The grim besmirching his countenance came as a result of the purity of his own stupidity, and as such, it’s his belief that blame lies solely on his shoulders. Her agitation, however touching, hardly benefits the both of them. ❝Know how t’ Sandy Row boys ge’. Loyalists, t’ lot’a ‘em. ‘s my fault, y’know.❞
His words earn gelid expression thrown in his direction, the facade only attenuated by her concern for him. It was in his nature to let the burden and blame fall solely on his shoulders, but nothers. However a huff of acceptance leaves her and while it brings her no joy to abandon her quest for retribution for him she will. Settling beside him, the dilapidated mattress compressing beneath her added weight; she rests a hand on his shoulders. A meager attempt at comfort, but she fears that anything else might cause him unnecessary pain. ❝An bhfuil aon ní de dhíth ort?❞
❝Y’re ah bloody awful liar.❞ There’s a hint of agitation lacing her tone, not with him but rather the situation. Seeing him like this sets her on edge and the way that he simply brushes it off isn’t helping in the least. ❝Tá mé ag dul chun iad a mharú.❞
He felt disgustingly weak in that moment. It was as if he was no better than some floundering, foolish child, allowing himself to get worked up because someone had torn the rug out from beneath him. But this was no normal rug, just as much as it wasn’t an occasion to be seen as typical. Chibs is no stranger to violence and brutality; he had been a witness to it from a young age all the way up till now, and a participant since his later teenage years. But there was something which rocked even him to the core, and that was barbarity exerted on his brothers. He himself could dish it to others a thousand times over and not bat an eye; but as his fingers had clutched the seamless edges of the tablet they’d been provided, his stomach had churned, and he couldn’t fight the tears which welled and the wobble in his knees. Tig had been there, a stable pillar which embraced him in a one armed grip, but that had ended soon after and took place five hours ago. He had quieted into numbness, his surroundings but a blur, but as soon as he was alone that had changed. Chibs wasn’t quite sure how he got here, he didn’t remember navigating to her home, and it’d really only dawned on him once he’d neared her front door. Her attempt at humor was lost on him, however, as he drew in once more a breath which only amounted to nothing, and that hand which had been pounding moved to instead grip the door frame with an almost desperate air, as if it were the only thing holding him up. He’s pathetic, he knows he is, but he couldn’t help it. He needed her.
❝Is gá dom— ah…ah need’a drink.❞ Filling himself to his eyeballs with alcohol had always been his misguided form of therapy, and he didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know if he could enter.
❝Teacht i…. come in, ge’ ou’ ah th'cold.❞ Taking in his appearance with a grimace, she can’t help but wonder what it is that has him almost unable to stand on his own accord. Maybe she’s afraid to ask; afraid to see him break down, because she’s worried enough about him as it is. Worried about his business with the club, worried about the violence spilling onto the streets and worried more than anything about Filip getting caught in the crossfire. It’s selfish, she’s more than aware of that fact. Expecting… no hoping that he might outlive his brothers because she needs him like she needs air, she’s never been able to function right without his guiding hand. She reaches out for him, tentatively —-unsure of whether or not he wants to be touched at the moment. But despite her better judgement she moves in anyways, slipping her arms around his midsection and pulling him against her. She doesn’t speak, she simply keeps him locked in her embrace engulfed in silence. And she remains there with him for a moment before eventually pulling back to study his expression, concern taking over features. ❝Tá sé ag dul a bheith ceart go leor.❞ Her arm remains around him as a means of support and she leads him into her home, nodding in the direction of the couch.
❝Sit. Ah’ll ge’ ye ah drink. Migh’ have some whiskey lyin’ ‘round here somewhere.❞ She wants to ask him if he’s okay, he may not be inclined to share with her though and she’s not looking to add to his despair. But she also doesn’t want him to think that she’s not here for him to confide in. Whatever it is that he’s dealing with he doesn’t have to go through it in silence, and he doesn’t have to be alone. She’s here… always.
