Tw: Angst, Fluff, medical talk, feelings of frustration, surprise wives, cussing.
Scotch and Screams - Part 13
You didn’t know where you were looking.
The floor? The wall? The dim reflection of yourself in the glass of Chibs’ hospital room window?
Everything was closing in, the world warping and twisting in a way that made it impossible to think straight. Your heart was pounding too fast, your hands shaking where they still clutched the strap of the duffel bag.
Fiona Larkin, Gemma had Introduced her, akwardly, reluctantly two words you'd thourght would never be in the same sentence as Gemma Teller-Morrow
Fiona was tall. Elegant. Sharp-eyed and unreadable.
And the way she was looking at you—
Like you were something small and breakable, something that didn’t belong here, something that didn’t matter.
And maybe—maybe she was right.
Maybe you didn’t belong here.
Because how could you, when the man you—
When the man who made you feel something, the man who pulled you close and kissed the corner of your mouth like he meant it, the man who made you believe, even for a second, that you mattered—
Had never told you about her.
Fiona’s gaze was steady, assessing, as if she was waiting for something.
Waiting for you to cry, to run, to fall apart.
You could feel her eyes on you, sharp and assessing, picking you apart piece by piece.
You were just some girl standing in a hospital room, clearly thinking you had some sort of claim to him—to Filip
Your stomach churned violently. You needed to leave. To run. To get out of this suffocating space before you lost whatever shred of composure you had left.
"He hasn’t been mine in years."
The words cut through your spiral, you breathed a sharp inhale.
Slowly, you forced yourself to look at her.
She was watching you, arms crossed over her chest, expression unreadable but laced with something—pity, maybe? Or amusement? Like she could see every frantic thought running through your head and had already decided none of them mattered.
Your throat was dry when you spoke, voice barely more than a whisper.
If anything, she seemed bored by the question, tilting her head slightly as she studied you.
"Part of Jimmy’s business with the Sons," she said simply, her accent wrapping around the words like they weren’t gutting you all over again.
That name meant nothing to you.
But the way Gemma’s posture stiffened at the mention of it, the way Tara’s mouth pressed into a thin, tense line—
It meant something to them.
Your fingers curled around the strap of the duffel bag, gripping it tightly, desperate for something solid—anything—to keep you from slipping under the weight of all the things you didn’t understand.
"What business?" The words tumbled out before you could stop them, you'd never asked before, but now you felt raw and desperate for proof for something to say you belonged too.
Fiona didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she gave you a long, assessing look—like she was trying to decide if you were worth the trouble of explaining things to. Like you were some clueless child wandering too close to a fire you didn’t even know would burn you.
"You don’t wanna know, lass," she said, her voice quieter this time.
Like she almost felt sorry for you.
Because it meant there was something to know.
Something you were deliberately being kept in the dark about.
"That’s enough," Gemma cut in, stepping forward like a shield. Her tone was sharp, brokering no argument, her eyes locked onto Fiona with something hard and unrelenting.
"She don’t need to know all that."
Why didn’t you need to know?
Why was everyone keeping things from you?
You had been by Chibs’ side through all of this, you had stayed, you had worried, you had ached—
And yet, somehow, you still weren’t allowed to understand what was happening.
Fiona’s gaze flickered to Gemma for a brief moment before she exhaled through her nose, as if whatever she was thinking wasn’t worth saying out loud.
"Aye," she murmured, like it didn’t matter to her either way. "I suppose she don’t."
The conversation was over.
You felt it settle around you, thick and suffocating. The unspoken this isn’t for you ringing louder than any answer you might’ve gotten.
You were here, but maybe you weren’t really one of them.
Fiona lingered for a moment, her gaze shifting from Gemma to you, unreadable in its scrutiny. Then, with a small exhale, she adjusted her coat and stepped toward the door.
“I should get back,” she said, though it wasn’t meant for either of you. Her eyes flicked toward Chibs’ unconscious form.
The words settled uneasily in your chest.
And then she was gone, her heels clicking against the linoleum, the sound fading into the hum of the hospital corridor.
The room felt heavier in her absence.
You let out a shaky breath, gripping the strap of the duffel bag so tightly it dug into your palm. You had been holding onto it like a lifeline, like something in all of this mess.
Gemma sighed beside you. “Don’t let her get in your head, sweetheart.”
You turned to her, swallowing around the lump in your throat.
Gemma rolled her eyes. “On paper, maybe. But that’s all it is.”
That should have been comforting. Maybe it would’ve been—if it didn’t still sting.
“I thought…” You hesitated, voice faltering. “it doesn't matter”
Gemma softened then, stepping forward, reaching up to brush a stray piece of hair from your face. It was a rare moment of tenderness from her—one she probably wouldn’t acknowledge later.
“Hes your biker" she murmured.
Your throat tightened, and you nodded.
Gemma sighed, squeezing your shoulder before letting her hand drop. “He is.”
You wanted to believe that.
But right now, with the weight of Fiona’s presence still lingering in the room, it was hard.
Still, Gemma gave you a small nudge toward the hospital bed. “Why don’t you unpack some of his things? He’s gonna want them when he wakes up.”
