“She keeps the secret from Clary because she wants to keep her safe. And, um… there’s a lot of darkness involved in it, she doesn’t want her to go through what she went through, um… and wanted to live a ‘normal life’.” (Lena Headey)
He’d been tired for years. His exhaustion lagged behind him persistently, a looming presence never more than a few steps away. It weighted on him—there was rarely a moment in which his mind stopped, gears turning in an over eager fervor. In the privacy of his home his hands shook, and he often spent seconds, minutes, hours staring at nothing. The walls, the floor, dismantled pistols on his living room table and various decorations which transformed the space into a queer mixture of quaint reminders of where his roots lay, and the life he’s embraced for the last two and a half decades. In the back of his mind, he knew tranquility was something he’d never experience. The concept was shoved into a box, duct taped and labeled ‘ unattainable‘ to be left alone, and he was fine with that—preferred it, even. Life was easier when unfortunate details that had long worked themselves into the norm were dismissed as little more than permanent inconveniences.
Alison’s stress was no trivial thing to him; it was a thought he had long pondered over, considered, tossed around in his mind over lonely bottles of beer and whiskey, and it troubled him. America had been an out to him, a necessary move encouraged, if not required, due to tense relations in a country that wasn’t even his own. Even after she had been freed from her oppressors, he had never expected her to follow him. It made sense—he should have expected it, but didn’t. Perhaps it was because he hoped the new life he had taken up in a country he had no love for would leave hers untouched, would fail to reach out and swallow her in its invasive tendrils. They were two sides of the same coin separated in age by the same number, and where one went, the other was never too far behind. In some ways, he had hoped she’d stay behind. With Fiona, with Kerrianne, his girls that weren’t really his any longer. Padraic, too, before SAMBEL had ruined that and left him cradling his nephew’s body, a story he never elaborated on despite her curiosity.
❝Was thinkin’ tha’ he needed a lesson in respect, an’ m’ temper let me be tae only one tha’ gave it.❞ he responded, his tone coarse and rough. It was an embarrassing thought, that he relied on his sister to rescue him. He should have called on his brothers, would have, if it wasn’t for the monetary costs. Reluctant to place unnecessary stress on their shoulders, blood was his last ditch option, and he had placed it on hers instead. ❝Alison—❞ A deep breath, a (trembling) sigh. ❝Ye don’ gottae involve yerself in tha’ part of my life, an’ it ain’t yer concern. ‘s two different realms, an’ ye know tha’. I’m president now—can’ afford to let myself get twisted up, an’ it don’t matter.❞ For him, at least. His health, his sanity, his being—he would sacrifice it without hesitation for them. ❝I gottae purpose, a duty. We do. Keepin’ tae club whole means more’n keepin’ myself whole. Keep enough care’a to stay functionin’.❞
A breath hitches itself within the confines of a constricted throat, silencing any protests that might s t a i n her lips. He’s obstinate ———— her brother, inflexible and she’s convinced that there’s nothing she can say to persuade him to slow down. She’s a broken record, whispering cliched melodies to fall on deaf ears. Alison knows where his l o y a l t i e s lie. Where they have always been. Brotherhood was like a blood bond and SAMCRO’s bond cut deeper than bone. It wasn’t a painful realization, for the most part Alison was proud of her brother and the way he continued to push forward even when he was running on empty. A weaker man would crumble beneath the debilitating weight. Fold under the pressure. Filip however, e n d u r e d. And whether she wanted to believe it or not, the Scot did better WITHOUT her.
Therewere a few brief seconds of uncertainty each day in which she contemplated returning back to Belfast. To allow her brother some s e m b l a n c e of peace from her persistent nagging, but Belfast wasn’t home. Belfast was a place that held somber memories, a place that had the potential to devour her whole. Nothing left there but an empty house, no husband, no son, no brother. Just four walls and a roof echoing back all the mistakes she’d made. Home was where the H E A R T was. And she had the good sense to leave her heart somewhere safe. In the short few months that she’d been here Charming felt more like home than Belfast ever had and it wasn’t her surroundings. It was the company. But should Filip ever ask her to leave ———— untangle herself from the SNARE that was his life, she would do so without complaint. Until then she would remain by his side. A fixed point. Steadfast. Stoic.
