happy is here to put the brakes on her fun. She quickly ignites a cigarette before picking the broom and dustpan off the ground to clean up the shattered glass.

Happy inspects Mac's piece while she cleans. It's a nice gun, heavy, a little large for concealed carry but he doubts that Mac cares – there's a very slight rounding around the muzzle indicating that the Baby Eagle has spent a lot of time in a holster. The smooth black .9mm hand gun is definitely not your everyday pistol and definitely not the type of gun meant to be used once and then tossed. But just like he expected, the serial numbers are already filed away. Just in case.

Coming in from the North on the main road, the rumbling of a motorcycle engine can be heard approaching. The tall gates open up and Chibs comes rolling into the parking lot.

Mac watches him arrive intently, literally holding her breath to see if Chibs' extended ride has served its purpose.

He slowly rolls to a stop and dismounts his bike, placing his helmet on the seat. His brown eyes linger on Happy for a moment just long enough to make it clear that Happy's presence is not welcomed. Happy takes the hint and leaves, silently ducking back into the clubhouse.

Chibs walks slowly over to Mac; He doesn't bother questioning about the sparkling dust she sweeps into a pile while pretending not to care about his entrance.

It's visible to Mac that Chibs is more relaxed than he was when he stormed out, but it's also evident something is still bothering him. When he stands in front of Mac the first thing she notices is that the large silver cross is not hanging around his neck and that worries her only briefly. She knows from experience that when he takes off that particular precious piece of jewelry, it's a sign of trouble. However, the softness of Chibs' face overrides the subtle warning signs of danger.

"What are you doin', you muppet?" He asks softly, the usually derogatory term of 'muppet' turned into a term of endearment.

"I'm cleaning." Mac says slowly, gesturing to the glittering mess all around her with the broom handle.

"No, not that," Chibs shakes his head, "I meant with… everything - what's goin' on in that head of yours?"

Still unsure of just what Chibs is asking, Mac responds cautiously, "I want to help your club."

Chibs runs a hand through his hair, but stops halfway through the motion and stuffs his hands under his arms to avoid any more nervous ticks.

"I'm not talking about that… Mac, I can see that you're all twisted up inside," He pokes her bare upper arm lightly, "You were just like this before that mess back in Belfast – actin' like you got a death wish. You know I don't want to, but I'll tell Clay all about it if you're going into this without a clear head." He speaks gently so as not to ruffle Mac's feathers and it seems to work. She leans the broom against the wall, but just lets the dustpan fall out of her grasp and crash to the ground.

Mac sighs, rubbing a hand over her pale face to smooth away her irritation, "Belfast was a very different time, Chibs."

"Oh, was it now?" His snide comment lingers in the air along with the slowly fading smell of gunpowder. His words penetrate deep into Mac's conscious and for a second she thinks about slapping him but all her hostility vanishes when she catches how genuinely obvious it is that this – That Mac is what's bothering Chibs.

"My head is plenty clear. You should worry less, Chibs. You're already ugly enough as it is without wrinkles." Mac says lightly, hoping that it will be enough to end this conversation. But Chibs keeps his eyes trained on her movements in the same way he watches an opponent before a fight. He makes it blatant that he is going to speak his peace or his earlier threat to tie her up could come back into play.

Mac leans against the exterior wall then slides down so she's sitting on asphalt with her back flush against the cool concrete.

"Look, they already voted and I'm going in tomorrow no matter what you have to say." Mac breathes. She digs a cigarette out of her pocket and lights it up while Chibs joins her on the ground.

He had been expecting for the club to do something like that. The realization came to him quick that Mac was a good way to get to The Russian Kings. The realization that directly followed that is what made his ride stretch until dawn.

Mac is not okay. No matter what anyone else says, no matter how "okay" she looks, it is perfectly clear to Chibs that his friend is hurting. The instant he saw her, Chibs knew that she was panicked, but he too easily attributed her unease to everything surrounding Ace's death. He forgot that Mac doesn't get panicked, at least not over something as tangible as that. Mac gets panicked for far deeper reasons. The only thing that scares her enough to actually make her panic is an inability to get a reign on her own emotions.

He noticed she was panicked and on-edge back in Belfast before she volunteered to go solo on a dangerous mission. She barely escaped that night with her life, and she only lived because Jimmy had followed her and then showed up on Chibs' doorstep with Mac unconscious and bleeding profusely from the shrapnel imbedded in her back.