She said it like it was a fact. Like there was no if about it.
And maybe that was exactly what you needed.
Gemma eventually stepped out, giving you a little space, and you pulled Chibs’ duffel onto the chair beside you, unzipping it carefully.
Everything inside smelled like him.
The faint scent of whiskey and leather and smoke.
You pulled out a worn shirt first, fingers tracing over the fabric before setting it on the hospital table. Then a couple of SAMCRO shirts folded neatly. You hesitated before draping them over the chair.
You swallowed, reaching for the next item—a bottle of his cologne, half-empty. You turned it over in your hands, then twisted off the cap, letting the scent wash over you.
“This is unfair, you know.”
Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it filled the space between you.
“I thought we were starting something.” You exhaled shakily, glancing at his hand resting motionless against the hospital sheets. “And then you go and drop a surprise wife on me.”
Your fingers curled around the bottle, holding it tightly.
The offending beep of the heart monitor.
Your eyes burned, and you quickly set the bottle down, rubbing at your face before the tears could spill over.
“I'll get on your damn bike if you wake up, Filip”
You reached for his hand then, brushing your fingers lightly over his knuckles.
His skin was warm. Solid.
The others came and went—Gemma, Tara, the Sons—but you stayed. Always
Sometimes, you curled up in the chair, your knees tucked to your chest, watching over him in the dim light. Other times, you talked.
Not because you expected him to answer.
But because the silence felt too much.
“You’re really milking this, Scotsman.”
Your voice was light, teasing, as you traced a gentle circle over the back of Chibs hand with your thumb.
“I mean, I get it. Tough biker, dramatic injury—makes for a hell of a story. But weeks, Filip? That’s just showing off.”
The words were meant to be playful, but they trembled at the edges.
You sighed, shifting in your chair, your fingers still wrapped around his hand.
“I—” Your throat tightened.
You swallowed. "Just wake up—please"
A shaky breath, the room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee.
A faint, rhythmic beeping filled the space, steady and unchanging, the same sound that had followed you for weeks.
You had meant to stay awake.
But exhaustion had finally pulled you under.
Your body was curled up in the chair beside Chibs’ bed, your cheek resting against the edge of the mattress, your fingers loosely wrapped around his hand.
Your mind surfaced from sleep in slow, disoriented waves, and at first, you thought you had imagined it.
Your head snapped up so fast your neck ached, but you barely noticed.
Your eyes locked onto his face, your pulse thundering in your ears.
His fingers flexed weakly against yours.
A low, raspy noise rumbled from his throat.
Heavy-lidded. Unfocused. But open.
His gaze flickered to you, slow, like it took effort. His pupils were dilated, his eyes glassy with medication and exhaustion.
Your grip on his hand tightened, and a thousand emotions crashed into you at once—relief, disbelief, overwhelming gratitude.
His lips parted, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he wouldn’t be able to speak.
Then, voice hoarse and broken—
“Y’holdin’ my hand, lass?”
A sharp, breathless laugh escaped you—half sob, half you unbelievable bastard.
“You’ve been unconscious for weeks” you choked out, gripping his hand tighter, “and that’s the first thing you say?”
His lips twitched, the barest smirk, weak but familiar.
A thick knot lodged itself in your throat.
For weeks, you had sat beside him, begging for this moment.
And you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The smirk faded slightly, replaced by something softer.
His gaze, still sluggish, traced over your face.
“T’fuck happened?” Chibs rasped.
You let out a shaky breath, willing yourself to hold it together. “You don’t remember?”
A slow blink. His fingers twitched in yours.
Then—Flashes of something in his expression. A flicker of recognition.
His brow furrowed slightly. “Explosion.”
He exhaled sharply, wincing as he shifted. “Jesus.”
You reacted instinctively, pressing a hand lightly against his chest. “Don’t move. You’re still—”
His fingers curled around yours again, stopping you.
He held your gaze, tired but steady.
“I’m alright, mo leannan,” he murmured.
Something inside you shattered.
The way he said it—low, quiet, reassuring.
Like you were the one who had been lying in a hospital bed for weeks.
You let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “You better be.”
His thumb brushed absently over your knuckles, slow and warm.
Weeks of waiting, of uncertainty, of whispering into the void—
His thumb brushed absently over your knuckles, the motion small, but soothing.
“Did ye stay?” His voice was quieter now.
You hesitated, then nodded.
“You shouldn’t’ve done that.”
You lifted your chin slightly, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why?”
Chibs watched you for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, quietly—he squeezed your hand back.
“‘Cause I don’t want ye waitin’ on me, lass"
The first thing you learned about Filip Telford in recovery?
He was the worst patient.
“You need to rest,” you huffed, pressing lightly against his chest as he tried—for the third time that morning—to sit up properly.
“Aye, and I will,” he muttered, wincing but still determined to ignore his body's limits. “Jus’ gotta stretch my legs a bit.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “You’re not aloud... Filip the doctor said”
His lips quirked, amusement flickering in his tired gaze. “S’that right?”
His smirk widened slightly. “Y’doin’ a grand impression of a nurse, lass.”
“You’re lucky I don’t tie you to the bed.” you said, exasperated.
