Child {Chibs/Tig}
Title: Child
Fandom: Sons of Anarchy
Pairing: Chibs/Tig
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,175
Summary: Tig knows that he shouldn't be worried about Chibs, but he just can't help it.
A/N: Written for prompt #9: caring, Table Eight - Misc. B (12_stories). Dedicated to the awesomeness that is synnerxx. ♥
The first thing Tig notices when Chibs steps into the bedroom is how messed up he looks. His leather jacket is stained with wet earth; Tig scrunches up his nose at the obvious smell. The soles of his boots leave unpleasant yellow soil all over the old carpet as Chibs makes his way to the bathroom.
Tig remains on the bed, scratching absently at his bare stomach, raising an eyebrow at how ignored he feels right then. He had thought that, upon his return, Chibs would tackle him to the bed without a moment's notice and ravage him.
Tig glances over at the bucket filled with ice and cans of beer sitting on the floor by the bedside. With a quiet sigh, he rises to his feet and pokes his head into the bathroom.
"Yo." He grins as Chibs looks up, seeing Tig's reflection in the mirror, but upon spotting the busted lip Chibs has, Tig instantly frowns. "The fuck happened, man? Got beaten up or somethin'?" He comes up behind Chibs and leans in, scrutinizing the blood oozing out from the angry, swollen cut. He swallows, trying to contain himself as he snatches up a piece of tissue and pats away at Chibs' bottom lip.
"I can do it myself," Chibs murmurs, taking the tissue and pushing Tig's hand away with a grunt. "It ain't like I'm some kid who needs some nanny to take care of 'em."
Tig shrugs, a little hurt at his comment. "Was just tryin' to help, man. Ain't nothin' wrong with that, right?"
"I ain't a kid, Tig."
"Right." Tig takes one last look at Chibs, at the way his muscles flex under his bare skin, before he returns to the bedroom. He plops down onto the bed and stretches his arms and legs across the mattress like it's all his. Blindly, he fumbles around on the nightstand and, upon having the packet of cigarettes in his hand, lights a smoke and takes a long drag. The taste of tobacco is calming to his nerves, soothes the anxiety that has been creeping up behind him since the moment Chibs disappeared from his line of sight.
Tig had insisted Clay to assign him the task of taking out the Mayans, to give Chibs a helping hand, but Clay said that he preferred Tig here at the clubhouse. Said that he might need Tig if he were to embark on a mission of his own. But he didn't do anything of the sort today save for tending to Gemma's needs and looking through paperwork and records.
And Tig was left to wonder whether Chibs was doing all right. Tig knows that he shouldn't be worrying about Chibs at all. Chibs is almost as good as him in terms of combat skills and handling firearms. To worry about him is almost like spitting upon his skills. Tig doesn't mean it, but he just can't help it. He knows that he should never tell Chibs. The Scotsman would no doubt berate him, assuming that Tig is seeing him as a "kid" rather than the qualified killer that he actually is.
But it's hard. Tig can't remember the last time he worried about someone like this. Hell, he hardly ever worries about himself, much less anyone else.
The bathroom door comes to a quiet shut. Tig looks up almost automatically, only to find Chibs there clad in nothing but Tig's old towel that he had hung in the bathroom earlier after his shower. Chibs tosses his clothes into the laundry basket by the door and settles down beside Tig.
"Want a smoke?" Tig offers him the cigarette. Chibs leans in close and takes the tip of the cig into his mouth. He breathes in, eyes drifting to a close, a content little smile quirking the corners of his lips.
Tig watches, frozen to the spot as he feels the strain against the front of his jeans. He blinks, knocking himself out of his sudden trance just as Chibs blows out a thin, swirling trail of smoke. Tig breathes it in, knowing that it's bad for his lungs, and takes a drag of his own to calm his jumpy nerves.
The anxiety is still there even though Chibs is back. He doesn't get it. He has hoped that it would be gone by the time Chibs returns. It's a feeling that he hates with all his being. Because of it, he can't eat, he can't sleep. All he can do is drug himself with alcohol and tobacco and await the return of the one person who can put his soul to rest.
