Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3350840.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Sons_of_Anarchy
  Relationship:
      Juice_Ortiz/Chibs_Telford, Juice_Ortiz/others, Juice_Ortiz/OFC
  Character:
      Juice_Ortiz, Chibs_Telford, Happy_Lowman, Jax_Teller, Tig_Trager, Bobby
      Munson, OFCs, OMCs
  Additional Tags:
      Child_Abuse, implied_and_actual_non-con_(non-graphic), Underage
      Prostitution, Prostitution, D/s_themes, Barebacking, canon-typical
      implied_homophobia/homophobic_slurs, Canon-Typical_Drug_Use, Canon-
      Typical_Violence, grievous_bodily_harm, Original_Character_Death(s),
      spoilers_for_fun_town, read_the_notes
  Series:
      Part 2 of Show_and_Tell
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-14 Words: 18523
****** Reveal ******
by Axis2ClusterB, o_contrary
Summary
     Juice looks up at him, and Chibs would swear he’s never seen the
     lad’s eyes this dark, this intense, and says, “You did a good thing
     tonight. You did a right thing.” Then Juice ducks his head, mouth
     warm and wet around Chibs’s cock, and Chibs leans back against the
     couch and just loses himself.
     He’s fairly sure, when the moment comes, that this is not something
     he should be getting off on.
     Something's a little off with Juice, lately.
Notes
     Picks up not long after Glimpse
     As the tags would indicate, this fic is dark. Please proceed with
     caution; we weren't overly detailed in the abuse (physical, sexual,
     psychological), but there are quite a few occurrences.
     Assume all 'Now's refer to 2008.
     This was supposed to be a first time fic, then it RAN THE FUCK AWAY
     and did as it damned well pleased, and, y'know, we never did get to
     the first time, whoops.
     Unbeta'd, but between the two of us, hopefully we caught the major
     fails. For any that remain, we beg your forbearance.
     Finally: Characters from Sons of Anarchy belong to Kurt Sutter,
     Sutter Ink, Linson Entertainment, Fox 21, and FX Productions. This is
     a transformative work of fiction; no copyright infringement is
     intended. We definitely are not making money off of it.
(Now)
They’ve been at this long enough that Chibs only feels the barest of nervous
flutters when he knocks light on Juice’s door at midnight, a six pack in his
left hand and another tucked under his arm. He’s fairly sure what his welcome
will be, and he’s eager enough for it that it makes him anxious. It takes Juicy
a few minutes to get to him, though, just long enough to make him worry that
tonight’s the night the lad won’t be here, or he’ll have someone else with him.
And he really doesn’t like what that says about the whole thing he won’t put a
name to.
Then the door opens, Juice blinking sleepily at him in a comforting halo of
light from the kitchen, smiling a little more broadly when he sees who’s there
and that Chibs is holding up beer. “C’mon in,” Juice says, voice low and just
rough enough for Chibs to be sure that he was asleep on the couch. Chibs slides
through the opening, catches sight of the small, still-bloody holes on Juice’s
chest as he passes, and chokes back his laughter.
Juice leans back against the counter, boneless enough for Chibs to have a
pretty good idea of how much pot he’s already smoked as he gestures to the
small wounds on his chest. “Laugh it up,” Juice says, “I’ve already figured
your influence here.”
Which just makes Chibs laugh more. The lad is always so much more precise when
he’s stoned, and the fact that Chibs associates the word ‘cute’ with it makes
him worry about himself. “I got nothing on that, lad,” Chibs says, and Juice
makes that sour face at him even as he snags a beer and heads into the living
room. “What’d I miss?” Juice asks, and that does give Chibs pause, but he takes
his own beer, stows the rest in the fridge, and goes to settle beside Juice on
the couch.
“You missed a long fucking night,” is what he finally says, and Juice gives him
a look full of impatience.
“Just tell me,” he insists, taking a long swig of his beer. “C’mon, man.”
It’s on the tip of Chibs’s tongue to fuck with the lad, but there’s something
in Juice’s eyes that makes him confess, “We found the guy. Carny.”
Juice nods eagerly, settling his beer on the end table. “Did Oswald do it?”
There’s something here, something invested, and it almost makes Chibs wish he’d
just gone home. “Nah,” he says, swigs his beer for a moment to think as much as
anything else.
Juice just eyes him. “What then?” he prods, when it’s obvious that Chibs is
waiting for him.
Chibs eyes him back for a moment. There’s something almost eager about Juice, a
dog on point, and he takes a deep breath before he says, “Guy was a clown at
the carnival. Oswald got to the moment, couldn’t do it. He left. Clay took the
guy’s balls, let him bleed out.”
“Were you there?” Juice demands, and honestly, Chibs is a little uncomfortable
with the fervor in Juice’s eyes, because he’s never seen the lad like this
before.
He’s not sure just where they’re headed now, but he answers anyway. “Aye, lad,
I held him while Clay did it.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Juice
goes to his knees, is tugging at Chibs’s belt, has his jeans undone before
Chibs can gather himself enough to lace his hands behind the lad’s skull,
stutter out, “What the fuck, Juicy?”
Juice looks up at him, and Chibs would swear he’s never seen the lad’s eyes
this dark, this intense, and says, “You did a good thing tonight. You did a
right thing.” Then Juice ducks his head, mouth warm and wet around Chibs’s
cock, and Chibs leans back against the couch and just loses himself.
He’s fairly sure, when the moment comes, that this is not something he should
be getting off on.
~*~
So, Chibs guesses it’s a ‘thing’ now. He’s never been real sure what people
meant by that – a ‘thing’ – but there are more toothbrushes in his bathroom and
in Juice’s and the kid doesn’t bother separating socks and undershirts and shit
when he does laundry. Chibs’s dryer has been busted for almost a year, and
Juice had rolled his eyes so hard when he told the lad he just hung that shit
over the shower rod to dry that he’s fairly sure Juicy saw his own brain, so
now they spend more time at Juice’s.
It’s nicer than his place, anyway; that girlfriend the lad had had off and on
from around the time he hit Charming ‘til, well… Chibs really isn’t sure just
when that ended – or, hell, if it had ended - had helped Juice fix the house up
a bit. That's the common thought, anyway. Chibs thinks, after getting to know
Juicy, that it's just that the lad likes to have some order. That much is
obvious in the computer components that are neatly labeled on shelves, the way
the kid actually has different drawers in the big, hardwood dresser for socks
and underwear and those too-big, soft pajama pants the kid likes for night.
So Chibs guesses that it’s something more than a whole lotta kinky sex at this
point, and is surprised to find that he’s good with that, that he likes the
lad’s company even more, now. Nights like this, rare nights when there’s
nothing going on and they can just lie around, Chibs watching a movie and Juice
with the laptop pulled up on the bed, Chibs realizes that he’s as comfortable
here as he’s ever been.
Go figure.
Laid back and relaxed with the slow warmth of his Jameson nightcap, a really
spectacular blow job, and a few pulls off of Juice’s joint, he reaches out to
give Juice’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
The lad freezes, just for an instant, before melting into the touch. It happens
now and then – Chibs first noticed it long before toothbrushes and laundry –
but the last few days… Juice has flinched at every touch, pulled in on himself,
up and gone somewhere that Chibs doesn’t understand and can’t follow him to.
And apparently, Chibs is just the right combination of buzzed to finally come
out and ask about it rather than hold his tongue like he has so many times
before. He’s not so buzzed that he thinks just jumping right on it would be the
way to go, though. “Hey, Juicy,” he drawls instead, soothing, “just me,
laddie.”
Juice makes an acknowledging sound, but Chibs can feel a fine spread of tension
growing under his skin, and he takes his hand back, his flush of content
receding rapidly under concern. The lad turns to look at him with the loss of
contact, eyes huge and apologetic and just a little trapped, like he’s fighting
something, but Chibs can’t for the life of him discern whether the origin is
internal or not, let alone how to address it. “Just startled me is all,
Chibbie.” The lad’s attempt to make his voice light falls flat, and Chibs can
feel his brow begin to furrow.
“Seem to startle you an awful lot lately, Juice,” he says, making his own try
at casual, intending only to point out this tick in Juice’s behavior, but Juice
treats it like an accusation, rearing back as words fly from his mouth so fast
they just tumble all over each other.
“I’m, I’m sorry, I don’t – it’s not – when I’m hacking, and, and, lost in my
head, and you just – I just-”
Chibs watches him, unease rolling sour in his gut. He’s had his suspicions
about Juice’s past, what may have happened to put those careful layers of
defense in place until all most people see is the deceptively simple façade,
and this display is doing nothing to allay those suspicions. Usually the lad
covers it better, but there’s obviously something rolling around in his head
right now, got him all fucked up and thoroughly confirming to Chibs that he’s
right. Yeah, other stuff has struck Chibs as weird, and the kid’s always
startled a little easy, but this looks like actual panic and something else,
just under the surface. “Look,” Chibs interrupts gently, and Juice settles a
little, looks a fraction less like he’s going to come out of his skin before
Chibs’s eyes. “Look, lad, I dunno what alla this is, but I’d like ta hear it.
Not gonna push, but I’d like ta hear it. Help, if I can.”
The look Juice gives him in return is mistrustful, something Chibs has never
seen from him before, and it hurts something in him that he honestly thought
had died a long time ago, in Ireland with Fiona and Kerrianne. “But see, I do
that, and shit changes,” Juice says, weirdly intense, which does exactly
nothing to make Chibs think he should back off. “This turns into something
else, and I don’t know if that’s what either one of us wants. Or I just tell
you you’re imagining shit, and that gets us both off the hook, and then we fuck
and go to bed and get up in the morning and everything is back like it was.”
Chibs considers it. This thing with Juice, it’s easy. Kinky sex in a warm bed
in a clean house, somebody that has taken to buying the kind of beer he likes –
not that American shite – and no complications. Yeah, the kid startles easy
sometimes, and there are nights when he’s distant and a little bit spooky, but
that’s not all the time and, for the most part… Easy. Uncomplicated. He figures
he owes it to Juice to let him keep his secrets, and he thinks he’s probably
more surprised than Juicy to hear himself say, “Well. Out wi’ it then, lad.
Getting late.”
Juice stares at him, eyes bleak, and Chibs almost wants to take it back, but
now he’s certain that this bell can’t be unrung; more importantly, it’ll be
wrong to try. He knows he’s not imagining anything, and based on the look Juice
is giving him, the lad knows it, too. He wonders how many people Juice has
given this particular out to, and hates the idea that maybe no one has cared
enough to not take it.
“You’ll hate me,” Juice claims, grimly certain, “or at least just not want
anything to do with me after.”
And that – melodramatic nature of the statement aside – that feels like someone
– not just someone, Juice – has reached into his chest and raked talons over
his heart, makes his stomach turn over on his whiskey. But instead of
retreating like Juice probably expects, probably wants, he sits up straighter
and looks Juice in the eye, doesn’t try to hide the maelstrom going on in his
head, and dredges up every ounce of conviction he can muster. Which, given
there’s clearly something both significant and unpleasant that’s gone on with
the lad, is a considerable amount.
“You know a little of my history, aye,” he starts, and he’s fully aware that
this is an invitation of sorts, “so you know I’ve seen, and done, and had done
to me, some vile, terrible things. Most for - or at - the hands of the people
closest to me, lad, but tha’s not you, and it never will be you. Whatever I’m
asking you to tell me, it’s – it’s history, has nothing to do with us right
here, and it’s never even crossed my mind to not want to know you. Tha’s not
goina change now, ye hear?”
