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tinyshyteacup · 3 months ago

Text

TW: Cussing, Firearms, kidnapping, death (not in detail)

Spoilers from Canon

Part 26

Scotch and Screams - Part 27

The church was cold, the kind of damp that settled into your bones and refused to leave. Chibs stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his body still tensed from the ride through Belfast’s winding streets.

The weight of his kutte felt heavier here, surrounded by old stone walls and the quiet judgment of saints carved in stained glass.

Jax was in front of him, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His desperation hung thick in the air, mixing with the scent of melting candle wax and damp wood.

Abel was out there somewhere, stolen from Jax, and they were standing in this damn church waiting on a priest who held all the cards.

Clay and Opie flanked them, silent but alert. None of them were the type to trust a man in a collar.

The heavy wooden doors at the back of the church creaked open, and Father Kellan Ashby stepped into the dim light, his expression unreadable. He moved with the calm confidence of a man who had been playing this game a long time.

"Ah, gentlemen," the priest greeted, his voice smooth, practiced. "I was wonderin’ when ye’d come knockin’."

Chibs exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience already wearing thin. "Aye, well, we’re here now. So let’s skip the pleasantries, Father."

Jax stepped forward before Ashby could respond. "Where’s my son?"

The priest folded his hands in front of him, tilting his head slightly. "Somewhere safe, I assure ye."

That was the wrong answer. Jax’s whole body went rigid, his breath coming heavier. Chibs felt his own pulse kick up, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

"Safe?" Jax repeated, voice dangerously low. "You think I give a shit about safe? I want to know where he is. Now."

Ashby didn’t flinch. If anything, his composure was even more infuriating.

"I understand yer anger, lad," the priest said, his tone almost patronizing. "But ye have to trust that I have Abel’s best interests at heart. This is bigger than just one child."

Chibs let out a bitter chuckle, stepping up beside Jax. "That so? ‘Cause it sounds like ye’re just tryin’ to keep us dancin’ in circles." His voice was low, laced with warning. "So let’s try this again. Where. Is. The. Boy?"

Ashby sighed, looking between them. "Jax, I need to know somethin’ first."

Jax’s hands clenched. "I don’t give a shit what you need—"

"Would ye be willin’ to leave Abel here?" Ashby interrupted, his tone careful.

The question hit like a gunshot.

Jax blinked. "What?"

"He’s a Teller, aye." Ashby said. "But the life ye live… it’s not one for a child. Especially not one who could have a different future here."

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

Jax took a step forward, his breath ragged. "You’re out of your goddamn mind."

Chibs felt his own hands clench into fists, the anger rising like bile. "Ye’re talkin’ about keepin’ another man’s son from him, an’ ye think that’s a reasonable fuckin’ question?" His voice was sharp, edged with something dangerous.

Ashby’s gaze flickered toward him, unreadable. "I’m talkin’ about what’s best for the boy."

Jax was practically shaking with rage. "Abel is my son." His voice cracked, but his anger didn’t waver. "And if you don’t start telling me where he is, this conversation’s gonna go a whole different way."

Ashby exhaled through his nose, finally nodding. "I’ll make arrangements."

"No more games," Jax snapped.

"No more games," Ashby echoed.

But Chibs wasn’t sure he believed him.

Chibs had felt it in his bones before they even had proof. Something had been off with McGee from the moment they’d landed in Belfast.

He was jumpy, avoiding eye contact, making excuses whenever Jax or Clay asked direct questions about Abel.

It wasn’t like the man he’d once known—the leader who had helped him get to California all those years ago, the one who had help build SAMBEL up from the ground up.

But Chibs knew better than anyone that men could change. Sometimes, it was the weight of time, the pull of greed, or just plain cowardice.

He just hadn’t wanted to believe it was McGee.

Then, proof came in the form of a conversation they weren’t meant to hear.

It was Juice who picked up the first thread of betrayal.

"Man, I don’t like this," Juice muttered under his breath as they stood outside a crumbling warehouse where McGee had led them to ‘discuss strategy.’ "Something’s off."

Chibs glanced at him, brow furrowing. "What are ye talkin’ about?"

Juice shifted, voice hushed. "McGee told us this was a safe spot. But I picked up chatter on a shortwave. Someone was warnin’ Jimmy O to ‘expect guests.’"

Chibs’ blood ran cold.

"Ye sure?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Juice nodded. "Yeah, man. And the voice on the other end? Sounded a hell of a lot like McGee."

Clay and Jax were already ahead, stepping inside the warehouse, oblivious to the trap they were walking into.

Chibs’ pulse pounded in his ears. Without another word, he spun on his heel, storming into the building.

The moment he entered, he saw McGee standing in the center of the room, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. Opposite him, two men in suits stood like statues—men Chibs recognized all too well.