Chibs saved her life that night.

Barely.

He wasn't nearly as close with her then as he is now, but even back then he knew that he should've said something about what he'd seen in her telling green eyes.

Chibs easily knows the subtle difference between someone being brave and someone wanting to be killed in the cross-fire. Back in Belfast he knew Mac was going out to get herself hurt but kept quiet because it was not his place to question her.

But now…. Well, now Chibs is the only one left who has any concern over her safety and there's no way he's going to keep quiet.

Chibs makes a special point of looking Mac in the eyes so she understands how heartfelt he is, "Tig and I will go with you tomorrow. We'll stay back as far as we can, but you call me if they even start sniffin' that you're with the Saints or the Sons of Anarchy. If anything goes wrong, promise me that you'll get out of there...Promise that you aren't doing this to…" He can't bring himself to finish his sentence and actually say that her intentions are suicidal. Thinking it is one thing, but to actually say that Mac, his Mac, wants to die… that's not something he's not willing to let himself say.

"There's only one problem with that."

"What's that?" Chibs asks, exacerbated at the thought of another argument.

"I hit Tig."

"Mary, mother of Christ, why did you –" Chibs snaps his mouth shut and takes in a deep, calming breath so as not to lose sight of his target, "Do you promise or not?"

"Aye. I promise." She nods to reinforce the sincerity of her words.

"Good." Chibs grunts. He stretches his arm out around her broad shoulders and pulls her into his chest. Surprisingly, Mac nestles into the leather covering the crook of his shoulder and wraps one of her arms over his abdomen. Chibs rests his chin atop her head and breathes in deep, catching her scent of lavender and tobacco.

He can't help but smile and nor can Mac as she scoots in closer.

Neither of them notice that they're both smiling. But that's okay, because it's good to leave some things open to interpretation.

Chibs helps her clean up the rest of her mess and chuck the boxes full of empties into the dumpster. By the time they're done the sun has fully risen and a thin layer of sweat has formed on Mac's brow as the temperature rises.

"California is the devils arse crack." She mumbles, complaining about the heat, as she wipes her brow with the back of her arm.

"Oh, dry your eyes." Chibs comments. His statement is the Scottish equivalent of the snide American saying 'want some cheese with that wine?', and is cheeky enough to inspire Mac's urge to flip him off – an urge she quickly gives into.

As Chibs plops down on the picnic bench Mac again notices the lack of silver around his neck. Chibs' cross is an old family heirloom that he rarely takes off. Without it on he looks askew in a curious way. Almost as if he isn't whole.

"Where's your cross?" Mac asks, pointing a finger at Chibs' chest where it normally resides. Chibs stares at her with his brown eyes for a long time that almost makes Mac uncomfortable, but just before Mac is ready to leave he fishes deep into the front pocket of his black jeans. He pulls out the antique piece of jewelry and stares down at it in his hands, almost longingly, for a few seconds. Then, he stands up and without warning he places the long chain over her head. The cross falls down her torso and the heavy pendant hangs just above her waist, much in the same spot it dangles when around Chibs' neck. Mac takes the warm piece of metal in her fingers and inspects it under the growing sunlight. Silver is the most reflective metal of all, but this silver cross antiqued; its luster dulled from time and loving.

She looks up at Chibs with a upwardly furrowed brow, waiting for an explanation.

"That has kept people in my family safe for a hundred years. You can give it back to me when all this shit blows over." His warm eyes linger on her in such a way that magnifies the deep importance behind his gift. Mac can easily understand the meaning behind Chibs giving her his treasured possession.

He wants to make sure that Mac is protected by him, even when he isn't physically there to do so.

And as much as Mac wants to tease Chibs for being an emotional sap, she is wholly honoured by his gesture. So honoured is she that it renders her stunned to silence.

That perhaps speaks the most, more than any words of gratitude ever could.

Saint Raphael the Archangel - The Patron Saint of Gaurdian Angels and Happy Occurances.

Johnny I hardly Knew 'Ya is a song by the Dropkick Murphys and was actually featured in the SoA episode where Clay and Tig go to the bar to meet Cameron for the first time - it's the song that plays during the shoot out.

I welcome any constructive criticism of my work, and even ask for it. I won't know I'm doing something wrong until someone tells me. So please, please, pretty please with a cherry on top, please review - even if all you have to say is two words long, every review means something to me.