Chibs bites off the torrent of words with a near-audible snap, frustrated with
the way they just aren’t quite communicating what it is he wants to get across,
and wholly at a loss to come up with anything to ease Juice’s troubled
expression. When the lad’s eyes go distant he thinks that’s it, he’s whiffed
it, all that’s left for him is a scramble through the wreckage and a heroic
dose of self-recrimination.
Something must have got through, though, because Juice reaches for a fresh
joint and lights it, taking a deep pull that screams of steeling himself.
Through the leaking smoke, he warns, “Just remember you asked for this,”
unexpectedly fierce before his voice goes hollow and old, telling Chibs about
his mama, his sisters, and the neverending parade of scumbags in his early
years.
~*~
(1991)
Juan Carlos Ortiz is six when stepdad #1 leaves, eight when his mama remarries.
She doesn’t tell the kids what’s going on – she leaves them with Aunt Elena for
the weekend, and when she comes back, there’s a ring on her finger and Ted’s
got suitcases with him. They have a party that night and Juan Carlos is allowed
to stay up for it, running beers and dumping ashtrays, and he’s proud even
though there’s something about the sour smell of beer and the shrill voices of
the adults that makes him sad.
When he gets up in the morning, all of the ashtrays that were empty are full
again and Ted’s asleep on the couch, half-full beer bottle sweating a ring onto
the end table at his head. Juan Carlos goes about cleaning up quietly, but Ted
still snorts himself awake when two bottles clink against each other just a
tone too loudly. He sits up on the couch, downs the rest of the beer he passed
out on, then backhands Juan Carlos for “making too goddamn much noise this
fucking early.” It’s casual, and sets the tone for the next two years.
~*~
(Now)
The first few sentences, it’s like Juice has yanked them from himself, and he
hasn’t so much as looked up at Chibs since he started fumbling his way through
the words. It’s not so much that the lad’s telling him as it is that he’s
reliving these things, from the sound of the words, the way they come out
stilted.
Chibs doesn’t touch him, knows that won’t help, but he does say, soft, “Got
worse, aye?” He knows the lad wouldn’t be all knotted up like this over getting
knocked around, not with the other cues he’s gotten, not with what he’s heard
Juicy say in his sleep. Juice glances up, something grateful on his face, and
nods. When the lad picks his words back up again, they come a bit easier.
~*~
(1995)
There’s nothing gentle about Ted, not even for Juan Carlos’s mama after the
first week, and he takes to trying to make himself as small and hidden and
quiet as possible. Except when Ted raises his hand to one of Juan Carlos’s
sisters; that, he runs into every time.
His mother kicks Ted out after an argument, not unusual, but so loud it makes
his ears hurt, makes him curl up in the darkest corner of the room he shares
with his two baby sisters, hands over his ears as he recites nursery rhymes to
them. He only knows his mama is angry about a stain on Ted’s collar, and that
Ted is gone when he creeps out hours later in the silence after the slamming
doors.
The apartment is tense after that, his mama gone most of the time and
distracted when she’s there, but she only ever tells them to shut up and let
her think when they clamor for reassurance, never backs it up with fists. There
are more men, none of them kind but most of them too apathetic to care one way
or another, and Juan Carlos and his sisters settle in to a cautious optimism
that only the young are capable of, thinking that maybe Ted was the worst of
it.
That optimism is shattered two years later, though, when Juan Carlos is 12.
That’s when his mama marries Ramon, who takes a liking to Juan Carlos and he
and his sisters learn that there are far worse things that a man can do to you
than smack you around.
At first, when Juan Carlos thinks it’s just him, he deals. Doesn’t say
anything. Ramon works, at least, doesn’t use his fists on any of them, and Juan
Carlos figures that means shit’s not too bad. It’s not his sisters, at least.
Of course, that’s before he comes home from school early one day and realizes
that he’s been terribly, awfully wrong. He hears the noises from the room the
two older girls share, and he doesn’t even bother looking in. He goes to his
room, pulls out his baseball bat, and gives his level best to beating Ramon to
death.
~*~
(Now)
At this, Chibs moves to him, but Juice shakes his head. “Let me finish it,” he
says hoarsely. “You wanted me to tell it, now let me finish it,” and Chibs
subsides.
~*~
(1995)
He’s never quite sure how all of the rest of it happens – the blur of police
and his mom and sisters crying and the cell at the detention center - but three
days later he’s in a holding room in juvie, a rushed-looking caseworker with a
kind smile and a name tag identifying her as Rita settling in across from him
and pulling out her briefcase.
“You’ll have to go to court,” is the first thing she says, and Juan Carlos
feels his stomach shrivel up on itself.
“I had to –” he starts, but she cuts him off.
“I know,” she says, gently, reaching out to take his hand. “Juan Carlos, I
know. The police talked to your sisters, took your statement, and no one doubts
you. Please don’t think that. But the fact remains that you blinded Ramon
Perez, probably for life. The knee reconstruction alone is going to take two
separate surgeries, and the facial work… well, that’ll be more than two, to say
the least.” Rita leans in closer. “You’re not going to have to serve your time
in this detention center,” she says. “The judge will be sympathetic. There are
residential programs, places where you’ll get your education and socialization
with other young men… and Juan Carlos, you’ll be safe there.”
That night in his cell, Juan Carlos thinks about ‘safe.’ It’s not really a word
that makes sense to him right now. Then he thinks about Ramon, and the fact
that he can’t see little kids anymore, and that he won’t walk right anymore,
and that they may never get his face right again – and that helps him sleep.
~*~
Juan decides quickly that the ‘juvenile residential program’ that his
caseworker promises is the best deal she’s ever seen anyone in his position get
is actually hell. There are thirty of them in the halfway house, and it spreads
quickly why he’s there – he has no idea how, but everyone knows, and everyone
either wants him to prove he’s a ‘badass’ or they want to beat the shit out of
him to prove that they are.
And then there’s the whole thing that started this shit in the first place –
being young, and small for his age, and ‘pretty’. He starts going by Juan just
because it makes him feel older and he hopes, somehow, that it’ll make him seem
older, too, even though he knows it’s stupid and it doesn’t seem to have any
effect whatsoever.
Aunt Elena visits now and then, and that’s how he finds out that all four of
his sisters have been put in the system, and the chances of him seeing them
again are slim to none.
He’s not sure how to feel about that. He’s missed them while he’s been inside,
worried about them being stuck in that hell passing for a home life, so he
guesses he’s relieved, more than anything. Especially for the younger girls,
little Pepita and Maria who haven’t been touched by any of this because Juan
wouldn’t let them be. There’s no acknowledging that there’s a chance they could
end up somewhere worse, and Rita promises him that the chances are good that
they’ll eventually be adopted. When he presses about the two older girls –
Constance, Alita – Rita hedges, and that scares him, because she never has
before. He finally stops asking, and can tell she’s relieved.
He also feels like a failure, for not being able to stop it all in the first
place. He’d tried so hard to be good, to help his mama and care for his
sisters, and it had all come out so goddamned wrong.
It’s easier to distract himself than to dwell on it, so he starts poking around
the library and ancient computers, finds that they could hold his usually-
scattered interest for hours at a time were it not for the carefully monitored
usage. He studies fighting, in the yard and on paper, mentally noting the most
underhanded tactics and making a game of trying to come up with something even
worse.
He never uses the punching bags, because then he really might as well hang a
sign on his back with an enormous target on it and “Prove how big your dick is”
for a caption.
~*~
When he gets out, he’s 16, still on the small side, still too pretty. Despite
the ‘cushy’ juvenile residential center, he has a shiny new collection of
scars, but they’re all hidden under his clothes. His face is still at least
four years too young for his age, and he can’t help wishing for it to catch the
fuck up, like that’ll help.
His mother still needs a man in her life to feel complete, apparently; she’s
waiting when he walks out and the sight makes him stutter to a halt. He’d been
expecting Rita, and she would have been a more welcome sight.
“Juan Carlos, mi pequeño, I have missed you. Look how you’ve grown!”
He wants to lash out, ask why she’s here now, eyes full of promises he can’t
bring himself to trust. But that’s his mother, and maybe if Juan makes one more
try, maybe it’ll come out okay this time.
‘It’s Juan,’ he wants to correct her, but doesn’t bother. He does let her pull
him close, and he doesn’t ask about his sisters.
~*~
(Now)
Chibs has to bite the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood to hold in the
rain of vitriol he wants to unleash of how fucking wrong this all is. But it
won’t help. He knows it won’t help, so he clamps down and keeps it to himself,
saves it shoved down with the rest of his mental hit list to take out and
examine later when he needs to beat the shit out of something, or test-fire a
weapons shipment, or fucking kill someone.
Juice flicks him a look from the corner of his eye, like he knows exactly what
Chibs is doing and can’t quite bring himself to believe that someone would be
angry on his behalf. But Chibs can see it, Juice pulling himself together,
reaching out one more time when it has only ever brought him pain. “How many
more?” he grates out, and Juice smiles thinly.
“Depends on how you look at it,” he replies, and Chibs gets that he glosses
over chunks of the next part, and he isn’t sure what it says about him that
he’s actually happy when Juice gets to being homeless at 16.
~*~
(Then)
Juan sees this round as the worst ever. This apartment is even smaller, even
shittier and made intolerable by the absence of his sisters, and his mother is
deep in something pharmaceutical that totally numbs her to his presence. Juan
doesn’t bother to learn the guy’s name – it doesn’t matter. What matters is
that he’s big, and he’s mean, and he grabs Juan’s ass every time they pass in
the hallway. One night, he takes a couple too many of his mom’s pills and,
while he fucking loves the floaty high, he doesn’t love waking up the next
morning with #4 in his bed.
He moves so fast he doesn’t really have time to process it until #4’s spitting
epithets at him from the floor, blood dripping from his nose. Juan doesn’t even
try to hide the viciousness of his smile, the fact that he’ll bite and scratch
and tear if #4 tries to lay one more finger on him writ bold on every tooth
he’s bared.
Later, he overhears #4 bitching to Juan’s mother about what a worthless,
uncooperative shit he is, which is fine. The less the guy thinks of him, the
better, and if Juan should ever fall so low as to want the approval of that
twisted fuck, he hopes someone will do him the favor of putting him out of his
misery.
But then comes his mother’s reply, and finally, her real motivations for
bringing him back, shit, probably for having him and his sisters in the first
place is laid out, in the open and starkly illuminated. “You know how the
system works, papi, the check’s bigger with a dependent in the house. His
sisters are gone, he’s the best I can do.”
And Juan had known, when she came to collect him from juvie – residential
center, whatever – that he couldn’t trust her any more this time around than
any other. He hadn’t, he doesn’t.
If she and her endless stream of shitty goddamned men hadn’t left him so
completely hollowed out, he thinks this would hurt, would score him to the bone
and leave him screaming at the unfairness.
Instead, he turns on his heel, goes to his room, and stuffs everything he can
carry in the bag he’d brought with him from juvie that he’d never fully
unpacked in the first place and walks right out the door.
He’s pretty sure neither of them notice.
Problem is, once he’s out, he has no idea what to do with himself, wanders
aimlessly long into the night before curling up in the recess of a storefront
door and falling asleep. He thinks it’s far enough outside of the radius his
mother, or, god forbid, #4, would bother looking for him to be safe, but he
can’t even bring himself to care one way or another before sleep overtakes him.
Turns out, it’s a garage. He learns this when the proprietor, an elderly,
stoop-shouldered gentleman with a presence that would make Mike Tyson quail,
unceremoniously opens the mechanic bay door Juan had been sleeping beside.