❝M’ alreadyinvolved whether ye like i’ or not. No changin’ tha’ now.❞ Shifting ( awkwardly ) from foot to foot, vehement fingers pick at the tender flesh of her lip until her tips are tinted red and the indistinct taste of copper touches her tongue. Absentmindedly wiping away any traces of the crimson liquid hardened eyes purposefully avoid his gaze. ❝Ye gottae duty t’yer brothers an’ ah gottae duty t’mine. M’no’ goin’ anywhere ———————— but ah’ll leave ye be from now on.❞ There’s a ( b r i e f ) pause. Again her breath hitches in her chest, caught somewhere in a feeble frame and UNYIELDING lungs. Filip is cautious —— she thinks. Not INVINCIBLE but damn near close to it and it’s not the first time the thought has crossed her mind, but she’d most likely meet her demise before the elder Telford anyway ( or so she hopes ). Canting her head toward the vehicle a weary expression adorns her face, digits clutching the handle of the car door and prying it open. ❝Let’s go…we gottae four hour drive ahead o’ us. Can’ imagine tha’ bein’ pleasant.❞
After missing one night of sleep, expect fatigue, reduced attention span and problems with short-term memory.
After missing 2 to 3 nights, one will also suffer poor coordination, muscle twitches, marked loss of concentration, impaired judgment, blurred vision, nausea, and slurring of speech. Often one will experience episodes of microsleep (briefly sleeping for a few seconds at a time, without being aware of it).
At about 4 to 5 days without sleep, expect extreme irritability, hallucinations, and delusional episodes.
After about 6 to 8 missed nights, add slowed speech, tremors in limb extremities, memory lapse, confusion concerning one’s own identity, unusual behavior, and paranoia to the list.
After 9 to 11 nights without sleep, fragmented thinking occurs (beginning sentences without completing them), and prolonged episodes of unresponsive “conscious stupor.”
His back ached, something he was acutely aware of, as he had been sat hunched or slumped against cool, ecru bricks for a number of hours now, finding the small bench too slim to comfortably lay down on. It was nothing he could protest against, he supposed, or find true issue in; he was here through his fault alone, and no one else’s. He had managed to grab a few scattered hours of sleep, however, leaned against a wall and perched on one leg, arms crossed over his chest. It was fitful and hardly translated to true rest, but he took it without complaint. He was due for a few Vicodin chased with whiskey, followed closely by lounging in their newly rebuilt clubhouse.
It was not till Chibs glanced up at hearing a familiar accent, however, that he saw her; his sister. She had came— promptly, and against his expectations. His own lips tilted into a frown, and his gaze returned to stationary bloods stained with something that may have been blood, or oil. Hard to tell against the dark leather. What was said next he didn’t hear, or rather, he paid no attention to——an exchange regarding his release, inquiry about the money (something only to the tune of $6,500 from his pocket), a confirmation. Grateful as he was that she had came through, he was near dreading the moment they stepped foot from the station. A pissed Alison is nothing pleasant.
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed—then, and only then, did the door to his temporary room find itself opened, and his personal items were returned to him. Wallet, knife, other possessions. Namely what he was looking forward to, his cigarettes. He was having a nicotine fit, and he was sure that was the only thing that’d make the decent sized car ride home worth it. That, and a quick burger, or something to the tune of decent food. He couldn’t be blamed for taking his sweet time in stopping beside her—in truth, he was downright apprehensive of even being near her, and he only offered two words once he drew to a stop. ❝Mòran taing.❞
❝Fadhb ar bith.❞ Tired words escape a clenched jaw, her hands sliding into the pockets of her jacket. It’s the only thing she can do to keep from cuffing him upside the head at this point ( though there’s no denying the urge to t e a r into him is strong ) and maybe if he hadn’t spent the last forty-eight hours in lock up she would gladly chew him up and s p i t him out. But she’s got a soft spot for the numpty and the fact of the matter is she’s more or less amused with the Scot. Putting distance between the two of them, like at any moment Alison would turn and strike. She nearly chuckled at the thought of her brother —— a man with five inches on her, who’d been shot at, cut up and left for dead, blown up, a true o u t l a w through and through —— fearing her rage. ❝Níl mé ag dul a bite.❞ The halfhearted remark holds little weight and she’s not sure if she’s trying to convince him or herself. Either way she continues on fishing her car keys out of her pocket. ❝Má bhí mé a ghortú leat, ba mhaith liom a bheith déanta air ar ais ann.❞ There’s a brief pause as she takes a breath and turns back to face him, mouth curving into a tawdry smirk. ❝Le finnéithe.❞
