ididwhatwithwho | (no subject)

Cigarette between his lips and a lighter in his hand, he steps through the door, leaving Chibs and Half-Sack behind to clean up the fucking mess. Being VP gives him a little bit of privilege. Not much, and they'd never let him get away with abusing it, but he's proved more than once he knows how to get down and dirty with the best of them. He tucks his hair back behind his ears and saunters up to the bar for a shot.

Fucking Mayans. Fucking Clay. Fucking Wendy. Fucking everyone and everything. There's a fresh slash on his left cheekbone, but it stopped bleeding somewhere around San Leandro. He swipes at it, idly, and knocks back the shot before he stops to look around.

He nods to the lady with the...

Yeah, with the necklace. How the hell do tops like that even stay on?

The man who walks in and stands beside her is certainly rougher around the edges than Willy Silver. This one looks like a working man, no hint of nobility about him, no vague air of the court. The cut on his cheek is clearly a new wound, but one he does not seem particularly concerned with.

He nods to her, however, and she is courteous enough to nod back over her wine.

Finally, he lights his smoke and takes a deep drag. Shit, what a night. The shot glass meets a nearby table's surface. He leaves it there, rubs the space above his lip with the side of his hand, and lets out a line of smoke.

"Hey," he tells the lady with the dark hair and the ridiculous top. The Samcro reaper stands out on the back of his kutte and in this light, his sneakers look even more bright white than normal. He stuffs a hand into one of his pockets. "What place is this?"

There's only a million places to grab a drink between San Leandro and Charming and even though it's never been a stated goal that he's gotta visit them all, he's no stranger to most of them.

She eyes the smoke that escapes his mouth. "If this place has a name I do not know it."

'Tis a strange thing to be forced to acknowledge, but there are no signs and it never came up before now. In retrospect, it seems like an excellent question and she should have asked someone herself.

"I have only been here a few times, and no one has ever mentioned it."

All right, so she doesn't know either, no big deal. With a careless shrug, he moves toward her. The rings he wears catch the light as he holds his hand out to her by way of introduction.

"Jax," he says. "You got a name?"

This man -- Jax, he says, and quite a name it is -- is definitely not the sort who will kiss her hand. What she has seen to be more common here is a shake of the hand, and that seems far more likely in this case.

"Morrigan." She offers her hand to him, aiming for a grip and not a courtly presentation of knuckles. If people must grab each other's hands upon greeting, she definitely prefers this option. "And where did you come here from, Jax?"

Her hand is soft, but not so soft he's gotta imagine she sits on her ass all day not doing a damn thing. That's good. Taking a moment, he looks at her eyes. They match that top she's wearing.

It's a good trick. Ma would appreciate this lady's fashion sense.

"Where was I?" The question puts a grin on his face. Taking over for Opie wasn't the smartest thing he ever did, but fuck it, he got the job done. With a few minor mishaps along the way. He knew there was gonna be killing, but he didn't know he was gonna be the one to... well, it doesn't matter, and he's about as far away from San Leandro as he's gonna get, at least unscathed.

"Stopped up on 580, not too far out of town. How come you want to know?" If she's a cop, he's gonna kill himself now and get it over with. Then when his kid goes, they can spend all their time together, just the two of 'em. Father and son, or at least how he imagines it oughtta be.

Her hand falls back to her side. If his question is an accusation, then it is a mild one.

"Curiosity," she answers simply enough. "I am not familiar with the area."

'Twould be nice to remain thought of as a stranger -- a foreigner, perhaps -- rather than someone entirely ignorant of her surroundings. Still, 580? What can that mean?

Whatever it is, it is apparently not too far out of town.

Oh, he gets it now. She's not some fed, just a visitor. Ducking his head, he shakes it one time before looking up and giving her a grin. "Morrigan, right?" He's pretty sure that's what she called herself. "Didn't mean to assume you knew the place."

If she doesn't know the area, though, how did she end up... well, it doesn't matter. He didn't expect to walk into a full-blown party either, so pointing fingers isn't gonna help anything or anyone.

"Some days," he says, and lets the words sit there between them for a minute without any explanation. "Some days, things just get a little more crazy than you thought they would, you know?" He takes another drag off his cigarette, then stubs it out in a nearby ashtray. "I say that calls for a drink. You want one?" The slice on his face stings, just a little, but that oughtta stop after another shot of Jack.