That definitely made his smirk worse.
You flushed immediately, realizing how that sounded. “That’s not—”
He chuckled, low and raspy. “Careful now, love. Y’keep talkin’ like that, an’ I might start enjoyin’ this hospital stay.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands in embarasment.
His hand caught your wrists, with a tug, his grip warm but gentle.
His smile softened just enough to make your heart ache.
And for a moment, all the exhaustion faded into the background.
The next morning you'd brought him coffee.
A small peace offering after yesterday’s battle over bed rest.
The cup was still warm when you handed it to him, but instead of drinking it, Chibs just stared at you.
His lips twitched. “Nothin’. Just wonderin’ how long yer plannin’ to fuss over me.”
You rolled your eyes. “Until you’re better.”
You hesitated, caught off guard.
His gaze flickered, watching your reaction.
And just like that, the teasing edge softened, replaced by something quieter.
Chibs had finally been cleared to walk around a bit, So naturally—
“Filip!” you scolded, rushing over as he braced himself against the side of the bed, clearly struggling but too damn proud to admit it. “What are you doing?”
He grumbled under his breath, stubborn as ever. “Jus’ gettin’ my bearings.”
“You just got off bed rest,” you reminded him. “Can you not push it?”
He arched a brow. “D’ye really think a few weeks in a hospital’s gonna make me soft?”
“If you fall on your face, I’m not helping you Scotsman.”
He snorted. “Aye, ye would.”
Then —without warning—Chibs stumbled.
You reacted instantly, hands flying out to catch him, but he grabbed onto you first, his grip firm, steadying himself against your smaller frame.
The air between you shifted.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
His breath was warm against your temple, his hands strong at your waist, fingers curling just slightly—
And when he spoke, low and amused—
“Caught me, didn't ye lass?” he chuckled
—you nearly lost your balance too.
The steady rhythm of the heart monitor was the only real sound in the dim hospital room, save for the occasional rustle of fabric as you shifted in your sleep.
You were curled up in the chair beside Chibs’ bed, your knees drawn up, arms wrapped around yourself.
You looked so small like that.
Chibs let out a slow breath, adjusting slightly against the stiff pillows propping him up. His body still ached, but the pain was manageable. What wasn’t manageable was the weight settling deep in his chest every time he looked at you.
The door creaked open, and he instinctively tensed, but when he turned his head, it was just a nurse—an older woman with a kind face, her hair pulled back in a loose bun.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” she murmured, stepping inside.
“Didn’t,” Chibs rasped, voice rough with sleep. He cleared his throat slightly as she moved to check his IV, adjusting the drip.
Her gaze flicked toward the chair, where you remained curled up, oblivious to the quiet exchange happening around you.
“She’s been here a while, hasn’t she?”
Chibs exhaled through his nose. “Aye.”
The nurse smiled slightly, checking the monitors before scribbling something on her clipboard.
Chibs hesitated. His eyes lingered on you, taking in the way your lips were parted slightly in sleep, the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers still curled loosely over the edge of his blanket like you’d reached for him before drifting off.
“She’s somethin’,” he muttered.
The nurse chuckled under her breath. “That’s not a no.”
Chibs huffed, shaking his head slightly. “Ye ask a lotta questions.”
“And you’re dodging them,” she said with an amused smirk.
Chibs sighed, shifting a little in the bed, his body protesting the movement. His fingers twitched on the blanket, a restless habit he hadn’t quite kicked. He glanced back at you, still tucked into yourself, as if the weight of the world had settled on your shoulders.
"She’s a good one," he admitted after a pause, his voice quieter now. "Too good for this old bastard"
The nurse didn’t respond right away. Instead, she adjusted the blanket over him, smoothing out the wrinkles as if she were soothing a child.
"Maybe," she murmured. “But she doesn’t seem to care.”
Chibs let out a slow breath, tilting his head back against the pillow.
"Aye," he murmured at last, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Chibs exhaled slowly, his brows knitting together as he watched you unconsciously shiver in your sleep. He glanced toward the nurse, who had just finished jotting something down on her clipboard.
"Nurse," he murmured, his voice rough.
She looked up. “You need something?”
He hesitated for half a second before jerking his chin toward the small hospital cabinet, where his kutte had been neatly folded and set aside.
"Me jacket," he muttered. “Put it over her, aye?”
The nurse blinked, surprised, before her expression softened. Without a word, she stepped over to the cabinet, picking up the worn leather vest. The weight of it, heavy in her hands, thick with the scent of leather, whiskey and smoke.
Carefully, she draped the kutte over you, adjusting it so it covered you properly. The leather was far too big, the patches stiff and worn, but the warmth of it seemed to settle over you instantly.
Chibs watched as you shifted slightly in your sleep, instinctively curling into the fabric. A slow breath left his lips, something easing in his chest.
The nurse smiled softly before stepping back, glancing at Chibs. “There. Happy now?”
Chibs didn’t answer right away. His fingers twitched against the blanket as he watched you, the way the kutte dwarfed your frame, the way you instinctively clung to it even in sleep.
After a long pause, he exhaled, his voice barely more than a grumble.