But even with Chibs' return, his heart is still racing against time, thumping against the wall of his chest, threatening to burst through skin and bone, flesh and blood.
"How did it go, Chibs?" Tig avoids his eyes, fixing his stare upon the laundry basket, upon the leather jacket that he often presses up to his nose so that he can be lulled to sleep by the bitter, intoxicating scent of the Scotsman.
"It went all right." The reply, so curt, so straightforward, annoys Tig. He can feel Chibs' stare on him, piercing holes into his being, trying to see through him. Before he can break under Chibs' scrutiny, he locks eyes with him, glares at him.
"I'm concerned, okay? Is that wrong, Chibs? Don't you give me that bullshit 'bout it bein' a clean kill 'cause when it comes down to it, killin' is never clean. It can be a fuckin' beautiful thing, but it ain't never clean. Tell me how the fuck you got someone all in your face, tell me how you got that fuckin' cut on your goddamn lip, Chibs, 'fore I rip it right off your face."
Chibs stares at him, eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then he grins and lets out a chuckle. Not a cynical, mocking one, but rather an amused one. Tig draws back, wondering just what he had said that's so entertaining. As far as he's concerned, he had only slipped in silent threats under his words. Unless Chibs thinks that having his head loped off is funny, Tig really can't see the humour in this.
With a grunt, Chibs turns around and, grasping Tig's shoulders, pins him down to the bed.
"For the last time, I ain't a wee lad no more. I can take care of myself." Chibs jabs Tig's temple. "Get that through yer square head, ye bastard."
"You're the bastard, bastard," Tig hisses, bracing his hands against Chibs' chest. "It ain't like I want to wor-" He's cut off by a surprised moan that leaves him against his own accord when he feels Chibs' large hand cup his balls. He swallows, sweat already gathering on his neck, feeling the restrained desire burning bright within him as he sees his hunger reflected in Chibs' eyes.
"Right," he says under his breath as Chibs bends down and licks the few beads of perspiration from his neck, "you ain't no goddamn kid."
Fandom: Sons of Anarchy
Pairing: Chibs/Tig
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,175
Summary: Tig knows that he shouldn't be worried about Chibs, but he just can't help it.
A/N: Written for prompt #9: caring, Table Eight - Misc. B (12_stories). Dedicated to the awesomeness that is synnerxx. ♥
The first thing Tig notices when Chibs steps into the bedroom is how messed up he looks. His leather jacket is stained with wet earth; Tig scrunches up his nose at the obvious smell. The soles of his boots leave unpleasant yellow soil all over the old carpet as Chibs makes his way to the bathroom.
Tig remains on the bed, scratching absently at his bare stomach, raising an eyebrow at how ignored he feels right then. He had thought that, upon his return, Chibs would tackle him to the bed without a moment's notice and ravage him.
Tig glances over at the bucket filled with ice and cans of beer sitting on the floor by the bedside. With a quiet sigh, he rises to his feet and pokes his head into the bathroom.
"Yo." He grins as Chibs looks up, seeing Tig's reflection in the mirror, but upon spotting the busted lip Chibs has, Tig instantly frowns. "The fuck happened, man? Got beaten up or somethin'?" He comes up behind Chibs and leans in, scrutinizing the blood oozing out from the angry, swollen cut. He swallows, trying to contain himself as he snatches up a piece of tissue and pats away at Chibs' bottom lip.
"I can do it myself," Chibs murmurs, taking the tissue and pushing Tig's hand away with a grunt. "It ain't like I'm some kid who needs some nanny to take care of 'em."
Tig shrugs, a little hurt at his comment. "Was just tryin' to help, man. Ain't nothin' wrong with that, right?"
"I ain't a kid, Tig."
"Right." Tig takes one last look at Chibs, at the way his muscles flex under his bare skin, before he returns to the bedroom. He plops down onto the bed and stretches his arms and legs across the mattress like it's all his. Blindly, he fumbles around on the nightstand and, upon having the packet of cigarettes in his hand, lights a smoke and takes a long drag. The taste of tobacco is calming to his nerves, soothes the anxiety that has been creeping up behind him since the moment Chibs disappeared from his line of sight.