"Oh, I know."

'Twould not be possible to pour more assurance into those short words. She has seen things many would describe as entirely insane, and she well knows how they can build up.

Jax's grins is pleasant enough when he shows it, but there is something about the smoke that unfurls from him that she would define as... moody, perhaps.

Glancing into her glass and finding it nearly empty, she nods. "I would have another." And probably no more. Raising her hand to signal the barkeep again, she gives Jax a sideways glance. "The cut on your face. Is there pain?"

Does it hurt? Not as much as his pride. He shakes his head.

"Nah."

The girl he can't seem to get out of his thoughts is a surgeon. She can always fix it, if it needs fixing.

"It's no big deal. I'll get over it." When the bartender gets near -- it's cute, Morrigan hails him like she's looking for a taxi -- he taps the bar in front of them a couple times, holds up two fingers, indicates her glass and his own empty sitting nearby.

Then he chances a glance at her outfit. She looks like she's ready for a different kind of party, wearing that. His eyes linger a moment longer than they should, maybe, and he thinks about that box of Trojans he never finished buying at the convenience store. Louise probably still has them waiting for him.

His pack of smokes goes onto the bar. Intentionally, he moves it between them in case she wants one. Two things he'll always share: cigarettes and alcohol. This time when he looks over, he looks her in the eye.

"So. What's your story?" Everyone's got one. Everyone.

She is not blind to the way he looks at her, at how she is dressed, and then looks at her a second time with the courtesy of eyes meeting eyes.

In this place, she must admit her attire is... perhaps less reasonable than it seems at home. A simple change of robes would not help her to blend in more. She may need to do something about that.

"My story?" She tilts her head, chin up, dark hair angling back from her face. She has the distinct feeling she cannot rely on Jax to react as Willy did. When her glass is refilled, she reaches for it. "I serve as an advisor to those who seek my knowledge." 'Tis vague, perhaps, but accurate. "And yourself?"

Yeah, that answer's a lot of nothing wrapped up in a pretty package. It puts a wry smile on his face. "Same."

That's the long and short of it, the role of a VP. Too bad Clay never sees it the same way, despite Ma's protests and insistence. It's not really fair, he figures, to give this Morrigan girl shit, though. There's a weird formality to her. She's not even being snooty, he's pretty sure. Just different.

It takes all types.

"For real, though, I'm a mechanic. I fix up bikes, mostly. Cars and trucks too." When he's not out cruising for trouble, or trying to keep his psycho ex out of trouble, or covering Ope's ass with Donna, or blowing up Mayans. "Down at Teller-Morrow." Which, since she's not from around here, won't mean shit to her.

"A mechanic?"

She cannot say she is familiar with all he claims to repair, but it is certainly no surprise to learn that he works with his hands.

"Then, yes, I imagine you do give advice to those who need your knowledge," she says with a note of amusement, pausing for a drink of her wine. "Mine is more arcane in nature."

"Arcane?" The Jack burns its way down his throat. This'll be it, since his bike's outside and he'd like to make it home in one piece. "Like... that psychic shit? Or something else?" He trades the shot glass for his cigs, opens the box, shakes one out, and offers it in her direction.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. "Hold that thought." He digs it out, flips it open, and holds the phone to his ear.

"Hey, Ma. Everything okay?" She squawks at him, reminds him about dinner later on. Holding his hand over the speaker, he whispers to Morrigan. "Just my mom. Hang on a sec."

As his ma goes on, he nods. "Yeah, yeah, ma, got it. Love you too." Flipping the lid back down on the phone, he shrugs.

"Moms. Whatcha gonna do. Now, where were we?"

Genuinely startled when his pocket begins to... make noise and vibrate, she watches with a curiosity she cannot veil as he talks into the slim device he removes.

'Tis fascinating. He holds it to his face, communicating directly with someone, speaking to them. And she feels no familiar telltale prickle over her skin, no back-of-the-mind suggestion of magic.

"Trouble with your mother?" she asks knowingly, then tips her chin toward the device in his hand. "May I look at that?" She hesitates. "I will not use it."

As much as she would like to.

