Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from "Sons of Anarchy." They are the property of Kurt Sutter and Fox Network. No money is changing hands in the writing, reading or distribution of this story.

Note: Racial epithets are never okay. This is a work of fiction, so please, in real life, let's all love and respect each other! Life's too short! Thanks!

Chapter 6

Where he was going wasn't very far away from where he'd parked his bike, there was no reason to be pulling his boots up and fidgeting with his socks as if he were about to depart on a miles long trek. But Tig was slow to move; maybe he'd parked too close to the spot? Having some distance to walk, to be alone with his thoughts before he was right there, and it was in his face full force might have been better than this. Oh come on, he could do this! In the life he'd lead, it wasn't exactly the first time he'd faced something like this. It's just that it was Jocelyn this time, and he never expected it.

Okay, he didn't like it, this isn't what he wanted, not at all; he hated feeling what he was feeling, but then, feeling anything really wasn't something Tig wanted, ever. But he could do it, and he must have wanted to, otherwise he would have just blown it off, and he wouldn't be here right now. And it wasn't like he was alone, Clay and Gemma, they were with him on this, that was obvious. As soon as he'd opened up about Jocelyn to Clay, their support was instantaneous. If not for the generosity of Clay and Gemma, none of this would have been possible, as terrible as it still felt. Might as well get it over with now that he was here; the sooner the better, and then it was back to normal, right? Hmm, and what was "normal" now?

On the other hand, it wasn't like Joss was going anywhere now, he could take his time, turn around and go back to his dorm in the clubhouse and get drunk again, wait a few more days, a few more weeks, months, years…she'd still be there. There couldn't have been a better day for it though; the sky was truly azure, with big puffy white clouds, a gentle breeze that he could envision weaving through Joss's long, wavy, dark hair and lifting it on the air like the wings of a bird. Fly away, he thought, fly away.

Awww, Fuck! The darkened lenses of his sunglasses were starting to steam up, but removing them to wipe them off on his shirt would risk exposing the moisture at the corners of his eyes to anyone who may be watching. Damn that girl! He'd tried so hard to keep her safe, did everything he knew how to do or could think of, left her with her aunt the first time, but it was apparent she wouldn't stay away from bars and bikers, and why? Because she wanted him, she'd never stop looking for him. If Tig couldn't keep her from her constant search, then maybe he could at least protect her in it, crudely branding her with his initials, hoping the mark would put off any man who saw it. She was taken, she was property of Alex "Tig" Trager, even though she wasn't with him. He had no idea how or why she'd let herself get in with Butcher the way she had, but the fact that Butcher wasn't impressed with the mark low on her left hip wasn't a surprise. Butcher must have mentioned a connection to the Sons, or said something that indicated he was going to Charming, and Joss could only think of one thing; finding him. Jesus Christ, she was so fucking stupid for such a smart girl! And Jesus Christ, did that girl love him!

Ultimately, and Tig hated to admit it, that's why he was here. That's why he couldn't just blow it off. Love. Love fucking sucked! But the longer he sat here putting it off, the more obvious his tears were becoming. God fucking damn it! He took a deep breath and snapped to attention as if he were still wearing the uniform of a United States soldier, grabbed the bunch of flowers from where he'd secured them under bungee cords on the back of his bike with a swift jerk, and started walking. How did this happen? It was such a stupid and annoying question to have continuously echoing in his head, he was well versed in all that had lead up to this moment, but still, how did he ever end up where he was going now?

Honestly, the lynch pin that made his old life crumble, but held this life together was a five or six year old kid, and none of it had anything to do with Joss.

"He's Habr Gidr! He's Habr Gidr!" The screams of Langley still haunted Tig in dreams, and he was still just as paralyzed then as he had been when it all went down in Mogadishu. "Trager, fucking shoot the little nig-" but before Langley could finish, the child that had suddenly discovered their squadron turned and started to run off.