“Reckon I’ll have to charge you rent for the night,” he says without preamble,
but there’s a look in his eye that’s not unkind. “Pop Steinman, but you can
call me Pop, like everyone else. You any good with a wrench?”
Juan has never so much as filled a gas tank in his life, but he’s always been
good at fixing things. Mechanical, technical kinds of things, at any rate. And
he’s gotten good with computers, and everyone needs help with computers now,
right? When he tells Pop as much, he lets out a deep bark of a laugh and claps
Juan on the back, then makes a deal that if he’ll take on the computer and make
an effort to learn what Pop’s willing to teach him about the many joys of the
internal combustion engine and make himself useful, he can use the cot in the
back office.
It’s all Juan can do not to prostrate himself at Pop’s feet in relief, but he
just nods instead and follows Pop inside for the grand tour.
Over the next week or so, he brings the ancient, disorganized computer and
filing system up to date, and learns simple auto maintenance tasks like oil
changes and system flushes. It comes to him stupid easy, and Pop… Pop never
touches him other than to demonstrate something Juan doesn’t have quite right,
or to let him know when he’s done well, and it’s a welcome, if dizzying,
change.
As kindnesses go, that’s an unintentional one, but it’s a balm to Juan’s soul
all the same, especially with no one looking for him and Juan having to tell
himself over and over that it doesn’t hurt.
But Pop can’t pay him more than a pittance, and Juan doesn’t want to be stuck
on a cot in the back office of his workplace and depending on charity for
forever. What to do about it is a question he has no answer to for a few weeks;
he’s not in a hurry to leave, not least because he’s learning quickly that Pop
knows more about cars and engines than most people forget in a lifetime, and
Juan wants to know all of it, too.
The answer comes to him one night a few weeks after Pop takes him in, while
he’s lying on the cot and trying to decide which is the worse option between
falling asleep and staying awake. He’s had days upon days now of looking over
his shoulder, and having nothing and no one try to ambush him in some dark
corner.
Until today, when the last customer had gotten all up in Juice’s business and
pinched his ass on her way out, and now he can’t stop thinking about ho– the
apartment. His mom, the men.
How he was just some piece of ass to them.
Then he remembers, with sudden clarity, what his mother had said that made him
pack his shit and leave, that his worthless ass was actually worth money, being
under that roof, and smiles.
It’s probably a gross parody of a smile, but. If Juan’s ass is worth money, he
might as well be the one benefiting from it.
~*~
For all that computers and mechanics come easily to Juan, the hooking takes a
little longer to figure out. Sex has never been something he’s done
voluntarily.
It takes one night for his flimsy illusions of skating by with handjobs and
blowjobs to be shredded. The only thing Pop says when he limps in the next
morning is “You tell me if you need a doctor, and I’ll take you. Other than
that, not my place to judge.”
Juan is, once again, stupidly grateful, and resolves not to have to take him up
on the offer. That only lasts about a week, though; when Juan gets the bright
idea to try getting himself prepped – had to do research, for fuck’s sake –
before going out, the first john with deep dicking some pretty Puerto Rican ass
in mind backhands Juan so hard, Pop has to take him to the clinic to get
checked for a concussion in the morning.
~*~
It takes a while, but eventually, with the money scraped together from his time
at Pop’s and on his knees or against walls, he has enough for a gift to
himself.
He’s already taken to shaving his head – never, ever, give them something extra
to grab, and god, he feels so sorry for the girls, wants to punch every scumbag
that approaches them – so he goes to a tattoo parlor, picks a design for both
sides of his skull. It’s some bullshit tribal symbol, he knows, meaningless in
any greater context, but they make him think of lightning, of power.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurs to him this should make him less
‘pretty’, make him look tougher. Maybe he won’t have quite so many injuries for
Pop to not ask about in the mornings.
He finds that in some cases, it’s exactly the opposite.
The worst is when they want to talk about his tatts, ask what they mean, if it
hurt to have them done – really?
One of the girls he has breakfast with sometimes – Angelina, and she’s
gorgeous, all-American cheerleader girl-next-door type, if you ignore the
darkness howling behind her eyes – tells him one morning that “The johns always
want to talk about tatts.” She leans in for Juice to light her cigarette,
morning still dark outside the diner windows, smoke curling from her mouth as
she says, “Makes you more real to ‘em, I guess.”
Carlos, not Juan, not anymore, but fucked if he’s going to dedicate one ounce
of thought toward something more clever for his tricks, thanks, feels his mouth
twist. “Seems like us not being real would be kind of the point.”
Angie shrugs. “I dunno, probably different with you being a guy, too. I got one
that wants me to be a virgin every time he fucks me. You get anything like
that, JC?” She giggles a little when she says it, because she enjoys fucking
with him about his double-first name.
And the fact that he still goes to Mass.
And pretty much everything else she can come up with to fuck with him about;
just his luck his initials practically beg for second coming jokes.
He frowns, toying with his coffee stirrer, something to keep his hands
occupied. “Most just want to push me around. Some of ‘em wanna be pushed, so
they can pretend they’ve fought me off and turn it ‘round on me.” Angie just
nods; she’s been at this longer than him, has probably seen and done things
that would shock him, even now. “I got one who wants to pretend I’m his kid,
though. Hard not to use teeth.”
She sobers at that, sips her own coffee. “Those are bad, yeah.”
Carlos drops his eyes, rubbing at the back of his neck. This isn’t something he
does, talking about home; no one turns tricks because of a stable and well-
adjusted family life, and most of his brethren are content to leave it at that.
But the words keep clawing at his throat like bile, until he can’t hold them
back anymore. “At least I know how to play it, with him.”
Angie stays silent at that, eyes haunted and angry as she lays one hand over
his, squeezes gently. Carlos blinks hard, gritting his teeth. “Better he comes
to me than taking that shit home, right?”
The look Angie gives him is pitying, and probably the sweetest thing he’s ever
seen on her face. “You really believe that, don’t you?” she asks.
The thing is, he doesn’t. He knows it’s just a lie they probably all tell
themselves at some point, something to help cling to whatever resembles sanity.
But then the moment’s gone before he can answer and she can tell him she knows,
and she shoves back from the table, picking up her smokes and her black leather
backpack. “Let’s get outta here, the smell of grease is making me sick.” She
links her fingers through his as they leave, bumps her shoulder against his and
he realizes she’s probably the only friend he’s ever really had.
~*~
(Now)
Chibs watches silently as Juice exhales another stream of pot smoke, mind a
disjointed mess as he files through what Juice has been telling him. He knows
he’s staring, knows Juice knows it, for all the lad won’t look at him. And he
gets that, that some things are simply too painful to get through and
acknowledge at the same time.
He’d bet money Juice has never spoken of any of this before, knows he wouldn’t
be doing it now were it not for the weed and the thing with Oswald’s daughter –
because he gets it now, that that’s what’s had Juice so rattled. But Chibs
needs to hear this, as much as Juice probably needs to come out with it all, so
he keeps quiet and lets the lad ramble without interruption. Juice’s eyes flick
to the side once, catching on him, and there’s a dip of his head – gratitude,
Chibs thinks. He limits his reaction to the clench of his fists at his sides,
knows Juice can feel the hint of movement even if he won’t react. Keeping his
breath steady, he lets his knuckles brush against the seam of Juice’s pants
before relaxing his fingers. They start to tense up when Juice gets talking
again, and Chibs uses that, the slow flex and release, something to ground them
both with.
~*~
(1999)
Carlos has been at Pop’s about five months when the motorcycle comes in, a ’79
Harley FXEF Fat Bob that an irate Sylvia Goldberg brings by on the way to
divorce court. “Torch it, for all I care,” is all she tells them. She actually
spits at it on her way out.
“What’d she ever do to you?” Carlos wonders out loud, but he’s captivated. The
bike’s in terrible shape, covered in rust and grime and dings, but when he
looks at it, all he sees is freedom.
Pop sees the look on his face and sighs. “Got no use for bikes in this shop,
too small a market here,” he grumbles. But he makes Carlos a deal that if he
puts all the work in off the clock, he can keep her if he can get her running.
He’ll even pitch in some of his free time to be certain Carlos is able to drive
it with legitimate paperwork and everything, for which Carlos is so profoundly
grateful he can’t come out with a single word.
He starts to read everything he can get his hands on, sometimes between johns,
and, on one memorable occasion, to one – the easiest $50 Carlos has made yet –
and gets to work.
He loves every moment, loves seeing it all come together. He starts spending
time at the library, hours on end the rare times when he has them to spend,
looking up schematics and manuals, from the most basic knowledge to the most
abstract. Computers have always been the one easy thing for him, but now he
realizes more what’s possible when you really put your mind to them. His meager
checks from Pop and everything he can spare from his trick money go to ordering
parts, and he couldn’t be happier about it.
Angie comes by the shop now and then, hangs out and passes tools and flirts
with Pop ‘til his ears redden, and for a while, it’s all so good that it makes
the nights with the sweaty, pawing men worth it.
Then Angie drops off for a few days, and then it’s a week, and then Carlos is
consumed with finding her. She, like Carlos, hadn’t gone out of her way to make
friends with her contemporaries, but there were a couple of girls she seemed a
little closer to than the rest, so he starts there.
Both Tinka and Jade claim not to have seen her, though, not since the last
night Carlos had, and the naked fear in their eyes makes the worry in his gut
expand exponentially.
“One of her regulars has been coming around more, you know? Not like that
‘Pretty Woman’ shit, like possessive creeper stuff,” Tinka offers. She’s
chewing a lock of unnaturally red hair nervously, hazel eyes hollow, and Carlos
refuses to see her as his kid sister. He’ll break, and he can’t afford that.
Angie can’t afford that.
Jade snorts derisively. “Yeah, must be tough to keep buying into the virgin act
when you start hanging around to see how many other guys are getting a piece.”
She laughs then, a hysterical edge to it, and it’s all Carlos can do not to
throw up.
“I’m gonna work here tonight,” he says instead, and even he can hear the fear
ringing in his voice. He’s too goddamn young for this shit, but this is his
life, and all he can do is try to keep surviving it. “Either of you see the
guy, point him out, okay?”
Tinka nods nervously, but Jade laughs again, the brittle sound of amphetamines
in her voice. “Never gonna turn down backup,” she says, even as her eyes dart
nervously to the old beater parked at the end of the street, and it feeds
Carlos’s anger to know that her pimp’s in there, waiting for his cut of the
money. His cut of her.
“Alright,” is what he says, though, and that’s how he becomes a little bit more
to the girls, that and the way he beats the shit out of a guy later that night,
the one that made Jade scream in the alley.
He’s sick after, the surge of adrenaline and rage too much to tamp down.
Violence is not his game, but survival is. Jade helps him roll the guy, though
she’s so shaky it’s almost worse.
“Is this him?” Carlos asks, dividing the cash beyond what Jade would have
gotten if she hadn’t screamed. He hands her the larger wad.
“N-no,” she stutters, flinching away. “He just got so rough-”
“It’s okay,” he responds woodenly, but it’s not. None of this is, but that’s
not her fault.
It becomes a routine of sorts over the next few days. Carlos gets that the
girls are using him as a de facto bodyguard, but Angie’s john will have to turn
up at some point, and it’s a lot more likely to be where the girls are. So they
split the cash and party favors, and eventually, Carlos spots him. He knows it
by the way his skin crawls when he catches the guy staring at him, approaching
with accusations of Carlos ruining his Angelina for him, and Carlos feels
nothing but desolation when he lets the guy beat him, and nothing but emptiness
when he sinks the knife in the bastard’s groin, twists and keeps on twisting
until Tinka pulls him away, frantic that the cops will be there any minute.