"No trouble." He reaches for a cigarette. "She's just being Ma. Reminding me not to be late for this big dinner she's throwing."

Morrigan's acting like a phone is something special -- this one sure isn't, just your basic piece of shit -- but he hands it over. "Hey. Knock yourself out, use it all you want." Where's she gonna call on his dime, Mars? With a little laugh, he lights his cigarette, setting the bright blue Bic lighter down next to the pack of smokes.

"It's just an old piece of crap. Probably couldn't break it if you tried."

Just being Ma.

"When my mother is just being herself there is usually trouble involved," she says as she sets her glass down and takes the phone in both hands. Opening it as she saw Jax do, she discovers that one side -- the one he held against his ear -- is sleek and more or less flat. She rubs the pad of her thumb over the other side, feeling the texture of... buttons with symbols she cannot read. She dares not ask exactly how it works, no matter how much she would love to know.

Perhaps if she finds Willy Silver again he will be familiar with this. He and Jax do not dress so very differently.

"You have my thanks," she offers when she hands it back.

Contrary to what he seems to believe, she thinks she could break it easily.

It's fun watching her examine the phone like a kid with a new toy. Whatever she's looking for is beyond him -- he's still pretty sure she's not some undercover fed, so she's not lifting his prints or anything -- but she doesn't play with it too long. Just enough to take a glance and to trace it with those long fingers of hers.

Good thing she doesn't have a phone of her own. No place to hide it in that get-up she's wearing. Or maybe she does and she's just full of surprises.

"Moms and trouble," he laughs as he takes the phone back and tucks it into the front pocket of his jeans. "Pretty sure the two things go hand in hand." A line of smoke trails up from his cigarette. Idly, almost, he waves it away from Morrigan. "At least that's always been the case with my ma. She's kind of a firecracker."

"A firecracker," she repeats, trying it out for herself.

'Tis a wonderfully sharp-edged word, and while she may not exactly get his meaning she likes it very much. It feels wholly satisfying as it rolls off the tongue.

"That is a nice word for it. My mother is exactly as fierce as a dragon."

Firebreather, perhaps, is more accurate, but it does not have the same crisp syllables.

"Sounds like your ma and mine would get along like gangbusters." The idea turns his smile into a laugh; he points to her with his cigarette. "Fierce as a dragon and filled with hot air?"

That's his ma, some of the time. More often than not she carries through on her threats. Even so, he'd defend her to the death. Of course he would: she's his mother and he's her only living son. But she ain't here, so it's fair game, talking about her with a stranger. They're just comparing notes anyhow.

"Good intention, bad execution? Don't get me wrong, I love my mom. She's just not what anyone would call delicate."

Smiling against the rim of her glass, she pauses long enough to have a drink of the wine before she answers. "Oh, I could not call her intentions good."

On the contrary, Flemeth is danger disguised as a mother. She cannot hold the same affection in her tone that Jax does, but what love she may or may not have for her mother need not be a topic of conversation.

"As with your own, delicate she is not. Not by any means."

"That's a kick-ass ma for you." Morrigan gets a little wink; he takes one last drag before putting out the cigarette. Honestly, he never knows if Gemma's intentions are good or not. He only knows she does what she wants and gets what she wants, and it's trouble when she gets in your face and calls you sweetheart.

She did that to Tara just the other day. Good thing Tara's strong. She can hold her own.

"Sounds like we got that much in common. A ma that likes to run the whole goddamn ship all by herself, if she could." There's only a fraction of a pause before he goes on. "You ever run into her, you'll know. She's got this scar." He draws a line with his finger right down the middle of his breastbone. "She doesn't try to hide it."

The bottom of her glass touches the bar, but she does not quite set it down. Her eyes follow the gesture Jax makes with his finger.

"And how did she earn so proud a scar?"

"Genetic," he tells her, his fingertips splayed on the bar's surface. "Runs in the family. She had open heart surgery a long time ago. Same problem my kid was born with, just a couple days ago."

Yeah, Abel's in NICU, and he's here making time with some scantily-clad girl. Business as usual.

He shakes his head. "Had a brother who died from it a long fucking time ago."

Open heart surgery? She does not know precisely what is done during such a surgery, of course, but she feels compelled to imagine it as a most delicate procedure.