Tig had insisted Clay to assign him the task of taking out the Mayans, to give Chibs a helping hand, but Clay said that he preferred Tig here at the clubhouse. Said that he might need Tig if he were to embark on a mission of his own. But he didn't do anything of the sort today save for tending to Gemma's needs and looking through paperwork and records.
And Tig was left to wonder whether Chibs was doing all right. Tig knows that he shouldn't be worrying about Chibs at all. Chibs is almost as good as him in terms of combat skills and handling firearms. To worry about him is almost like spitting upon his skills. Tig doesn't mean it, but he just can't help it. He knows that he should never tell Chibs. The Scotsman would no doubt berate him, assuming that Tig is seeing him as a "kid" rather than the qualified killer that he actually is.
But it's hard. Tig can't remember the last time he worried about someone like this. Hell, he hardly ever worries about himself, much less anyone else.
The bathroom door comes to a quiet shut. Tig looks up almost automatically, only to find Chibs there clad in nothing but Tig's old towel that he had hung in the bathroom earlier after his shower. Chibs tosses his clothes into the laundry basket by the door and settles down beside Tig.
"Want a smoke?" Tig offers him the cigarette. Chibs leans in close and takes the tip of the cig into his mouth. He breathes in, eyes drifting to a close, a content little smile quirking the corners of his lips.
Tig watches, frozen to the spot as he feels the strain against the front of his jeans. He blinks, knocking himself out of his sudden trance just as Chibs blows out a thin, swirling trail of smoke. Tig breathes it in, knowing that it's bad for his lungs, and takes a drag of his own to calm his jumpy nerves.
The anxiety is still there even though Chibs is back. He doesn't get it. He has hoped that it would be gone by the time Chibs returns. It's a feeling that he hates with all his being. Because of it, he can't eat, he can't sleep. All he can do is drug himself with alcohol and tobacco and await the return of the one person who can put his soul to rest.
But even with Chibs' return, his heart is still racing against time, thumping against the wall of his chest, threatening to burst through skin and bone, flesh and blood.
"How did it go, Chibs?" Tig avoids his eyes, fixing his stare upon the laundry basket, upon the leather jacket that he often presses up to his nose so that he can be lulled to sleep by the bitter, intoxicating scent of the Scotsman.
"It went all right." The reply, so curt, so straightforward, annoys Tig. He can feel Chibs' stare on him, piercing holes into his being, trying to see through him. Before he can break under Chibs' scrutiny, he locks eyes with him, glares at him.
"I'm concerned, okay? Is that wrong, Chibs? Don't you give me that bullshit 'bout it bein' a clean kill 'cause when it comes down to it, killin' is never clean. It can be a fuckin' beautiful thing, but it ain't never clean. Tell me how the fuck you got someone all in your face, tell me how you got that fuckin' cut on your goddamn lip, Chibs, 'fore I rip it right off your face."
Chibs stares at him, eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then he grins and lets out a chuckle. Not a cynical, mocking one, but rather an amused one. Tig draws back, wondering just what he had said that's so entertaining. As far as he's concerned, he had only slipped in silent threats under his words. Unless Chibs thinks that having his head loped off is funny, Tig really can't see the humour in this.
With a grunt, Chibs turns around and, grasping Tig's shoulders, pins him down to the bed.
"For the last time, I ain't a wee lad no more. I can take care of myself." Chibs jabs Tig's temple. "Get that through yer square head, ye bastard."
"You're the bastard, bastard," Tig hisses, bracing his hands against Chibs' chest. "It ain't like I want to wor-" He's cut off by a surprised moan that leaves him against his own accord when he feels Chibs' large hand cup his balls. He swallows, sweat already gathering on his neck, feeling the restrained desire burning bright within him as he sees his hunger reflected in Chibs' eyes.
"Right," he says under his breath as Chibs bends down and licks the few beads of perspiration from his neck, "you ain't no goddamn kid."