Like the cops ever turn up around here for anything other than Vice raids, like
they’re so thick in this neighborhood where no one sees anything, and they say
even less, that they’d turn up for the sounds of a scuffle.
Carlos had made certain that piece of shit wasn’t going to get a call off.
~*~
(Now)
“So I left,” Juice finishes, voice shaking, and Chibs doesn’t move, is scared
to breathe, knows if he pulls the lad out of it now, he’ll never get him to
talk about this again. “The bike was running then. Not great, but I knew enough
to keep it going ‘til I could stay long enough in one place to really get her
where she needed to be.”
Juice sighs, rubs a hand over his forehead distractedly. “I never found out
about Angie. I kept in touch with Tinka and Jade, and nothing ever came up.” He
laughs a little. “Tinka became a teacher, high school poetry at some swanky-ass
school in the Upper East Side. She got her ‘Pretty Woman’ story, as much as
anybody ever did. Still hear from her, now and then. Jade… Jade just dropped
off the face of the earth. Like Angie.”
And another piece of the puzzle slots into place for Chibs, the lad’s thing
about the news. More than that, though, there was that case on Long Island not
long ago, all of those dead hookers the cops kept finding on some beach or
another. Juice checked it obsessively, kept pulling out the computer to check
the news pages ‘one more time.’
Chibs is pretty sure he knows now just what the lad was looking for. He’s still
scared to say anything, scared to break the spell, but he reaches for Juice’s
hand, takes it in his. Juice lets out a breath, long and shaky, and wraps his
fingers around Chibs’s.
“I stopped in Chicago for awhile, got mechanic work and lived in this run-down,
shitty little motel. It was always fucking cold there, and more of the same.”
Juice stops, looking for the words; Chibs can practically see them rolling
around in his head. “Chicago’s a fucking armpit, man.”
~*~
(2000)
No matter the leather jacket, the nights in Chicago in September are always
fucking cold to JC. It can be a perfectly moderate 55 degrees, but the wind –
always with the fucking wind – blowing off the lake makes him feel like he’s
being cut in two. He’s taken to using JC as his name now, a strange little
deference to Angie, even though it grates like glass caught in his throat every
goddamn time he uses it with a john.
He’s also taken to wearing his hair in a short, narrow mohawk, another idea of
hers, after he got the scalp tatts. “I know it sounds dumb, but they’ll stand
out more, I swear,” she’d said, all earnest like she usually tried so hard not
to be. JC had just laughed, because his appearance just wasn’t that high among
his concerns. The types that came to him would come to him, regardless of his
hair, lack thereof, or, as he’d come to find out, his tatts.
His first spending money in Chicago, though, goes to another tattoo, high on
his right arm, of the Blessed Virgin.
It covers the scar from the gash he’d gotten from the knife he’d ended that
fucker’s life with when he’d managed to get it away from JC, just for a moment.
~*~
The new garage is bigger, and it’s on the outskirts of the city; a few more
bikes come through, and it’s not all that long before Jack, the manager, puts
JC on them right away. What knowledge he’s not equipped with already he can
find easily now, and usually quicker than anyone can put a call in.
His coworkers joke about him being some kind of genie, and he learns to laugh
at cracks about rubbing him the right way.
He gets respect at the garage, though, and he’s never had that before. And it
changes things, makes him walk a little taller, charge a little more.
At least, until one of his johns brings his Lexus in for an oil change. JC
ignores him, but he’s aware, out of the corner of his eye, of the dude watching
him. And he could probably even ignore that, but then the Lexus is parked
across from the garage when he leaves one day. And then, outside his shitty
motel a few mornings later.
Just like that, he’s back in his mom’s apartment, small and helpless and home
alone with Ramon and the girls before their mom gets back from work. The panic
overtakes him for a minute, leaves him doubled over and gasping for breath, but
then he forces himself to remember he’s not Juan Carlos anymore, small and
afraid. He’s not Juan, stuck in juvenile residency, trying to grow eyes in the
back of his head and with a mother who only wants him for the bigger welfare
check he’s worth. Nor is he Carlos, as dependent on the kindness of others as
he is their kinks. He’s JC, and knows how to take care of himself.
The clerk sounds bored when JC calls the desk, and completely uninterested in
the ‘suspicious vehicle’, but perks up at the offer of a benny to take care of
it. It’s not really money JC can spare, but with the alternative being Stalky
McCreeper - the sound of flesh tearing, gurgling cries muffled behind JC’s
hand, the smell of blood, thick and cloying in his nose – he lets it go, and
packs his few belongings while he waits.
There’s a knock on the door about 15 minutes later, the ‘all clear’ sign, and
that’s it, he’s on the move, putting Chicago in his rearview as fast as he can
without drawing unwanted attention. He promises himself he’ll send Jack the
rest of what he owes on his current project, a Frankenstein’d ’51 Indian Chief,
someday when his life’s not shit-sideways and upside-down. He’s not sorry to
see Chicago recede into the distance behind him – the place never felt like
home to him – and he can feel tension bleeding away with every mile under his
wheels.
This time, he doesn’t stop until he’s looking at another ocean.
~*~
(Now)
Chibs can’t help it now, reaches for Juice, pulls the lad to him. He’s not sure
if he has the words for this – if anyone does – but he had them once for Fi,
and so he goes deep, reaches for the things he hasn’t let himself want in so
very long. “I’ve got ye,” is what he comes up with, pulling Juice close,
kissing him even as he knows that that one act puts it all out there, changes
everything. “I’ve got ye, and tha’ won’t happen again. Not anymore, Juicy, d’ye
understand? Not anymore.”
Juice grips him, pulls him closer, and Chibs has just a moment to think how
well and truly fucked this all is, right before Juice’s mouth finds his,
seeking more, feeling for the truth of the words.
Chibs opens to him, lets Juice guide the kiss. He makes himself ebb the tension
from his own body, push away the lingering wrath, lets go of everything but
what Juice’s mouth and wandering hands are doing to him. More than anything, he
wants to give the lad what he wants – anything he wants – so he never feels
like he has to take it, to steal it.
The words to say it won’t come to him, and he’s not sure they even exist;
they’re certainly not on some sodding sympathy card in a drug store. What do
you say to a tale like that?
Chibs knows as well as anyone that sometimes there’s nothing to say, not with
anything so trivial as words. So he stretches into Juice’s body, opens his legs
and brings the lad closer. He feels Juice go with it, the lad’s hands finding
his wrists, holding him to the bed. Chibs lets him, moans at the feel of
Juice’s hands clamping down on him as he rolls him to his back.
Juice slides his knee between Chibs’s legs, right up against the hardening
length of his cock and Chibs arches his hips, seeking more. When Juice breaks
the kiss, panting, sides heaving like he’s made his cross-country odyssey on
foot, Chibs murmurs, “Whatever you want, lad, it’s yours.”
Juice pulls back a little, eyes clear but tight around the corners as he
studies Chibs, and Chibs can read it, the lad thinking this is going to be
pulled away from him. “Whatever you want,” he says again. “Whatever you need.”
“Fuck,” Juice whispers, broken-sounding, and drops his forehead to rest on
Chibs’s.
“Not going anywhere, laddie, nowhere ye don’t want me to,” Chibs tells him,
quiet and matter-of-fact, punctuated with a kiss to the corner of Juice’s
mouth.
“Don’t,” Juice hisses, pulling back. His eyes have gone a little wild, and
Chibs thinks he gets it; not that five stages of grief claptrap, exactly, but
something not altogether removed, either. “Don’t pity me, I can’t-” he breaks
the thought off abruptly, breathing ragged.
Chibs is careful to keep his arms relaxed, hands exactly where Juice placed
them. “Not pity, Juicy,” he says, pushing his still-hard cock into Juice’s hip.
“Not pity, but I do need you,” he whispers. “Believe me, if I pitied you, this
innit where I’d be.”
Juice takes a minute for that, processing, then he lowers his head and kisses
Chibs again, hard. Chibs takes it, lets him be forceful. He’s pretty sure that,
what with all of the kink they’ve played at, he owes the lad a bit of running
the show.
Juice’s hand slides up his thigh, cups him through his jeans. It feels amazing,
fucking spot on, but Chibs can’t help but notice that, even though Juice’s
crotch is pressed firmly to his hip, there isn’t anything to feel there.
He takes a steadying breath, thinks a moment, tries to hear what Juice isn’t
saying through the pleasant buzz of his body. The lad’s making all the right
moves, aye, but there’s a certain detachment to them, and it occurs to Chibs
that it’s entirely possible that, whether he wants it or not, Juice may not
know how to be in charge.
Maybe it’s more an equal footing he’s in need of for a moment. Maybe not even
sex at all, but something more like intimacy.
Chibs backs out of the kiss, just a little, traces his tongue along the inside
of Juice’s lower lip before ghosting his lips back along the lad’s jaw until he
can nuzzle at his ear, testing.
Juice sighs out a breath, and Chibs can see his eyes close, the dark crescents
of his lashes against his cheeks. He can see Juice pull himself back together,
and he’s really not sure who’s talking to him when Juice husks out, “I wanna
fuck you.”
So he does the only thing he knows to do – he cants his hips up, rubbing
against Juice like a cat in heat as he murmurs, “Want you to fuck me, lad. Hard
and slow.”
Juice shudders, breath catching, and Chibs puts his mouth right at the lad’s
ear, playing at the lobe, still undulating his body, a slow grind into Juice’s
warmth. “Can ye feel how hard I am, just thinkin’ abou’ it? Never lie to you
about this, Juice, fucking want tha’ big cock o’ yours in me, makin’ me forget
me own name.” His voice has gone rough already, brogue so thick it’ll be a
wonder if Juice makes half of what he said out, but he shudders again, a full-
body quake, and groans.
“Yeah, fuck, that’s hot, Chibbie, your goddamn voice,” Juice pants, and Chibs
thanks whatever deity’s getting an earful right now because this sounds more
like the Juice he knows. Not all the way there, not yet, but close.
Better yet, his body’s getting on board, too, a bulge growing against Chibs’s
own as their hips rock together, and even if this is all they end up doing
tonight, it’ll still be bloody brilliant. Just so long as Juice is here with
him.
Juice’s hands wind in his hair, tugging just this side of painful, and Chibs
groans. “Tha’s good, Juicy,” he gets out, just before Juice’s mouth covers his
again. It’s a little tentative, not as sure as the hands in Chibs’s hair, but
he gives himself over to it fully, pulls his knees up along Juice’s ribs so
that their bodies are fully slotted together. Juice growls low in his throat at
this, and his mouth against Chibs’s opens wider, teeth scraping Chibs’s bottom
lip as he pulls away. Chibs moans in protest at the loss of contact, but then
Juice’s hands are at his pants, working them open, hot warm skin on skin, and
that’s fucking perfect.
Chibs levers his hips up to help get out of his jeans, but Juice puts a firm
hand on his stomach, pressing down. “Just – just wait,” Juice mutters, staring
down at Chibs’s cock where it lies, flushed and thick and long against his
belly. It twitches under the scrutiny, and Juice laughs a little, leans down to
drag the tip of his tongue from the base to the slit. Chibs – and, were he a
different kind of man, he might be embarrassed about this later, but sod that –
lets out a low fucking whine at that, squirming unashamedly as Juice hovers
over him, hot gusts of breath teasing over his cock. Juice grins up at him at
that, gives the head another lick; Chibs wants to kiss him so badly then, he
aches with it.