Trembling hands pressed to a wooden, misted door as fingers tore in uniform lines upon its pale, unmarked surface. He should not, could not bother her, interrupt her. It was past midnight. She shouldn’t have to deal with this, he thought. It isn’t her problem. Her load. Isn’t her problem. It’s our problem. My problem. But here Chibs stood, a lonesome figure on an otherwise barren doorstep devoid of other individuals. His form was hunched, drawn and quivering just as much as flattened extremities were. His vision was blurred with what felt like acid, and he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. His chest, struggling against iron bars that were not there, swelled only to pause and hiccup before it all left him again. It was only after five long minutes which felt as if to be an eternity did his wearied body move, a fisted hand sliding across the door before it pounded once, twice, three times, and when no response came, his rough voice mustered the energy to produce a hoarse yell bordering a scream but not quite there, for it lacked heat and usual moxie.
❝——Alison!!❞
Sleep wasn’t something that came easily these days, it often evaded her somewhere between the m i n d l e s s worry and and sometimes debilitating anxiety that came with having an outlaw for a brother. But there were occasions –r a r e ones– in which she did manage to doze off; ( if only for a second. ) Tonight however, her blissful slumber was cut short and she awoke; a g r o a n of frustration catching in her throat as she rose from where she’d been nestled on the couch only moments ago. Lethargy was quickly replaced by concern upon realizing that her brother stood on the other sideof her front door ——– possiblyinjured, she couldn’t see any other reason for such an untimely visit. And maybe that thought made her heart skitter a bit; made her uneasy. But she forced it back down, steadying herself before pulling the door open to face him. Whatever state he might be in. ❝Y're gonnah wake th'dead wit’ yer yappin’.❞ It was a half -assed attempt at humor to disguise what she was truly feeling at the moment. Though she was quite relieved to find her brother in one piece it seemed his affliction was an emotional one and that in itself was a reason to worry given the fact that her brother usually kept those emotions in check, under lock and key.
❝Always.❞ It was, without thinking or meaning it, a response he had spoken to Fiona months ago to reply to a very similar request from when they had traveled to Ireland in pursuit of Abel ( and even then, the day’s outcome hadn’t been bright). His brown gaze followed the path of her hand briefly before flicking back towards her face, expression caught between a sudden somberness and an unexpected weariness, chasing away the amusement that reigned supreme previously. He is aware of his significance to her, acutely so, but it was an unfortunate truth that he couldn’t allow that to impact his decisions. The club is his responsibility first and foremost, while personal connections take the next rung beneath it. ❝An’ no, couldn’t imagine it.❞
She knew very well that there was little truth behind his words, they were simply a means of keeping his sister sane for the time being. Because Filip was reckless, especially when it came to protecting his family. There was nothing she could do to change that —-and frankly she didn’t want to. This club, this life… he seemed to be made for it and she just had to trust that his brothers would keep him safe when the shit hit the fan. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t still be the doting, overbearing, mother-like figure behind closed doors, even if it was just to irritate the holy hell out of him. ❝Ye oughtae eat somet'ing if ye plan on headin’ ou’ t'day. Doin’ wha'ever it is ye boys do… savin’ pups from trees an’ wha'not.❞
❝C’n be at times, sister. Jus’ don’ realize it.❞ That’s the way it is nowadays—the older generation’s still got the monopoly in the outlaw world. He’s younger than Tig & Bobby. Gemma, for what it’s worth, Nero. Alvarez, even. But in some distant part of his mind, he knows it’d do him good to step back and take a breather, but he also knows that isn’t a possibility that’s really on the table. He couldn’t picture it, anyways—he’s been at this for a little over decades, he’s not good for much else. And at her gesture, he’d glanced down before looking up again. ❝Wha’, these? Jus’ a few bruises.❞
❝Wouldn’ have me any other way t'ough, would ye deartháir?❞ Something that resembles a smile touches her lips and she steps forward, tentatively reaching out to brush her fingers over the marks just above his temple. He most likely thought her overprotective, and she couldn’t deny that she was. Filip was the only thing she had left, the one who throughout her childhood put himself in between her and harms way. Was it not time that she returned the favor? After everything the two had managed to survive… he couldn’t be done in by this. ❝Jus’ be careful eh? Can’ very well go on livin’ wit'out ye.❞
❝Aye, aye, ‘eard it all b’fore. Doin’ fine lately, though.❞ Well, not really. Almost being blown up and fucking with Hitler’s Youth, as Jax put it, almost other things isn’t exactly ‘fine, ‘ but that’s beside the point. ❝Jus’ keep waitin’ fer ye ta gimme a call an’ make me check in every couple’a hours.❞
❝M'no’ tha’ bad, I jus’… care ‘bout ye s'all. Don' really help ease me mind when y’re comin’ home all wounded an’ shite.❞ She motioned to his new battle scars with a wave of her hand. Trying to brush it off though in reality she was not pleased at all about the state she sometimes found him in. He was getting too old to continue following this fast paced lifestyle.