Analmost genuine laugh colors her vocal cords, it still carries f a i n t traces of acidity but it’s the best she can manage. ❝Oi, y’re an arsehole by th’way. Th’fuck were ye t’inking? Y’re on th’fast track t’leadin’ me t’an early grave… y’rself too.❞ Sleepless nights, constant waves of anxiety paired with a steady diet of caffeine and cigarettes wore her down to fragile bones. She’s not his mother, she’s more than aware of that. In fact she hasn’t been a mother for a number of years but she was her brother’s keeper. Whether she wanted the job or not. He’d been slapped with responsibility for her when they were children and perhaps that was the reason she was so set on keeping a close eye on Filip. Knowing that she’d unwittingly aided in the Scot’s lost childhood. Besides if Alison didn’t look after him who would? ( His brothers of course, but she couldn’t put her faith in those she didn’t know. ) ❝Is gá duit aire a thabhairt duit féin, Níl mé ag dul i gcónaí a bheith ann..❞
It’s never been more apparent to her that despite their similarities the younger Telford is not built for the world her brother is immersed in. That chapter of her life was far behind her now, behind her but not f o r g o t t e n. Not with such a persistent reminder. Someone dead or dying with each passing day and oneday it would be him. ❝Look... ah know how much th’club means t’ye, but I’m tired deartháir —— an’ ah can see it in th’way ye carry y’rself. Y’re tired too.❞
Communication had been dead for two days. Held up in a six by seven room of concrete, brick, and iron in Ashland, Oregon, he’d no doubt his disappearance had caused a sizable amount of bewilderment within the Sons ranks. Vanishing without word hardly lent to peace of mind, and he’d no doubt he’d meet a considerable amount of chastisement once he returned to Charming’s borders. More pressing than anything else, Alison surfaced to his mind, and the panic she may or may not have felt. Calls hadn’t been allowed until a few hours previously; six, he thinks. Nearly four and a half hours away from home, he’d no confidence his sister would surface any time soon.
Rough hands working over his face Chibs sat in relative silence, hunched on the holding cell’s only bench hardly fit for the two men that had been inside—his company had left the previous day. Instructions provided to her had been rather simple: retrieve a number of thousands from the safe in his bedroom, attach his trailer from his backyard to her car, and travel up to get him. There was a hope she would arrive soon, but knowing her, she’d drag it out as long as she could for punishment.
There was a bitterness that laced Alison’s tone, a pinch of hostility and annoyance spat into her phone’s receiver. Obscenities that may have been the product of lack of sleep and a nauseating amount of worry fell on the ears of the older Telford, who sat in a cell four hours away. She could have been more understanding fact was trouble always found Filip whether he sought it out or not, but understanding was not in the cards today. The last two days were spent pacing her apartment, waiting for something —- any indication that her brother was still alive —- but nothing came. For a moment she’d even contemplated filing a missing persons report, sure contacting the authorities went against everything she believed in and everything she’d been taught, but for Filip she’d do just about anything. It was funny how quickly lines would blur when her brother was involved. There was no sense of right or wrong, just an overwhelming need to protect him that outweighed that pesky little moral compass.
Nicotine stained digits found the bridge of her nose, applying pressure to ease the steady ache that made it’s home in her skull. Several hours —- and several traffic violations —- later she found herself at her destination, dragging her feet just a bit as she made her way into the precinct. She was half tempted to drag it out, leave him to worry and suffer like she had. A petty attempt at revenge, but at this point she just wanted him home and safe. Maybe that was the mother in her, despite the fact that Filip was Alison’s elder she still found herself fussing over him and she’d probably have it out with him once they were back in the confines of her vehicle.
Eyeing his weary figure her lips twisted into something that resembled a frown. It wasn’t her first time in a jailhouse and she was certain it wouldn’t be the last. But there was just something about seeing him behind bars —- like some sort of common criminal —- that didn’t sit right with her. Because she held him in such high regard, because at times like this she could see the weight this lifestyle put on his shoulders. He was only human. As she approached the front desk, fiddling with the envelope of cash in her hands she quietly motioned to the Scot with a tilt of her head depositing the envelope before her. “M’here t’bail out th’prick wit’ th’accent.”