But Juice hasn’t said whether he can move his hands, so he leaves them where
they are, watches through slitted eyes and bites his lip, sees the lad’s eyes
flash dark in return.
Juice goes down then, the warm heat of his mouth enveloping Chibs totally, to
the base, and Chibs can feel him swallowing, opening his throat, taking him
deeper than Chibs ever thinks is possible. And instead of dwelling again on
just where the lad learned that, Chibs just growls out his name and closes his
eyes, works his hips in rhythm with the pace Juice is setting and Christ, he
isn’t gonna last like this. “Juicy,” he stutters out, “Christ, gonna-”
At that, Juice just hums, long and low in his throat in muffled encouragement,
and Chibs comes with the vibration, Juice’s name twisting guttural from his
throat, hands twisting into his own hair as the lad swallows, swallows, and
then it’s done and Chibs is a panting, twitching mess in the middle of the bed.
Juice rests his chin on Chibs’s stomach, grinning up at him as he tries to pull
himself back together, tries to make words and do something other than gasp.
“Jesus,” he finally manages to slur out, “think ye broke me, Juicy.”
The comment earns him a light swat on the hip. It makes Chibs’s breath catch –
mostly in disbelief that his body has the wherewithal to send a new bolt of
desire through him – and something like fear skitters over Juice’s face, makes
him start to draw away, and fuck that and everyone who’s treated the lad so
badly.
Chibs tilts his chin up, beckoning. “C’mere, Juicy, let me taste.”
Juice hesitates, cautious now, and Chibs reminds himself that bringing the lad
up will be more of a marathon than a sprint. “Please, Juicy.” It’s just this
side of imploring; Chibs is fine with that, especially when Juice gets this
look, somewhere between hopeful and smug, and crawls up his body to kiss him,
wet and filthy.
Chibs moans into it, a low curl of pleasure working through him as he licks the
taste of himself from Juice’s mouth, feels Juice, hard and insistent, rubbing
against him. “Next time,” Chibs huffs out when they separate enough for words,
“if you’re goin’a pop me one, try before I’ve shot off, aye?”
Juice laughs, kisses him again. “Never really been the one doing that part, but
I love it when you do it to me.” He hesitates, but there’s still a little smile
on his face when he says, “When you do it.”
Chibs shifts his body closer, enjoying the lad’s warmth. “Whatever you want,”
he says once again, because it bears repeating and he’ll say it until it
finally sinks in to Juice’s thick skull, even knowing full well that his own
brain isn’t really back on line yet. “We do this how you want it, Juicy.”
He’s more than fine with how things have been, with guiding the lad, giving him
the kink and the rough play he’s asked for – hell, begged for, more than once –
but he needs for Juice to know that it doesn’t have to be that way all the
time, that he’s more than happy to be had. He wants to slide a hand between
them, to where Juice’s cock is still a persistent weight against him, but
settles for a lazy, dirty twist of his hips instead. “Think you said something
about fucking me, yeah? Can we get on with tha’ now?”
Juice’s eyes flutter briefly, teeth working at his lower lip as he makes an
aborted thrust into the contact, a fine tremor running through his frame. It’s
a lovely sight, made more so when his eyes open again, pupils blown out, the
black of them near eclipsing the iris. It’s predatory, and it’s a really good
look on him.
“Since you asked so nicely,” he rasps, sitting up on his heels and pulling his
shirt over his head, “I guess maybe we can.” Chibs watches him raptly, taking
in the play of muscle under smooth olive skin as the lad leans back down, hands
going to the hem of Chibs’s shirt, working it up his torso. Juice lets his
knuckles tease over the skin as he bares it, and Chibs’s muscles jump, chasing
him. When the shirt’s bound up around his shoulders, Juice raises his brows at
him. “Little help, here?”
Chibs shrugs at him as best he can, cocking his own brow. “Could just leave it
there, if ye want. “You’re the one tol’ me not to move ‘em.”
Juice growls at this, and Chibs sees it play out over his face – the idea of
being totally in charge, leaving Chibs helpless in surrender, not even cuffs to
hold him. “Leave it,” he says shortly, sliding back down Chibs’s body, tugging
his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off. “This is all I need.”
A quiver of excitement runs through Chibs at that, and then Juice’s mouth is
moving across his hole, tongue licking in, opening him up and it feels like
every vein in his body is on fire, nerves singing, wanting. He lets out a sound
that would make a whore blush, his whole body arcing into it. “Oh, goddamnit,
Juicy, tha’ feels good.”
Juice makes a noise, almost a snarl, and the vibration in that tender area
nearly brings him off the bed entirely, like there’s a current running from his
hole to his cock to his lizard brain, and someone – Juice – just switched the
voltage on to high. But there’s that hand at his stomach again, pinning him,
and all Chibs can do is wrap his fingers in the pillowcase and thump his head
against it, panting and cursing.
Then Juice’s mouth is gone, and Chibs open his mouth to yell – something, a
protest – only to see Juice staring at him hotly before placing two fingers to
Chibs’s lips. “Get ‘em good and wet, Chibbie, gonna put them in you, open you
up for me.”
Chibs full-on squirms at that, at being laid so bare with the only points of
contact Juice’s knees between his thighs and fingers at his lips. He makes the
most of it, though, holding Juice’s eyes as he sucks the lad’s fingers deep,
making noises he almost doesn’t recognize as coming from himself.
By the time the fingers are gone from his lips, he’s so wrecked that he’s
almost protesting it until the fingers press against his entrance again. Juice
doesn’t wait, either, isn’t in the mood for slow and three fingers push past
the rim and inside, all the way and crook unerringly to that nerve-rich spot
inside of Chibs. His whole world lights up, sensation sparking up almost past
what he can handle, legs opening further and hips slamming toward the feeling.
“Fuck,” he hears Juice grunt, past the thundering in his ears, and there’s a
flurry of movement, the sound of a drawer opening and closing and a bottle
clicking open. “Oh, c’mon,” Chibs urges, long out of patience, “just do it,
c’mon!”
“Yeah,” Juice responds, voice guttural, almost feral, something Chibs has never
heard from him before. It makes a whole new level of want flare in him even as
Juice lines up and presses in, one long sure stroke, barely pausing to let
Chibs adjust.
God, it burns, almost too much, and Chibs has to force himself to bear down to
the intrusion rather than tense against it. It’s been forever, not since –
Chibs quashes the thought, throws his head back and gives himself over to the
sweet ache instead. Something gives him away, though, some hitch in his
breathing, and Juice stills. The tendons in his neck stand out in sharp relief
against the tightness in his jaw as he stares down, eyes wild. “O-okay? Shit,
Chibs, I can’t-”
Chibs glares, shoves his hips up. The resulting surge of sensation makes his
hips jerk, brings his legs to Juice’s hips, and sweet Jesus, he’s actually hard
again. “Ye don’ get a move on, Juice, I’ll flip us over and make ye,” he
threatens, though the crack in his voice gives him away.
“Big talk from the guy that can’t move his hands,” Juice taunts, but he’s
moving before Chibs has to break his hands free and remind him that they’ve
been kept out of the way by Chibs’s consent and bloody willpower, not bindings;
then too, given the state the lad’s brought him to, he’s not at all certain
it’d be an effective gambit. Juice sets a hard and fast rhythm that has Chibs
writhing, noises sliding from his throat that he’s pretty sure he’ll deny
making later. They get Juice moving faster, though, harder, flesh slapping
flesh as the headboard bangs against the wall in a constant backbeat.
Chibs is pretty sure this might kill him, and he’s equally sure that that’s
just fine as Juice ducks his head, sinks his teeth into Chibs’s shoulder and
goes rigid, his muffled, ragged cursing going on and on in Chibs’s ear as he
comes in warm spurts. Chibs tightens around him in reaction and Juice cries out
like it hurts, then laughs weakly against Chibs’s damp shoulder. “You feel too
goddamn good,” Juice says, voice gone to gravel right against Chibs’s ear. “Oh,
fuck, you feel goddamn good.”
All he can do is call Juice’s name softly, near-mindless with how good this is,
how much better than he remembered. Need still judders through him, wracking
his body with tremors, making his hips buck as he tries to fuck himself on
Juice’s still-softening cock. “Juice, Juicy, fuck,” he babbles, “need-”
“I gotcha, Chibbie,” Juice cuts him off, pulling out with a wince, whether for
himself or the sound of Chibs’s grunt, he’s not sure and could care less
because in a blink, Juice slithers down his body, wrapping one sure hand around
Chibs’s aching cock. Just a few strokes would be more than enough, tension in
his low back just barely this side of contained, but then – god fucking bless
that ambidexterity, hallelujah – Juice slips three fingers back inside his
come-slick passage, zeroing in on his prostate at the same time as he ducks his
head down to close his mouth over one ball where it’s tucked up tight to the
base his shaft and sucks.
It slams through Chibs like a freight train, and he’s just gone, crying out,
every muscle in his body gone seizure-tight, head filled with white noise. When
he drifts back down, Juice is swiping his fingers through the mess on Chibs’s
belly, symbols that look like lightning. His other hand rubs lazily at Chibs’s
flank, soothing, while he watches him with something akin to wonder.
Chibs shudders one last time, eyes closing hard at the aftershock, and hears
Juice laugh, low and content and full of something that Chibs doesn’t hear from
him enough – pure masculine alpha-ness. “That was fuckin’ amazin’, Juicy,” he
manages. “I haven’t… well, it’s been a long fucking time.”
He can feel Juice studying him even with his eyes closed, trying to get his
breathing back on track, but the kid doesn’t do that ‘Juice’ thing that Chibs
had sort of expected him to and immediately start trying to caretake, doesn’t
ask a million questions that Chibs doesn’t really want right now anyway, unfair
though that might be.
Instead, he kisses Chibs’s mouth briefly, then pulls himself from the bed and
pads down the short hallway that connects the bedroom to the bathroom. Chibs
hears him running water, then he’s crawling back in bed and Chibs twitches as a
warm washcloth is wiped over his stomach.
Juice laughs a little at that. “Feel good?” he asks, voice still that dark
timbre that hits Chibs low in the gut, and all he can do is groan in
affirmative.
“Good thing I got nowhere to be tomorrow, lad, because I’m pretty sure I’m not
gonna be able to get the fuck outta th’ bed.” He opens his eyes to see Juice’s
grin and it’s there, but distracted, and Chibs gets that Juice isn’t done yet,
has committed to putting it all out there in the open for Chibs to know, to do
with as he wishes.
That burns his languor away, makes him sit back up against the pillows and
reach for his cigarettes. He passes one to Juice, who takes it with a nod and
settles, cross-legged and facing Chibs by his hip, though he’s averting his
eyes again as he picks up his story.
 
~*~
(2004)
JC is just barely 21 when he sets eyes on the Pacific, and he’s too tired to
see anything but a giant body of water that’s probably infested with sharks.
But the sand is still warm from the sun in the approaching dusk, and it feels
good to just rest a moment.
A soft voice awakens him some untold time later, an older lady cop who tells
him he can’t sleep there on the beach. The sternness in her face softens a
little when he nods dumbly at her and stands up to brush himself off. “Sorry,
new to the area.” His voice rasps out like loose gravel on a rutted road, rough
from disuse. He hasn’t spoken an unnecessary word since Chicago.
She – Benitez, he thinks the tag says – frowns slightly, though it seems more
directed at herself than at him. Probably some ‘do not engage’ protocol. JC
does his best to look harmless.