what does she think of her brothers face scars and does she have her own scars?
Filip’s scars will always be a sore spot for Ace. She never had the chance to see him before he was forced to leave Belfast, so being reunited with him to discover that Jimmy had disfigured him ——she was more or less horrified. Because the scars not only serve as a permanent reminder of what he lost and the life he’ll never have back in Ireland, they serve as a reminder to all she’s missed in his life. He could have died and she would have never known. But more than that she knows that he is the last person on the face of the earth that deserves a Glasgow smile because his loyalty knows no bounds. Aside from all the emotional shit that the scars bring up she thinks that they’re kinda badass and they fit him. They basically signify that he’s a survivor. No matter what life throws his way he’s stronger and capable of living through it.
[[ I’m gonna answer part two of this OOC for reasons. Ace has scars but nothing that’s like in your face the way Filip’s scars are but I have considered giving her a scar over her right eye (like Lena had in Dredd). It just made sense to me for some reason, but I’m still on the fence about it. ]]
Jax needs him. Bobby needs him. Rat needs him. Happy needs him. Rane needs him. Allesandro needs him. Tig needs him. And no where in those dependencies does ’SHOW YOUR HEART FOR THE MASSES ‘ spell itself it. He is, undoubtedly, one of the more sensitive brothers when it comes to the matter of being in tune with emotions. But they are displayed sparingly, and appropriately, and largely only to Jax. To allow the fleeing of a one JUAN CARLOS ORTIZ to weigh upon him as anything other than anger was— foolish. He felt like a child, not a grown man. Only those in adolescence would allow themselves to be so touched.
❝Can’ put m’self ‘fore t’ club, Alison. Ye know tha’.❞
He sounded tired. Weary. And he is. He had never thought that such chaos would fall upon them; it wore on an individual, filled them with thoughts and feelings and traits which were undesirable. The Sons would be the death of him, he knew, but he never thought that revenge’s thirst would endanger them so. He’d tear his own heart out and present it on a silver platter shall his president request it; it was no help that he felt as if he would not even make it to his next birthday atop everything else.
The club… she never quite understood the allure. Though she tried for the sake of her brother she could never really get her head around it. All the club had given her was a dead s o n and now a brother, who looked as if he was wasting away. Shoulders slumped with an exhaustion that bore deep in his bones. He had to know that this life meant his end —-and still he continued to fight. For his brothers, for this club. Willingly putting himself in the line of fire; it was selfish. At least in her mind, because he didn’t just have his brothers. Granted they’d given him a reason to live again when she couldn’t. After Belfast after losing Fiona and Kerrianne… for that she couldn’t repay them. But if keeping the club meant losing Filip… she couldn’t accept that.
❝Wha’ happens when ye die eh? Whaddae ye expec’ me t'do? M'no good a’ bein’ alone. An’ ye’ can’ expec’ me t'wait ‘round an’ watch ye die. I can’. I won’.❞
Now she was the one being selfish, she knew what SAMCRO meant to her brother, that his loyalty ran deep and there was nothing she could say or do to change that. Because SAMCRO was a part of him. Like a limb, or a lung, or something equally important. And he was the club’s heart. The only way he’d give this life up was when his heart stopped b e a t i n g.
