Author's Note: So, I'm always pottering away at stories that invade my brain, but I'm a bit out of the loop here so I dunno how much interest there is now SOA is a good few years in the rear-view mirror, but thought I'd fire this up and see how it goes. It picks up probably nine/ten months after the end of the final season and it's Chibs-centric, but has an ensemble cast.
I've stuck largely to canon for now, but have also adopted my version of Chibs' backstory as documented in my previous fic Scars. You won't have to have read it to follow this (although if you wanted to, I'd be delighted and would love to know what you think - while it's far from perfect and I'm my own toughest critic, it's probably the story I'm most proud of), but I just wanted to flag it in case any details ring a bell and anyone thinks I've copied ideas from another story - I have, but it's mine lol! Would love to hear your thoughts! T x
Original Sin
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall
- William Shakespeare
One
The gavel weighed heavy in his ringed hand. It always had. Always would, he suspected.
Christ knows he'd never wanted it to fall to him, not as it had. Never as it had. Nearly a year on and he still couldn't seem to get his head around it. Still expected to look up and see that familiar figure crossing the yard, swagger in every step and flashing an easy grin.
Ah, Jacky, how I miss ya, my boy …
"Brother …"
At the low prompt from his side, Filip 'Chibs' Telford looked up to find his men waiting expectantly, more than a few of them shifting awkwardly in the face of their president's ill-disguised emotion. He blinked to clear the mist from his eyes and cleared his throat, as uncomfortable at having let his wandering thoughts get the better of him as they were.
"We vote," he declared roughly, raking a hand through the salt and pepper of his hair as he dragged himself back to the matter in hand. "You've all heard the details, had time to think on them – now, yay or nay?"
"Easy money," the voice by his side soon spoke up again. "Plus sending a message. No-brainer. I'm in. Yay."
Alexander 'Tig' Trager.
He'd been loyal to a fault – and a pretty fucking colossal fault at that – in his stint as sergeant-at-arms under Clay Morrow, but he'd proved something of a revelation as vice-president. Less impetuous, more considered in his actions. Maybe, all things considered, it shouldn't have been such a surprise. Even Jax Teller himself, having seen first-hand the efforts to atone and right old wrongs, had approved of the appointment and Tigger hadn't let either of them down.
Oh, he still had his moments. That fiery temper may have been dampened, but its embers still glowed. But the truth was that, without his support, Chibs doubted the Sons of Anarchy mother charter would ever have made it through those first six months after-
Grief still coiled in the pit of his belly, even now, like a particularly venomous snake and the Scot ducked his head again and swallowed hard, forcing himself to concentrate as the verdict circled the table. Tig's support had set the ball rolling in the right direction and, not coming from a place of blind faith like his backing for anything out of Clay's mouth, it had bolstered Chibs' confidence somewhat and he needed that. He might not have liked to admit it, but he did.
Too many people in his life had fucked up catastrophically when it came to decision-making. They were still bearing the scars carved largely unwittingly by each of them, for fuck's sake. A man could hardly be blamed for needing a little reassurance he was on the right track, could he?
"Yay."
"Yay."
A pause.
Chibs licked his dry lips, but steadfastly refused to shift his gaze to meet that of his silent brother. The choice had to be theirs, freely made.
"Yay."
He had years of poker playing to thank for keeping the relief he felt at that gravelled response off his face. The support of his stoic sergeant-at-arms meant as much as Tig's did.
Happy Lowman.
Now there was a man you wanted on your side. Tough, capable, ruthless. A stone-cold killer. And yet as well-cemented as his deadly reputation was, his love for his club and his brothers was undeniable. After all, hadn't Chibs himself witnessed something few would have believed without seeing it for themselves? The moment the hardened enforcer had wept on their young president's shoulder at the realisation of the inescapable path fate had dragged them down.
His own tears had flowed freely and he hadn't given a shit who saw, but then he always had been more open than most. Quick with his fists or his sharp tongue, but equally quick with exuberant, back-slapping hugs or smacking kisses. Even now, it wasn't that he was ashamed of his grief for their fallen brother – just that he needed his club to know that he had his head in the game. That he was fit to lead them out of the darkness that had all but consumed them.
Because they had to climb out of the ashes, all of them. If they wanted to survive. If they wanted Samcro to survive.
And it was all any of them had left.
"You heard from Nero lately?"