Her eyebrows slowly rise. "You are a new father? You have my congratulations." She pauses for a moment, eyes taking his measure. "Must your child have the same procedure done?"

"Yeah." He nods and draws the word out slowly. "Thanks. His name's Abel. He already had it done. That, and had a hole in his stomach fixed too. They give him a twenty percent chance of survival."

If Tellers know anything, it's how to fight.

"Preemie. Born ten weeks early. His ma's..." Does he really want to talk about Wendy with some stranger? It doesn't much matter, he guesses, 'cause him and Wendy, they're through. "...she was using, the whole time she was pregnant. Kid doesn't have the best odds, but he's in good hands with the docs and the nurses over at St. Thomas."

Fucking Wendy and her fucking crank, and the fucking asshole who dealt to her. She was pregnant, for God's sake.

The mother was using what?

A dangerous substance, to be sure, but she cannot guess what. Jax is from somewhere far more advanced if they are able to identify holes in the stomach and flaws in the hearts of newborns.

"Then you are in the unenviable situation of waiting around to see if he continues to heal."

Perhaps it is foolish sentiment, but she is not unsympathetic. Reaching into a pocket hidden in her skirt, she removes a very small charm, flat and square-shaped, the deep red color of a rose petal. It originally bore a protective glyph, though that has been worn nearly as smooth as the opposing side. Once set in a necklace she was fond of wearing, it only recently fell out when she was packing to leave for Skyhold. Its benefit to resistances is minor and she has access to far better charms now, but she likes the color and had thought to have it crafted into something else.

There is no need, though.

"I can offer you this. I have no use for it, but it has always made me stronger. If placed by your son, perhaps it will do the same for him."

It may not even work if he leaves with it, but there is certainly a chance.

The unenviable situation of waiting around to see if he continues to heal.

Damn straight, that's where he is, and he doesn't like it. But there ain't much he can do except wait. If he thought there was a chance in hell that positive thinking would work, he'd be on his knees praying, but he knows what a crock of shit that is.

Still, he takes the stone or whatever it is from Morrigan, resting it in the palm of one hand. He traces it with his right index finger, feels a tiny bit of bumpiness, and looks over at her.

"This your lucky charm or something? I don't want to take it from you if it is. I mean, he's got the docs looking out for him and all that." It's more help than a lot of kids get.

Besides, he has about as much belief that a piece of rock can do any good as... well, as anything. Maybe a little less, but Morrigan's acting like it could do something. She's not making any promises, though, and he likes that about her. He always likes the straight shooters.

It's how come he's always liked Tara.

"No, it was freely given," she admits with a rise and fall of her shoulders. "And I would not call it a lucky charm."

Reaching for her wine again, she has another drink. The vague skepticism in Jax's expression does not bother her, not under these circumstances. If she were to guide him through Thedas there would be no question of that small token providing a benefit. On Jax's 580 or at his St. Thomas, 'tis a mystery.

In that case... He pops the charm into the chest pocket of his kutte, right under the patch that reads V PRESIDENT, and snaps it shut.

"I feel stronger already." It's bullshit, but at least it's well-meant bullshit and the smile he gives her is a genuine one. "Thanks. Anything to give the kid a fighting chance, right?"

Unbuttoning the cuffs of his flannel and rolling his sleeves halfway up his forearms, he runs his hands through his hair. She's been nice to him, this Morrigan girl, and she hasn't asked for anything in return. That ain't something he's used to, people being generous for no good reason. He nods to the bartender for a cold brew, figuring he's got time for one more before he's gotta hit the road.

If he's late to dinner, Ma's gonna kill him.

"Anything I can do for you? You know, one good deed deserves another and all that?"

She smiles, a small huff of laughter escaping when she exhales. "You can do your good deed after your son is better."

His right forearm is a distraction. With his sleeves rolled she is able to see part of an elaborate tattoo, and she is not used to seeing markings so detailed on human men.

"In the meantime you can explain that to me."

She lifts one finger to point at his arm. There are words there, she knows, but she cannot read them.

"The tat?"

That's an easy request. He pushes up his sleeve to show off what's marked on his skin. One finger traces the tombstone, resting on the name at its top. "It's my dad's gravestone. My own tribute to him, he died about fifteen years ago." The whole Fallen Brothers part he leaves be, 'cause he doesn't feel like going into the history of SAMCRO now. It'd take forever.