Irish Kings.

And beside them, with a smug, knowing smirk—Jimmy O.

Jax stopped dead in his tracks. Clay’s hand twitched toward his gun.

Chibs’ heart clenched as realization set in like a punch to the gut.

"Son of a bitch," Jax muttered.

McGee sighed, rubbing a hand down his face like he was weary, like this was somehow hard for him. "I didn’t want it to go this way, boys."

"Aye," Chibs said darkly, stepping forward, voice thick with contempt. "But here we are, huh?"

McGee exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Things’ve changed, Filip. We had no choice. SAMBEL’s been backed into a corner for years, an’ I did what I had to do to survive."

"Survive?" Chibs echoed, voice dangerously quiet. He shook his head, taking another step. "Ye sold out yer fuckin’ family."

Jimmy O chuckled. "Ah, come on now, Filip. Don’t be so dramatic. McGee did what any smart man would do—he picked the winnin’ side."

Chibs’ jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack.

Clay, ever the tactician, was already assessing their exit strategy. "We done here?" he asked, voice calm but cold.

McGee hesitated for just a fraction of a second. But it was enough.

"Aye," Jimmy O said, smirking. "We’re done."

That’s when the gunfire started.

The second Jimmy O’s men opened fire, the warehouse erupted into chaos. The sharp crack of gunfire echoed off the metal walls, flashes of muzzle fire cutting through the dim light.

"Cover!" Jax shouted, diving behind a stack of crates.

Clay was already moving, pulling his gun as Opie laid down cover fire. Juice and Happy were at the entrance, weapons raised, keeping the path open.

Chibs barely had time to react before a bullet whizzed past his head.

"Shite," he hissed, diving for cover beside Jax. He peeked out, eyes scanning the room, taking in the situation. Jimmy O and the Irish Kings had already slipped out the back. But McGee—he was still standing there, frozen, watching the chaos unfold like a man who knew his time was up.

"Get to the van!" Clay barked.

Chibs gritted his teeth. They could deal with McGee later—right now, they had to get the hell out of there.

Jax fired a few rounds, forcing Jimmy’s men to take cover, giving them just enough time to move. Chibs grabbed Juice by the back of his kutte and yanked him toward the exit.

"Move yer arse, Juicy!"

They spilled out into the alley, running for the van. Happy was already inside, revving the engine. Clay shoved the doors open, barking orders as the rest of them piled in.

Just as Chibs swung himself inside, he turned, catching one last glimpse of McGee.

The man was standing in the doorway of the warehouse, gun in hand—but he didn’t raise it.

He didn’t even try to fight.

Chibs met his eyes for just a second. And in that moment, he saw it—defeat.

Then the doors slammed shut, and they were gone.

They didn’t have to look for McGee.

He knew the end was coming.

It took less than twenty-four hours to track him down. Bobby and Opie cornered one of his men in a bar, worked him over until he gave up the location.

An old dockyard on the outskirts of Belfast.

When they arrived, it was almost too easy.

McGee was sitting on the hood of an old car, cigarette dangling from his fingers, like he was waiting for them.

Clay and Jax hung back, letting Chibs take the lead.

This was personal.

Chibs stepped forward, boots crunching against gravel. McGee didn’t move. He just exhaled smoke, watching Chibs with tired eyes.

"Knew ye’d find me," he said simply.

Chibs tilted his head. "Aye. Ye knew."

McGee flicked the cigarette away, rubbing a hand down his face. "Don’t suppose I can talk my way outta this one?"

"Ye had yer chance to talk," Chibs said quietly. "Back at the warehouse. Instead, ye stood there an’ let Jimmy O walk out while he tried to kill us."

McGee exhaled, shoulders slumping. "I never wanted this, Filip. Ye gotta believe me."

Chibs’ jaw clenched. "That supposed to make it better?"

McGee’s silence was answer enough.

The moment stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

Then, finally, McGee sighed. "Just get it over with."

Chibs took a slow step closer. "Nah," he murmured. "Not that easy"

McGee frowned. "What—"

Chibs moved fast—too fast for the McGee to react. He grabbed McGee by the collar and slammed him against the hood of the car, pressing a forearm against his throat.

"Ye don’t get to just close yer eyes an’ let it happen," he hissed. "Ye fuckin’ sold us out. Sold me out. An’ now ye’re just ready to roll over an’ die? Nah. Ye don’t get that."

McGee struggled, but it was useless.

"Filip—please—"

"Ye begged Jimmy O like this?" Chibs snapped. "When ye handed us over? Did ye tell him it ‘wasn’t personal’? That ye ‘never wanted this’?"

McGee’s face twisted, guilt and fear bleeding into his features.

Chibs leaned in, voice low, almost gentle. "Ye were a fuckin’ brother, McGee."