After a moment of consideration, she jerks her head in the direction of her
cruiser, holding up placating hands when he balks; he’s been careful, so
careful, not a Vice note on his record, and there’s no way she could know. Her
voice breaks through his panic, though, calming, if slightly exasperated. “Just
gonna get you a map, sir, show you some options. Shelters, hostels. Places to
crash that aren’t here.”
She eyes him a little longer when he just nods again, and, fiddling with the
papers in her hands, asks, “Got anything you’re good at, kid?”
He snorts back laughter and, instead of ‘fucking random dudes for cash,’ says,
“I’m pretty good with an engine. And computers.”
She studies him another long, drawn-out moment, sizing him up. “I got a
brother-in-law in Weed,” she finally comes out with. “Has a garage, needs a
mechanic. He won’t put up with bullshit, though. No drugs, no drama.”
JC knows that the look on his face has to be pure, stupid gratitude as he
promises none of either, and that’s how he ends up working at Benito’s Garage.
He’s still there three years later when the scary dude on the gorgeous, fucked-
up Harley comes rolling in to town. It’s a sweet little life he’s made here,
complete with an apartment and a fucking cat, and he’s good with the engines
and good with the computers, the weed supply is as awesome as the town’s name
would suggest, plentiful and top-grade, and, most important, he doesn’t have to
hook anymore. He uses some of the time that he doesn’t have to put in on the
streets to go to the gym and work on growing into himself, burying the
slightness that’s plagued his entire life under layers of muscle aided by the
work at the garage. He has friends here, likes the guys he works with and feels
liked in return; he’s even taken to hanging out with them after work, going to
bike shows and gun shows and the firing range near the garage.
Still, old instincts die hard and there’s something about this guy that puts
him on edge.
JC is the one they always give the bikes to, so he saunters up to the dude
before he’s even checked in with the girl at the desk, says, “Wow, you lay it
down?” even as he runs reverential hands along the bike’s smooth lines.
The guy doesn’t even bother with an eyeroll, just says, “Ya think?” before
pulling his wallet out. “Nobody works on her but me.”
And JC gets that, he does, but Benito doesn’t have all that many hard and fast
rules to follow, and this is one of them. He shrugs at the guy, casual. “Benito
don’t work that way, man. I do the bike work, but I’ll let you hang while I
do.”
The guy glowers at him, and JC gives him a blank face and a shrug, even though
the hair on the back of his neck is prickling with unease. It’s not the
tapestry of ink adorning the guy’s skin, or his Sons of Anarchy cut, which
Juice would be dying to ask about were it not for the self-preservation alarms
that have him on alert, just something… off.
Still, he’s itching to get his hands on the Harley, and antagonizing the guy
won’t help anyone, especially not himself. “I’ll show you my girl, and you can
be the judge. You don’t think the work’s good, I’ll give you the number for our
best wrecker, no harm, no foul.”
After a long, considering moment, the guy nods. “Okay.”
JC relaxes, just a little; it feels like he passed some kind of test. Jerking
his chin at the guy, he leads him over to his no-longer-Frankenstein’d, near-
fully restored ’51 Indian Chief, running a hand over her fondly. He’s not
surprised by the quiet snort and raised brows; he knows she appears more
decorative than useful, even a little fruity, but what d’you want for
essentially free? She’s a classic, for God’s sake.
When he says as much, the guy’s brows creep even higher, but he starts circling
the Indian slowly, looking for flaws. As always, JC jumps to her defense.
“I took her on as a project in Armpit City, and when I had to get out quick,
she carried me through a couple years and several thousand miles of hard use
‘til we landed here, and ran like a dream. We took care of each other.” The
words are defiant, more so than his usual spiel, but he stands his ground and
he could swear the guy’s lips twitch.
Another test, then.
JC scrutinizes him, debating, before pulling his key out and climbing astride,
giving the engine a good rev. This strange, off-putting stranger isn’t getting
his time and effort if he can’t respect the Indian.
It’s tiny – shit, miniscule – when the guy nods, but JC is even more certain of
the lip twitch this time, and thinks he’s not entirely insane to take them as
signs of approval. He doesn’t try too hard to stomp the smug out of his own
grin as he shuts his baby down and gives her a final pat.
“Okay,” the guy says, gesturing at his own bike.
“Quite the conversationalist, aren’t you,” JC mutters under his breath. The guy
just looks confused for a moment, and a little bit impatient. “Right,” JC says,
louder this time, professional, “let’s have a look.”
The guy hangs back, watches as JC runs patient and respectful hands along the
lines of the bike. He keeps his mouth shut, not even nodding as JC walks him
through it, ending with, “It’s mostly cosmetic, but I’ll bet you’ve got some
fucking serious road rash somewhere.”
And at that, the guy finally makes an actual expression on his face. It’s sort
of a grimace, but JC realizes it’s probably as close to a smile as this guy
gets, and it reminds JC uncomfortably of stepdad #2.
The guy holds a gloved hand out. “Happy Lowman.”
~*~
(Now)
Chibs has faced any number of uncomfortable situations, some worse than death,
without twitching, but that bit of information makes him startle. It snaps his
heavy eyelids open wide and draws him up off the pillows, something he wouldn’t
have imagined himself capable of a fucked-out short while ago. “The fuck?” he
splutters.
Juice laughs a little. “Yeah. Gonna listen to the rest of it?”
Chibs nods, still shell-shocked, fucked up as that is given all that’s been
revealed tonight. Juice just looks like he’s enjoying the speechlessness, the
little shit.
~*~
(Then)
JC spends the next few days working on the Harley, with an ever-present dark
crow at his shoulder. It takes Happy two full days to relax, to stop
questioning every tool that JC pulls from the kit, but by the time JC is
hammering out the last of the details, Happy is creepily flirting with the desk
chick and all but ignoring JC.
The day JC finally hands the keys back, Happy takes them in a gloved hand, bill
settled, and asks what JC has kinda been waiting for. “The fuck you doing here
anyway, man? You’re better with a goddamn wrench than most of the guys I ride
with, and the dudes in the mother charter run a fucking garage.”
And JC almost thinks better of it, but gives his pat response. “Well, it beats
blowing dudes for blow.”
It’s a mistake. He knows it’s a mistake as soon as the words are out of his
mouth, when they’re hanging in the air between them like fucking napalm.
The thing is, people usually laugh at the response, all ‘whatever, you got
secrets, didn’t mean to poke in your business,’ but nothing about Happy is
‘most people’. He just stares at JC, impassive, which wouldn’t usually be much
cause for concern; at worst, it tends to mean the person behind the look thinks
he’s a schmuck on the lam and that they should make a point of checking that
their wallets are intact. But Happy, he has, like, degrees of impassive, and
this degree says that JC is not fooling him, and possibly that he’s running
through scenarios for hiding the body.
JC goes still, the utter absence of movement of a small prey animal trying to
avoid detection by a rattler, and he hates himself for the weakness. For all
he’d like to think he’s won Happy over about as much as it’s possible to do so,
he’s still pretty much an unknown quantity now in possession of information JC
never, ever wants shared.
It’s an agonizing few moments – maybe only seconds, fuck if JC knows – pinned
under that calculating gaze before Happy even seems to breathe. “You like
dick.”
Somehow, it’s neither question nor statement, and JC scrambles for a response.
“Dunno that ‘like’ is the word for it,” he hedges. It’s more truth – at this
point he’s pretty much avoiding sex altogether, finds it too tangled up in bad
memories and means to ends to find the energy for when engines and computers
are so much simpler.
He’s not at all confident that Happy will accept that as an answer, but the
idea of giving up any more information he doesn’t absolutely have to leaves him
cold. “I was a kid, it kept me out of the system,” is what he settles on by way
of elaboration, willing himself not to cross his arms.
Happy makes a noncommittal sound, not looking at JC so much as through him, far
away and unreachable before giving one of his barely discernible nods. While JC
tries not to do something truly idiotic, like hyperventilate, Happy reaches in
his pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper, holding it out like – probably not
an olive branch, but maybe an invitation – like he’s still weighing whether JC
is worthy of receiving it. “This is Jax Teller’s number. He’s mother charter,
and who you talk to about the Club’s public events, becoming a Friend. He likes
you, maybe you get a shot.”
JC takes the scrap gingerly, his day suddenly looking supernova levels of
brighter. Happy gives him one more significant look once he’s seated on his
bike, one that can only be interpreted as warning. “The Sons ain’t in the
business of prospecting fags,” he states, like the grass is green, the sky
blue, and the sun will come up tomorrow before starting the bike’s engine with
a throaty growl.
JC nods, but Happy’s not really paying attention anymore, too wrapped up in the
sound of his girl running sweet beneath him. “See you ‘round, brother,” he
yells over his shoulder as he peels out, leaving JC with the distinct feeling
of his world having tilted on its axis once again.
~*~
(Now)
Chibs is still a little hung up on whole Happy thing. He knows the man well
enough to consider him trustworthy in most things even if he’d rather not know
the details; he also knows that playing cards with him is an exercise in
burning money.
If the Sons aren’t in the habit of ‘prospecting fags’ – which is true, though
perhaps by default as much as design – Happy is not in the business of just
lending a hand to strangers, and certainly not with no immediate gain to
himself on the table.
Chibs can’t help but wonder about that; Juice must have made an impression.
Something hot and possessive tightens his chest, and he hates that he’s even
having the thought with Juice right here next to him, spilling all his secrets.
He’d warned Chibs it would change things.
But it hasn’t, really. While it’s hard to get a read on what Happy’s really
into, sexually – one of those things Chibs doesn’t need details about – he’s
pretty certain that Juice wouldn’t have left it out of the narrative, had that
been part of their interaction. Furthermore, it’s history, before the Club,
before this ‘thing’ between them.
History doesn’t matter, but for the effects it has on the present.
Chibs shakes loose that train of thought, redirects his attention. “I’m
guessing you put the number to use, then,” he teases gently, and he really
wants to know what comes next. Jax hadn’t offered up much in the way of
information back then, who the kid was or where he’d come from.
Juice smiles, and Chibs is relieved to see that it’s coming easier. “It took me
a week or so to work up the nerve,” he admits, scrubbing a hand over his
mohawk, sheepish, and Chibs can’t help but smile back, even though his throat’s
gone a little thick. Juice doesn’t have to say it was because he’d convinced
himself that it was too good to be true.
~*~
(2007)
Jax Teller is instantly suspicious of JC when he calls to ask if there are any
public events he can come check out. “How the fuck did you get this number?”
JC stutters for a moment, sideswiped by the idea that this is a personal, or at
least Club-only number. He just manages to blurt out “Uh, Happy Lowman gave it
to me? I worked on his bike,” before Jax gets a chance to hang up on him,
probably while planning on getting new digits, ASAP.
There’s a weighted pause before the words come, thick with disbelief. “Happy.
Let you work on his bike.”
JC thinks this is a good sign, something he can work with. “Yeah, he laid it
down, seemed pleased with the job. We talked a little while I was working on
it.”
“Well,” Jax finally says another long moment later, “I guess you’d better come
check shit out, then.” He rattles off a date and location, then hangs up before
JC can get another word in. JC’s pretty sure the only things that would have
come out of his mouth would make him sound like a ridiculous fanboy, so that’s
okay.
~*~
He puts in for the vacation days he’s saved up and gives a conditional notice
to Benito. “I’m not back in two weeks, I’m probably staying gone.”
Benito frowns and takes the forms reluctantly. “You sure, man? Be great if
you’d stick around.”