Besides, if she's that curious, she can ask.

She takes in the full picture, eyes following the path his finger takes around it as he speaks. Barring the parts she cannot read, it is more straightforward art than she is used to seeing on skin.

"'Tis a tall stone," she points out. She assumes it is indeed his father's name at the top. "Are other names to be added?"

"Shit." With a shake of his head, he lets out a low laugh. "I hope not." A bottle of Pyramid Ale lands in front of him, and he takes a long, glad sip.

The only other ink he's got is the reaper on his back, and that's not something to show off, especially to a stranger. Even to a pretty stranger like her. Taking a moment, he drinks his beer before moving the comfort of the bottle's mouth away from his lips.

"Like I said, my dad went about fifteen years ago. I haven't had the ink all that time, but I've had it long enough. Trust me, no one I knows wants to be the next one to have their name on that stone."

Even if the brothers have a tendency to be short-lived, or at least the brothers from other crews. Guys like Otto are relatively safe in lockup. It's the ones in outlying areas they have to wonder about.

It strikes her as an answer that is not quite an answer, but the impression she comes away with is that while it is nothing so planned he might add another name, presumably if someone of significance dies.

"Want is one thing and what life presents is often another."

'Tis one of many lessons she has learned.

"But let us hope," she adds after swallowing the last of her wine, "you have no cause to add further names."

Yeah, there's always hope... he guesses. Sometimes that's in short supply. He hopes Abel makes it. He hopes Wendy takes his advice and goes back to rehab. He hopes Tara stays at St. Thomas. He hopes Ope figures out all his shit with Donna.

Hope, hope, hope.

"Here's to it." He raises his beer bottle to her wine glass, takes a final sip, and sets it down. She's cool. Weird, but cool.

"I gotta get to Ma's before she kills me." She won't, not unless he's too late, but she'll be pissed. Dragon, right? Just like Morrigan's ma, or so she said? "You can come along if you want. There's always room for someone else at the table, and Ma's a good cook."

Wouldn't be the first time he brought a girl home. Won't be the last, 'cause some things never change.

The offer is startling, both for how abrupt it is and for how seemingly genuine. Is he so moved by her interest in his son's well-being?

Is he simply lonely? 'Tis difficult to say, but she has seen little guile on him in the time he has been beside her.

"That is a very kind offer." The corners of her mouth curve. "But I will spare you the difficulty of explaining me to your mother."

Or anyone else. She... does not even have reason to believe she can leave this place with someone, although the idea is intriguing.

"I wish you good fortune, Jax."

Now that's funny. "More like sparing me the difficulty of explaining Ma to you."

But it's okay. He doesn't have to push, and he's got plenty to occupy his thoughts. With a grin, he pats his chest pocket.

"Got the good luck stone right here. I must be charmed."

And that's also funny, considering where he's from. Pushing back from the bar, he stands and tugs on the bottom of his kutte, reaches in his pocket for his keys. For a brief moment he thinks about leaning forward and giving her a kiss on the cheek, but she's not one of the girls from Charming and he's not looking to pick anyone up. He's got enough shit on his plate.

"Hope I see you again sometime." He does, too. There's something about her that's... well, shit, she reminds him a little of Tara, he guesses, with the dark hair and eyes and the no-bullshit attitude, and he wouldn't mind seeing Tara in a get-up like the one Morrigan's wearing, maybe, some day. "You sure you don't need a ride someplace?"

She can even wear his helmet.

Unbidden, laughter creeps out of her as she watches him push away from the bar.

His mother is apparently quite a woman.

"I am quite sure," she maintains, despite her nebulous interest in seeing what would happen if she tried. One of these times she should attempt it, but now is most certainly not the time. "I found my way here and I am certain to find the way back. Perhaps next time."

"All right. See you next time, Morrigan." He gives her a tiny salute, flips his keys around his palm a couple times, and heads for the door.

No one better be fucking with his Harley, that's all he has to say about it. Luckily for everyone at the place, his bike's right where he left it.

He makes note of where the place is before leaving it behind in the dust, his stomach rumbling in anticipation of a great fucking meal on the horizon. Hopefully, Ma won't kill him for being late.