The question drew Chibs out of his reverie as he nursed a generous measure of whiskey perched on a stool at the corner of the bar, his lit cigarette burning down to the butt largely unsmoked.
It was quieter than Samcro Friday nights of old, with the club still living under the shadow of its troubled past. Despite the grim silence of the surviving members, word spread – a mixture of wild speculation and grains of truth woven into something that still didn't quite do justice to the horrors that had unfolded.
People would move on, in time. The harsh tale would soften at the edges, unthinkable though that still seemed now. New recruits had already stepped forward. Not as many as they needed, sure, but a start. But the reclaimed clubhouse wasn't quite the draw it had once been for those who sought to glamorise the version of an outlaw lifestyle they had created in their own mind, having never yet had to face the stark reality of a kind of brutality beyond their comprehension. Not yet.
"Aye," the Scot nodded, realising Tig was still waiting expectantly for an answer. "The wee lads are good. Wendy too, more or less."
Some days it was more, some days less. Chibs understood that. Felt the same himself in fact. Jax's ex could at least take comfort in knowing she had done her best by his kids, plucking them from the wreckage of their family and giving them a new life. A chance to grow up away from the bullets and the bloodshed.
It was what Tara had wanted. Jax too, in the end.
But there was still a weight on her shoulders and in her heart and he understood that too. Jax had been Wendy's first real love, the father of her son. In spite of everything, how toxic they had once been for each other, she loved him – perhaps at the end more than ever.
And Chibs had loved him too. Sometimes like a little brother, sometimes like a son. Always like blood.
The thought of having to be the one to punish their young president for the dark path he had, sometimes unwittingly and sometimes wilfully, dragged them down had sickened him to his core. Of all the things he had ever done – and by god, there were plenty he had lived to rue – that would have been the one to finally break him beyond repair.
The Mayhem vote itself had almost choked him, the 'yay' his head knew had to be delivered getting stuck in his throat as his heart ached and his eyes burned with the tears he had to force back. His gun had never felt as heavy as when it was pointed at the chest of the young man he had watched grow up, even though their fragile plan was already in place and he knew the bullet was destined for an unflinching Happy – the club's hitman determined to do his part to try to salvage something from the hellish nightmare they knew they weren't all getting out of alive.
Chibs, forcing down a gulp of the whiskey, still didn't know whether to be grateful or furious that Jax himself had spared him having to be the one to end it.
"You gonna be all right if I bounce?" Tig asked, concern in those sharp blue eyes and in the heavy hand on his president's shoulder.
The Scot managed a ghost of a smile, reaching to pat that hand and nodding his consent.
"Venus got you on a curfew?" he asked wryly, still bemused by the strange pairing, but unable to fault its calming influence on his notoriously ill-tamed brother. "Get outta here, Tiggy. Go home."
"You too?"
"Aye," he nodded, the lie coming easily to his tongue. "Home …"
Maybe it wasn't a lie after all. He had nowhere else that deserved that title, so maybe he was already there – in a clubhouse full of ghosts. And if Tig wasn't convinced by his half-hearted answer, it seemed he wasn't going to push it anyway, heading for the door after a searching look that suggested he knew exactly the score.
"Oh, hey," the curly-haired VP called back over his shoulder. "You seen the girl again?"
"What girl?" he replied, after a moment's hesitation.
Tig smirked. "Sure, we can play it that way, brother. But I'm just going on the record early as saying she'd sure as shit be a step up from a fucking cop. Even one with a nice rack. G'night."
"Night, Tiggy," Chibs sighed, firmly ignoring the shit-eating grin shot his way before his VP disappeared out the door and into the darkness with a wave. "Arsehole."
But the damage was done and Chibs' mind was drifting again, this time to the girl in question. Because, despite his admittedly piss-poor effort to disguise the fact, he knew exactly who Tig meant. Not that there was anything to hide, mind you. Their paths had crossed and, yeah, maybe there had been a spark of interest. After all, the last few months may have ripped his already battered heart out of his chest and stamped it into the ground, but he wasn't actually fucking dead - and any man would need to be for the wee stunner not to register on his radar.
That was all it was though, and all it was ever likely to be.
With a silky mane of chocolate and caramel hair and tight curves under her simple sweatpants and tank top, she was bloody gorgeous, and in a way few life-weary croweaters could match, young enough that he'd probably be mistaken for her father more often than not, and almost certainly too damn smart to get caught up with the likes of him in the first place.