And that’s something that JC’s still not really used to, being acknowledged, so
he tries to tamp down his excitement – and anxiety – over what he’s about to
do. “Yeah. Just not used to being in one place so long, y’know?”
Benito nods slowly, holds a hand out for JC to shake. “Good luck, then. Always
be a place here for you if you want it.”
JC means it with every fiber of his being when he thanks him.
~*~
The real downside to putting Weed in his rearview, other than the uncharted
waters, is giving his cat away. He doesn’t travel with anything that won’t fit
on his bike, and while having a cat at all was more that the thing turned up
one day and wouldn’t leave than anything else, he’s been glad of the company
and doesn’t want to subject it to traveling at speed in a crate with only a
haphazard perch at best.
Also, the idea of PETA coming after him is not one he relishes, the crazy
fucks.
Once he’s all packed, he hands Ambrose over to his neighbor, Samantha. Her
little girl Justine has always liked the furball, and JC knows they’ll take
good care of him. Ambrose stares at him reproachfully, anyway. “It’s for the
best, buddy,” JC tells him, feeling like a goof and definitely not tearing up.
“They probably have pit bulls and shit where I’m going, no place for you at
all.”
Ambrose gives him one last disdainful look, then squirms out of Samantha’s arms
and stalks away, into the apartment. “Take care, JC.” Samantha smiles then, and
he nods.
That’s that, then.
~*~
He rides into Charming a day before the meeting, and manages to locate the
cheap, extended-stay joint Jax had indicated in a text. It appears to be clean
and well-kept, which puts it several notches above most of the places JC has
crashed before. When he rings the bell at the desk, it takes a moment for the
clerk to materialize, and JC gazes around idly, trying to get a feel for his
surroundings.
“Can I help you?” a feminine voice asks, sounds almost pleased, and JC turns to
ask if there’s a single available for the week, but the words die in his throat
when he gets a look at her. “Sorry to keep you waiting, I’ve got a Chem test
tomorrow and this place has been dead, so I figured I’d get some study time.”
She’s cute, if not a stunner. Wavy, light brown hair, green eyes, a smattering
of freckles on a button nose, and what JC can see over the counter would be
entirely satisfactory, if physical attributes were that much of a hook for him.
What brings him up short is her smile, directed at him like he’s the best thing
she’s seen all day, and so eerily reminiscent of Angelina his heart seizes a
little in his chest.
“Hey,” he hears, distantly, feels warmth at his hand, tentative, realizes he’s
gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles to keep himself upright,
that she’s touching him, trying to get him to let go, maybe, “you okay?”
“Long ride,” he answers dumbly, not even registering that she’s come around the
counter until he’s sitting in the lobby chair with her kneeling in front of
him, looking so worried he kind of wants to cry.
“Just sit here a minute, I’ll bring out the paperwork for you to sign,” she
tells him, letting her hand pat at JC’s thigh as she stands, and Jesus Christ,
how the hell did that make him hard?
She’s not Angie, he reminds himself, over and over as he watches her, Happy’s
warning looming large in his mind. It wouldn’t have to be anything major – he’s
pretty sure that casual is just his speed, in fact. She fusses over him while
he gives her the information for the paperwork, and he can’t take his eyes off
of the nametag that his vision’s cleared enough to read.
Evangeline.
It’s all he can do not to shake with the turmoil of conflicted emotions, but
somehow, he makes it through on autopilot until she presses the key in his
palm. “Hey, uh. I’m off at seven. There’s not much to see here, but I could
show you around a little, if you want.” She blushes, just the tiniest bit, when
she makes the offer, and JC is still a little gobsmacked and taking her up on
it before he realizes the words have left his mouth.
“I’ll have you back in time for your studying,” he finds himself smiling, but
only half-teasing. He knows if you care enough to bring your books to work, you
care enough to want to be good at whatever it is in them.
Evangeline – fuck, Eva, maybe she’ll go by Eva, he just can’t bring himself to
ask – winks at him, emboldened by the lack of rejection. “Maybe I wouldn’t mind
if you didn’t.”
~*~
He showers quickly, just to get the road grime off, then stretches out on the
surprisingly comfortable bed, knowing he won’t do more than doze. He’s back up
by 6:45, pops a Ritalin from his stash because he always seems to put his foot
in his mouth a little less with amphetamine buzzing under his skin. He heads to
the office, hangs out and smart-asses while Eva – and she corrected Evangeline
quickly – does a register count with some nerdy, pimply teenager that keeps
looking at JC like he’s gonna rob the place. JC plays into it, picking up stuff
on the counter and putting it down, being just a little loud until Eva’s
obviously struggling not to laugh.
Outside, she punches him on the arm. “That was mean!”
JC laughs and dances away from her. “Yeah, and?”
She scowls at him some more, though he can see her biting the inside of her
cheek against a smile. “Weren’t you ever some gawky kid that people liked to
fuck around with? That registration desk is his little stump, and you just went
and pissed all over it.”
Her words make his tongue tangle in his mouth, trying not to spit out something
about how no, he usually got actually fucked, thanks, that he knows she doesn’t
deserve. “I’m not into watersports,” is what finally trips out, and he kind of
wants to die, because smooth move, ex-lax.
He hadn’t thought he would suck quite so badly at this.
Eva stares at him in shock, and JC can feel his face burning and seriously, the
ground could really just do him a solid and open beneath him right now, but
then she wrinkles her nose and laughs. It even sounds genuine. “Well, that’s
good to know, I guess.”
Anxiety JC hadn’t even realized he was carrying slides off his shoulders like
water, and he feels himself smile tentatively. “You, ah, don’t scare easy,” is
all he can think of to say.
She waggles her brows at him. “Maybe I’m just a sucker for guys with no game.”
It’s JC’s turn to give her an outraged face. It doesn’t matter if she has a
point, he has to defend himself against that kind of slight. “I’ve got game.
I’ve got lots of game, more game than one person should be able to hold – ”
“See, I’m hearing all of these words, but there’s just no showing happening.
Show, don’t tell, ever hear of it?”
JC has no idea what possesses him then, makes him grab his crotch and leer,
“I’ve got your show and tell right here.” It’s instinctive, maybe, and it makes
him want to throw up a little, because this is not then, and Eva is not a john.
Eva just laughs at him, eyes twinkling. “Thank you for proving my point.” He
doesn’t even have a defense for himself anymore; all he can think to do is
shuffle his feet and curse the Ritalin for being no goddamned help whatsoever.
She takes him by surprise when she sidles up under his arm, body a soft line of
heat against his that actually feels good, no threat, no job. It sort of takes
his breath away before she even gets her mouth to his ear. “Show and tell time
later, mmmm?”
JC actually misses a step at that, and has to concede defeat to Eva’s superior
gamesmanship.
Really, he’ll get right on that just as soon as his brain starts cooperating
again.
He lets Eva show him around a little, and she’s right – there’s not much to
see. JC is more than okay with that, though – he likes to be places where he
couldn’t set up shop if he wanted to.
~*~
(Now)
Chibs can't help it. He doesn't want to interrupt, but he can't keep himself
from reaching out and giving the nape of the lad's neck a gentle squeeze.
"Muppet," he declares, trying to mask the affection, the faint jealously of
status-currently-undefined Eva with his best deadpan. Juice just flips him off
and continues the story.
~*~
(Then)
They do the whole thing – after she’s shown him what little there is to see in
Charming, Eva directs him to a small Italian restaurant that has the best
lasagna he’s tasted since leaving New York. When Eva drops him off at the motel
– she doesn’t like bikes, so they took her car – he even leans in and kisses
her goodnight at his door. Closed-mouth, chaste, everything he’s never had.
When he pulls back, she’s smiling up at him, a little bemused. “You really are
different, aren’t you?” she says, and for the first time, those words in that
order don’t sound like a bad thing.
~*~
The next morning, JC is so nervous that he decides five different times that he
isn’t going to the meeting and, when he pulls the Indian into the parking lot
of the garage that Jax directed him to, he still isn’t really sure how he got
there. The first person that he sees when he hangs his helmet on the handle bar
is Happy, though, who tips a beer bottle in his direction from across the lot.
And he’s somehow okay then.
When a young blond guy comes swaggering up to him, hand out, the words, “I’m
Jax Teller. You’re JC, right?” on his lips, the smile on JC’s mouth feels
natural.
Jax loves the Indian, is full of questions about where JC started with her and
how he got her to where she is now, and there’s honest appreciation in his eyes
when he says, “It’s good work, man.”
They’re still talking about the bike when an older guy saunters up, sunglasses
firmly in place and leather Sons of Anarchy cut looking like a part of him.
“Jacky-boy, who’s this?” and his voice is loud, big, full of brogue and beer.
He also has a wicked, fascinating set of scars stretching back from each corner
of his mouth. “We takin’ new prospects?”
Jax looks at JC, eyes appraising, and says, “Yeah, we haven’t had anybody to do
shit work in a while now.”
JC has never felt so much a part of something, and can’t help the little thrill
that goes through him when Jax flicks his gaze to the older guy and smirks.
“Says he’s good with computers, too, Chibs.”
“Oh, thank Christ,” the guy – Chibs – exclaims, pressing his hands together in
front of him as though in prayer at Mass. “Welcome to the Club, laddie, follow
me and allow me to make your wildest dreams come true.”
~*~
(Now)
“You bloody little shit, I did not,” Chibs laughs, cuffing Juice lightly on the
shoulder. He just leans into the touch and makes a grab at Chibs’s cigarette.
“Don’t front, man, you know you thought I was manna from heaven when Jax
mentioned I could help with the computers.”
“Seems to me I got pulled off by some Irish business and didn’t get back until
we voted on you,” Chibs deflects, remembering all too well his relief that he
wouldn’t have to muddle around with the infernal machines any longer.
Juice waves a negligent hand. “Whatever. My story, man.” He sounds aggrieved,
but rests his head on Chibs’s shoulder nonetheless, settles down for one last
smoke, a few more words.
~*~
(2007)
Chibs’s phone rings the moment they step foot in what JC guesses is the
clubhouse and he hurries off with a “Sorry, lad, customers,” and a jerk of his
head to Happy. “Got McKeevy on the line, Hap, show the prospect around, will
ye?”
With that, Chibs is gone, and Happy ambles over. “Guess you’re in for now,” he
says, and JC is once again reminded of the man’s words to him back in Weed.
“Yeah, for now,” he agrees, uncomfortable with the knowledge that Happy can
ruin him, if he so chooses. But Happy gave him the number in the first place,
and that has to mean something.
If Happy picks up on any of that, he doesn’t let on, just leads JC over to the
bar and pours them both a shot of Cuervo Gold. “Welcome, Juice,” he intones,
“to not fucking it up.”
JC’s discomfiture must show on his face before he takes the shot and it sets
his insides on fire; his next clear recollection is Happy patting his back and
telling him to work a lot on his handling of hard liquor. “Not much of a
drinker,” he wheezes – pills and blow have always been more his thing – before
remembering that he’d had a question before his tequila death. “Juice?”
Happy shrugs. “Why have two syllables when you could have one? It’s wasteful.”
JC – Juice – can only stare at him through watery eyes and roll the idea around
in his head, glossing right over Happy’s own two-syllable handle. A nickname,
given in a moment of something like camaraderie, rather than a john telling him
how to take it, or Angie poking gentle fun at him.
Maybe it’s the burn of the tequila, but he likes it, likes that it puts him one
step farther away from who he used to be. “Okay then,” he finally says. “I
could use a new name.”
Happy just pours him another shot. “That’s the spirit, prospect.”