A pause.

Then he stepped back, letting McGee stumble forward—just in time for Clay to raise his gun.

A single shot rang out.

McGee crumpled to the ground.

Dead.

Belfast was cold tonight. The kind of cold that settled deep into the bones, refusing to be shaken off. Chibs leaned against the rough brick wall of the SAMBEL clubhouse, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, the smoke curling into the damp air.

His head was still buzzing from the night’s events—the priest, the betrayal, the gunshot that had left McGee lifeless on the floor.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaustion pressing against the edges of his mind, but sleep was a luxury he wouldn’t find here. Not with the weight of everything sitting heavy on his chest.

What he needed—what he ached for—was you.

Fishing the burner phone out of his kutte, he pressed the speed dial, lifting it to his ear. The dial tone stretched too long, making his chest tighten, but then—

"Mmm ... Scotsman?"

Your voice was soft, thick with sleep, and just like that, something in him unclenched.

"Aye, love," he murmured, exhaling slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "Did I wake ye?"

There was a rustle on the other end, the sound of sheets shifting. "Yeah ... it’s okay Filip, I’d rather hear your voice than sleep anyway."

He huffed out a quiet chuckle, warmth spreading in his chest. Christ, you had a way of soothing him without even trying.

"Aye, is that so?" he teased, voice a little rougher than usual.

"Mhm. I’ve been worrying about you," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"It’s late there, isn’t it? Have you even been sleeping?"

He took another drag of his cigarette, staring up at the night sky. He didn’t want to lie to you, but he also couldn’t tell you the truth.

Couldn’t tell you about the blood on his hands, the weight of another brother lost.

"Been keepin’ busy," he said vaguely, voice careful. "Nothin’ to worry yerself over, mo chridhe."

You let out a quiet sigh, and he could hear the concern in it.

"I wish you were here," you confessed, voice so soft it nearly broke him.

His throat tightened. "Aye… me too, love. More than ye know."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but heavy in its own way.

"Filip, I miss you," you said, hesitantly, your voice gentle, warm. "You sure your okay?"

The question hit him harder than it should've. Because no, he wasn't okay.

Not after what he'd done. Not after putting a bullet in a man he once called his brother. Not after watching Jax spiral deeper into desperation with every hour that passed without Abel in his arms. But he couldn't put that on you.

Couldn't taint the only bright thing he had left.

So, he forced a smirk into his voice, leaning back against the rickety chair in his room. "Aye, love', I'm fine. Just tired. S'been a long fuckin' day."

Chibs swallowed, rolling his shoulders. The ache in his body was nothing compared to the one in his chest.

"Jus' needed to hear yer voice."

You let out a quiet breath, like you didn't quite believe him but didn't want to push. Instead, your tone shifted, lighter.

"Well, I'm glad you called. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me over there"

A chuckle rumbled in his throat, the first real one he'd let himself have in days.

"Forgot about ye? Pfft. Ye must be daft if ye think I could."

"Mmm, you might get distracted," you teased. "Irish accents, whiskey, the smell of rain on cobblestones..."

"Aye, all that's grand an' all," he mused, playing along. "But none o' it holds a candle to ye, mo chridhe"

There was a pause, and he could almost hear the way you smiled.

"That was smooth."

"Aye, I've been told I've got a way wi' words."

"By who?"

"Mainly Juice, but still counts."

Your laugh. That was what he needed. That was what pulled him back from the edge, piece by piece.

"How’s things back home?" he asked finally, needing to hear about something—anything—other than the mess he was wading through.

You gave a tired hum. "Tara’s holding up, but I can tell she’s struggling. I’ve been helping out when I can."

Chibs smiled slightly, imagining you fussing over the doctor, making sure she ate, slept, didn’t collapse under the weight of it all. "She’s lucky to have ye lookin’ after her."

Another silence stretched between you, but this time it was warmer, softer. The kind of quiet that wrapped around him like a well-worn blanket.

"Filip?"

"Aye?"

"When are you coming home?"

His jaw tightened. He wished he had an answer for you.

"Soon, love," he said instead. "Promised ye that."

You let out a little sigh, and he could hear you shifting again, probably curling deeper into the blankets.

"You better be, Scotsman" you murmured, a soft demand.

"Aye," he breathed. "I will."

For the first time that day, he wasn't lying.

He hesitated, thumb brushing over the edge of the burner. He didn’t want to hang up.

"Get some sleep, lass," he murmured. "I’ll call ye soon."

"Okay. Be safe, Filip."

"Aye, I’ll try."

But as the call ended, leaving him alone in the quiet Belfast night, he knew safety wasn’t in the cards for him.

Not here. Not now.

But hearing your voice had been enough to remind him why he had to make it back.

And when he did, he wasn’t going to waste another second.

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