Chibs touched a hand to the neat stitches above one eyebrow. Aye, as promised, the lass had done a fine job …
"Don't worry, you'll still be pretty," she'd smiled, threading the needle with a sure hand. "I'm sure you've heard … Chicks dig scars."
He'd raised an eyebrow, wincing as it pulled at the wound he'd picked up after being goaded into a return to the ring to show the young 'uns how it was done, only for the bollocks of a prospect to turn out to have forgotten to take his rings off. Chibs did allow himself a little pride that it had taken so long for anyone to twig, given that the glancing blow that had cut him had been the only one his opponent had come close to landing.
He hadn't been sure if he was supposed to read anything into her little comment though, spoken too lightly for it to be obvious if he was supposed to interpret it as a sign of interest. It was then that he'd first really noticed her clear green eyes though, as she moved in close, having to stand between his knees to see what she was doing. He barely felt the first prick of the needle, even though he'd casually waved away offers of numbing gel.
"So how's Seth managed to get himself a legit medic on the books?" Chibs had asked, curious over how the young woman he'd learned was a fully qualified paramedic had come to be in a boxing gym in the first place.
He'd thought she seemed to falter slightly at that, but it had been quickly swept under a smile and a shrug, leaving him to wonder if he had been mistaken.
"Long story. Guess it boils down to me just wanting to help my brother though."
"Seth's your brother?"
He'd cast a sceptical look across the gym towards the blonde bearded hulk of a man who owned the joint, making her laugh and nod.
"It's not like we're twins."
"You got that right, pet," he'd grinned, enjoying the sparkle the laughter had brought to those eyes and almost sorry when she'd finally finished zipping the gash in his face up. "You must be glad he's back on the outside …"
That time he'd been sure she was thrown and he'd inwardly cursed his loose tongue for mentioning Seth Moore's lengthy stint in San Quentin, given the flash of pain on that pretty face. It was how the boxer-turned-gym owner had come to be on the Sons' radar - having largely refused to get involved in anyone's beef, but once stepping up to save the Rogue River sergeant from a nasty shank between the ribs – but Chibs hadn't fully considered how his incarceration may have affected those closest to him. It also flitted across his mind that he didn't actually know what Seth had done to end up in prison, although logic dictated that his kind of sentence didn't come from singing too loud in church …
In the meantime though, his sister had simply nodded as she busied herself with clearing away the swabs tinged red by his blood. "This place is a fresh start for him," she said softly, forcing a little smile back on her lips. "So we can't have guys bleeding over the floor, can we?"
"Suppose not," he'd mused. "Sorry, darlin'."
Draining the last of his whiskey, Chibs eyed the bottle left on the bar and then reached out to pour another before he could overthink it. Maybe it would help him sleep.
Nights were always the worst, away from the distractions afforded by day-to-day life and the best efforts of his brothers, trying as they were to keep each other sane. In the quiet darkness, it all threatened to close in on him. Every loss that had piled up at their door. Every fucking thing that had led them to this point.
His heart broke time and time again for Jax and for Tara, and for their boys left behind. Those little lads were better off well out of it. He was still loyal to his club, because he knew nothing else and because he had to hold fast to what was left and try to piece it back together, otherwise what the hell had it all been for? But he knew it was right for Abel and Thomas to start over with a clean slate.
With a pang, he wondered if they would even remember their uncles back in Charming. He loved those kids, they all did … He drank deeply at the memory of baby Tommy being passed into his waiting arms as Jax prepared to sacrifice himself for the greater good, having known that ending up behind bars at that time would probably have cost him his life.
Say what you liked about him, Chibs would always remember his young brother's willingness to put himself on the line before ever expecting anyone else to pay the price.
Jackson Teller would have met Mr Mayhem head on.
His ultimate course of action was never about escaping justice, only sparing his executioners. Sparing him.
Trying to make that mean something was the only thing keeping him going right now.
Chibs took the whiskey and thoughts of beautiful green eyes with him when he stumbled off the barstool and down the darkened hall to his room, realising as he kicked off his boots and sprawled back against the pillows that he didn't even know his little paramedic's name.
"Amateur," he could practically hear Jax laugh.
"Losing me touch, Jacky-boy," he agreed, saluting his memory with the bottle before downing another slug straight from the neck. "Sláinte*, my brother."
*Sláinte - Irish and Scottish toast, like cheers. Literally 'health'.