~*~
The bed that Juice comes to in the next morning is unfamiliar, but the sheets
are clean and the mattress is soft. He rolls over, groaning as his head thuds
with the movement, and makes a commitment to himself to never, ever do shots
with Happy again. He also has a faint memory of the guy with the accent and the
scars – he thinks he remembers him being called Chibs - coming back at some
point, and he’s pretty sure that that’s when the amber liquor started flowing,
but there is absolutely nothing after that. He rolls himself out of bed, head
pounding and mouth dry, sees a toilet through the one open door in the room and
stumbles to it. He’s pretty sure that he’s gonna be sick, but it passes and he
stands on watery knees to take long gulps from the sink faucet instead.
Once he’s fairly sure that he’s human again, he wanders back out to the bed,
sits down and takes stock. He’s wearing a black combat boot that he recognizes
as his own – the other foot is bare – sweatpants that he’s never seen in his
life, and a black t-shirt – inside out - that he’s fairly sure Happy had had on
at some point… well, earlier, as he’s not even sure what day it is right now.
He has no idea where his jeans or wallet are, but his smokes are on the
dresser, so he lights one – and Christ, it tastes like stale dogshit – and
drags himself out.
He finds the clubhouse proper fairly quickly through blind luck, but he
hesitates at the door for a long minute, half sure that either it’s going to be
empty and he’ll be left to slink away or – worse – it’ll be full of guys who’ll
tell him to leave, and he’ll have to make the long ride back to Weed, to the
every-day-is-the-same life there. He struggles with it for a minute, then
realizes that Ambrose is the bright spot in that scenario, and pushes through
the door.
~*~
He stands there, dazed, cries of “Prospect!” singing in his ears. Chibs – he’s
pretty sure, anyway – and Happy are holding up shot glasses in his direction –
and fucking really, how long was he out? – and Jax is grinning in front of him,
holding up a leather cut. “We voted last night, after you passed out.”
There’s nothing on it except the Prospect rocker and MC patch on the back, and
a Prospect patch on the front over the left pocket, but Juice accepts it
happily.
Jax pulls him into a rough dude-hug, wraps his hand behind Juice’s head and
tugs his ear close. “This means something,” he says, low. “Your blood family,
your home town – all that shit moves back a row. Once you’re patched, the
members are your family, this charter is your home. All you are now is the
Club, and the Sons always come first, no matter what, and we’ll always have
your back in return.”
JC – Juice, it’s Juice now, JC is dead and buried and gone with the others, new
life, new identity – thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.
~*~
(Now)
Chibs finds himself nodding along with this last bit of the story; he remembers
at least part of that night better than Juice, and tells him as much, does a
little story-telling of his own.
~*~
(2007)
The business with McKeevey, finalizing the latest shipment details, takes most
of the day, and Juice – JC then, he supposes – is already well on the way to
knackered across the bar from Happy, who’s lining up more shots. That’s a
confusing enough sight to bring Chibs up short. Happy is who they borrow when
prospects need terrorizing; playing bartender for them, let alone before
they’ve even been voted in, is really not his style. Bobby catches him taking
in the scene and shakes his head mournfully. “Gonna have some work to do on
this one, can’t hold his liquor for shit.”
“I miss the vote?” Chibs asks, somewhat befuddled.
“Nah,” Tig answers, coming up on Chibs’s shoulder and watching the prospective
prospect with a hint of suspicion. Chibs figures it’s a fair guess that Tig
won’t accept this JC lad until Clay consents to him as a prospect himself. “But
it’s about time we had another prospect, and we can just give him the boot if
he fucks up, right? Happy’s been pouring tequila in him all day, and when do we
need an excuse to party?”
Chibs’s reply gets pre-empted by the thud of JC hitting the floor in a heap and
the resulting howls of laughter. “Prospect down!” Jax shouts, and Happy throws
his arms up in the air in a rare and bizarre display of victory.
Chibs feels like he’s stepped into the Twilight Zone.
Jax and Happy set about gathering the lad up and manhandling him back towards
the dorm, presumably to pour him into a bed, and Chibs takes the opportunity to
help himself to two of the shots left on the bar while everyone’s waiting for
Clay to turn up and call them to Church. It seems as though the vote is going
to be a formality, given the jovial atmosphere, and Chibs… Chibs is looking
forward to having the lad around. His ride – an Indian, not an everyday bike,
either – certainly indicates he knows his way around a bike better than the
average Tom, Dick or Harry. If he’s remotely as good with computers, which is
something the Club needs even more than another grease monkey, then this lad
could be golden. With Jax giving the tentative go-ahead already, and fucking
Happy apparently taking a shine to him, yeah, Chibs would put money on this
vote being a formality.
If there’s anything more, he’s not examining it too closely, yet.
Clay picks that moment to make his entrance and call them in for Church, and
Chibs hangs back, waiting for Jax and Happy to reemerge. They come back from
the dorm area sniggering like a pair of hooligans on a narrow miss from the
cops. “He’s gonna be so fucking confused,” Jax chuckles, giving Happy a last
thump on the shoulder before they make their way to the table. Happy isn’t
voting, being SAMTAC and visiting on a run from up north, but takes his
customary spot in the corner to observe.
“Alright,” Clay barks, bringing them to order with the rap of the gavel, “Jax
found a puppy, we need a prospect. Jax?”
Jax shrugs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Look, this is a little unusual;
I know we generally get our prospects from guys who have been hanging around a
while and who we have a pretty good feel for already before even thinking of
prospecting them, but this JC guy – Juice – comes… highly recommended.”
Chibs wonders what that’s about; nearly all Sons mechanical work takes place in
charter or charter-approved garages, and they all know everyone already. No one
has mentioned a JC, or anyone who would have those initials. Jax is the only
one who knows anything about computers other than the tiny amount Chibs does,
and between the two of them, they can almost get one to print invoices.
Almost.
Somehow, Chibs can’t see Jacky-Boy with a lot of connections in the hacking
community, or whatever they like to call themselves.
“Who?” Tig asks, but Jax just shakes his head.
“Doesn’t matter other than he’s a member in good standing.”
Chibs can feel Tig tensing beside him, readying some kind of argument, but
Clay, surprisingly enough, is the one to wave him off, and Jax continues when
Tig backs off with ill grace. “He’s got one hell one of a bike that he’s been
restoring the past few years, and she sounds as good anything you’d want to
hear, so we can use him in the garage. He also says he’s good with computers,
and we all know that’s something we’ve been needing, badly.”
There’s a general murmur of assent around the table.
“Can he shoot?” Tig is still sulking a little, though Chibs knows some of it’s
for show. For whom is a mystery, as the lad’s not in here to be intimidated.
“Didn’t ask. If he can’t, we’ll teach him, if he doesn’t wanna learn, he goes,”
Jax offers, and Clay nods in agreement. Chibs is glad Jacky-Boy’s in that seat;
there’s usually about a 50/50 or slightly better of Clay listening when he
suggests a more moderate approach to something.
“Alright, then. All in favor?”
Everyone’s hand goes up, and SAMCRO gets a new prospect.
~*~
(Now)
“Don’t remember a whole lot after that, just that you missed your own vote-in
party and slept through most of the next day,” Chibs teases when Juice ducks
his head against his shoulder, trying to hide his red cheeks.
“They fucked with my clothes, didn’t they?”
It takes Chibs a moment to work out what the question is, muffled as it is
against his shoulder, and he’s not entirely sure how to answer, now. He’d
always thought that was the case, but now he’s remembering Happy, and how Happy
hadn’t been on any of the couches or the pool table or bar or anywhere else
when Chibs had gotten up himself. He had come out of the bathroom a moment
later and tipped his head at Chibs by way of greeting, though, so it probably
didn’t mean anything.
He shoves the thought away – no sense dwelling on it – and slides his hand over
the ink between Juice’s shoulders, just enjoying the warm skin under his palm.
“Lucky ye didn’t wake up with dicks drawn all over yer face, passin’ out that
early.”
Juice huffs out a laugh and pulls back enough to look up at Chibs, eyes blurred
with drowsiness. “So that’s it, then.”
And it’s tempting to ask the niggling questions left in the wake of all of
Juice’s words, did you and Happy or didn’t you, what about this Eva lassie, she
sounds right lovely – and he remembers her now, Juice bringing her around some
in the early days – but there’s no point to it tonight. He thinks maybe they’ve
both had about as much truth as they can stand in one sitting, and his own eyes
are gritty with fatigue. He gives Juice the option anyway. “Aye, Juicy, ‘less
you’ve got any more skeletons need airing.”
Juice shakes his head, holding Chibs’s eyes before leaning in to press a chaste
kiss to the corner of Chibs’s mouth. Chibs can’t detect anything hidden there,
just some mixture of relief and sleepiness, and tips his head to rest his
forehead against Juice’s. “Let’s get some shuteye, then, aye?”
Nodding again, Juice pulls away to shut off the lights while Chibs draws the
sheets back and climbs in, scarcely able to contain his pleased sigh as he
settles into the softness, warmed by their bodies.
“Night,” Juice mumbles from his side of the bed, and it makes sense now, how no
matter what they get up to as far as sex and kink, the lad has boundaries in
sleep that Chibs has learned to carefully observe. Juice had nearly nearly
cold-cocked him the first time Chibs had spent the night and reached out for a
warm body in uninformed slumber.
A lot of things make sense now, and if Chibs wishes they could make sense in
any fucking other way, there’s nothing he can do about that – history, and all.
But he finds himself watching Juice, the outline of his shoulders faintly
visible in a sliver of moonlight sneaking in through the blinds, and wondering
if the lad will be there in the morning, if, with all of this ugliness
unearthed, he’ll feel too exposed and vulnerable now and run.
The idea burns worse than his current level of tiredness.
“You think too loudly.” Juice’s voice, though quiet, is sudden enough in the
silence to shock Chibs out of his reverie. “This is what I was worried about.”
And this, perhaps as much anything else this night, is a moment of truth. If
Chibs flubs the words, the lad will, at best, turn away, try to just be Juice,
the SAMCRO hacker and wrenchman and occasional fuck-up, to whom Chibs is just
another brother in the club. That’s probably the absolute best case scenario if
he doesn’t get this right, or close enough to it for Juice to fill in the
blanks on his own.
He keeps landing on unadorned truth; results may vary, reaction-wise, but in
his experience, it creates fewer complications later. “No, Juicy,” he says,
equally quiet, “not the way you’re worried about. Jus’ don’ want to wake up wi’
you gone.” Whatever the outcome, he owes Juice this bit of honesty, he thinks,
to do with as he wishes.
He can feel Juice’s eyes on him in the darkness, can almost hear the lad’s
wheels turning; now he’s the one thinking too loudly. Chibs takes it, though,
looks back steadily and waits for Juice to come to a decision.
It surprises him when, instead of answering, there’s the rustle of sheets and
dip of the mattress as Juice slides closer, then, with only a hint of
hesitation, turns on his side to press his back up to Chibs’s front.
Slowly, half-disbelieving, Chibs drops an arm over Juice’s waist and relaxes a
little when Juice grabs his hand, winding their fingers together. “Can’t
promise I won’t punch you,” he slurs out, already drifting again, which is huge
on its own. “But not goin’ anywhere. Wanna try – ” He drops off then, letting
out a soft snore.
Chibs thinks he gets it, anyway, pushes his nose to the back of the lad’s neck
and lets his scent lull him to sleep, daring to hope that this will all somehow
work out okay.
That he can have this, and that he can keep it.
(End)
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