"Hey!" Tig yelled at the scared kid, shouldering his rifle, but all he could remember was how round and brown the boy's eyes were, so afraid of what he'd discovered in the burned out hotel. He wasn't snooping, not spying; he was just a little kid, a little boy, holding two empty water buckets, trying to get through life in his war torn home. Maybe he was Habr Gidr, and maybe his father, his uncle, his older brother was carrying a gun for Aidid, but shoot a child? Kill a child? Tig, Alex then, couldn't do it. Christ, he had kids of his own around that age, and his girls would have been just as wide eyed and terror stricken had they been walking down a street they knew well and were suddenly confronted by a squad of enemy soldiers they didn't mean to encounter. But if his girls had suffered such a misfortune, Alex also knew they'd run home to their father, and tell him how many soldiers they'd seen, where they were, what kind of guns they had…they'd give him all the details, like good children did. Good children. Dead soldiers.

"Hey!" Alex yelled again, louder this time, felt his voice in his gut he'd yelled so loud, but the kid didn't stop, just dropped the empty water containers and kept running, back towards enemy lines.

"Shoot him!" Langley roared, trying to get to his feet, but the gunshot wound in his leg wouldn't let him stand. "Shoot him, or we're all dead!"

The skinny little body was in Alex's sights, long arms and legs pumping as the kid ran madly, his back to Alex's gun, crosshairs square between little shoulder blades, and all of sudden, his gun went off…and the Army awarded him a Bronze Star. The world just didn't make sense after that.

No one knew that. Not the wife he'd divorced, not the daughters he'd walked out on. Not Clay, not Gemma, not any of his brothers. But he'd told Joss once, not too long after what they did to her father. Why he'd told her had always haunted him, and those reasons bombarded him tenfold now. Shit, there was just no stopping it anymore. Everything he'd always refused to feel for Joss was combining and beginning to rage with hurricane force inside him. He stopped walking for a moment, closed his eyes against the torrent inside him and prayed that it would stop, but tears were already brimming in his eyes. He'd fought this for so long, the most exhausting struggle he'd ever been faced with, and finally he was losing, down for the count…and scared to death.

"Hey," Tig had been so fucked up by emotional shit to even notice that Clay was present and had been walking towards him, but he could tell from the inflection in Clay's voice that he must have looked peculiar standing there the way he was…and then Tig realized he'd dropped down to his knees…fuck! "You, uh, okay?"

"Yeah," slowly he got to his feet again, feeling so ashamed and looking for something to blame his actions on. "You know, just a little too much a little too late last night, that's all."

Clay nodded, but Tig could tell he sort of knew what it was really about. Thankfully, Clay didn't try to dissect it. "I'll be back in a minute, but go on in, Gemma's there."

Tig nodded, but he wasn't ready to do that, not just yet, and now he could stall with Clay a little longer. "I, uh, been meaning to tell you, I found a place. The clubhouse just isn't going to work for me anymore. Whatever's left in there of mine, don't worry about it, I don't need it anymore."

Again Clay nodded. "That's understandable, change is good sometimes, particularly at a time like this." He mused, then looked at Tig again. "You need some help?"

Tig sighed and shook his head, but his answer betrayed the motion. "Yeah."

Clay's hand went to his back pocket. "How much?"

Tig grimaced, "No, it ain't the money, man." He nearly said more than that, but something in his besieged brain finally made him shut the fuck up.

"Ah," Clay's voice softened and was followed by a few awkward seconds of silence while he clearly searched for something to say that wasn't piteous. Then his hand came up and patted Tig's shoulder. "Look, I know how you feel, but sometimes things work out better than you think they're going to. You just gotta give them a chance to."

"Yeah," Tig couldn't hide the doubt in his voice, now feeling like he didn't have the energy to talk to Clay any longer, but nor was he ready to go on. "You just gotta hope you ain't outta chances is more like it." He started to walk again, hearing that Clay said something encouraging, but what it was Tig couldn't really hear anymore, or chose not to. He just kept walking, up the narrow sidewalk, passed all the rows of neatly weeded flowers that all looked superior to the ones he clutched. Chances; realistically, he only had one more. He hated that he felt it, he hated that he was acknowledging feeling it, but he wanted to be with Joss, he knew that now. That epiphany had been beating the hell out of him for the last few days, and finally it had beaten him into submission. And there was only one way to be with her, only one more chance.