Chibs Telford (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader
You’re a nurse at St. Thomas and Chibs keeps ending up in your ER with increasingly ridiculous excuses for why he’s injured.
The first time you met Chibs Telford, he was bleeding on your trauma bay floor and swearing in three languages.
You were twelve hours into a fourteen-hour shift at St Thomas' Hospital ER, your scrubs smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, and one of the interns had just cried in the medication room because a patient screamed at her over wait times.
So when the paramedics rolled in a tall Scottish man with a split eyebrow and blood soaking through a flannel shirt, you barely looked up from your chart.
“Thirty-something male,” the paramedic said. “Bar fight. Possible broken ribs. Vitals stable. Refused pain meds because apparently he’s ‘not a wee bitch.’”
The patient pointed weakly toward the paramedic. “That’s no’ what I said.”
“Close enough.”
You finally glanced over.
And paused.
He was… striking.
Not pretty. Not polished. Nothing soft about him. Scars carved across his face. Dark hair hanging damp around his temples. Leather kutte tossed over his lap with a reaper patch visible beneath the blood. Eyes soft even through obvious pain.
Dangerous, your brain supplied immediately.
Your exhausted brain supplied right after: unfortunately hot.
“Name?” you asked professionally.
“Filip Telford.”
“Age?”
“Depends who’s askin’.”
You deadpanned. “The woman deciding whether you’ve got internal bleeding.”
“…Forty-eight.”
“See? Wasn’t hard.”
His mouth twitched.
You pulled gloves on and moved toward him. “What happened?”
“Fell.”
The paramedic barked a laugh loud enough that another nurse looked over.
You lifted an unimpressed brow.
Chibs sighed dramatically. “Fine. Got punched.”
“Why?”
“Man was upset.”
“With?”
“A variety of things.”
“Did one of those things include your face?”
Another twitch of amusement.
“You always this friendly, nurse?”
“Only with patients actively wasting my time.”
You started cutting away the bloodied shirt before he could protest. Bruising bloomed across his ribs already, ugly purple spreading over tattooed skin.
And Christ.
The man was built like he’d been carved out of bad decisions and whiskey.
“You fractured anything before?” you asked.
“Aye.”
“How many times?”
“Yes.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
His eyes sharpened immediately at the sound, like he’d discovered something interesting.
You ignored it.
“You allergic to anything?”
“Hospitals.”
“Mhm.”
“Authority.”
“Noted.”
“Cheap beer.”
That finally got a laugh out of you.
Small. Brief. But real.
And something about it hit him square in the chest.
You saw it happen.
The way he looked at you afterward changed completely.
Not flirtatious exactly.
Focused.
Like he’d decided to remember you.
You didn’t expect to see him again.
Men like him came into emergency departments all the time. Fights. Crashes. Stabbings they refused to explain. Dangerous men with dangerous jobs and worse survival instincts.
Usually they disappeared back into the world after discharge papers.
But three weeks later, Filip Telford came back into your ER with a nail through his hand.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“…Again?” you asked.
“Aye.”
“How.”
“Construction accident.”
You looked at the leather kutte.
Then at the tattoos.
Then at the very obvious motorcycle boots.
“Right.”
“I’m diversifyin’.”
“Into carpentry?”
“Tryin’ new things.”
The nail had gone clean through the fleshy part of his palm. Painful but survivable.
Still stupid.
Very stupid.
“Sit,” you ordered.
Obediently—shockingly—he sat.
Your coworker Nina wandered past, glanced at him, and immediately grinned.
“Oh, your boyfriend’s back.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
Chibs looked deeply pleased by the accusation.
Nina pointed at the nail. “What’d you do this time, handsome?”
“Construction accident.”
She looked at you.
You looked at her.
Together, in perfect sync: “Bullshit.”
Chibs laughed.
Low and rough and genuinely entertained.
You cleaned the wound carefully while he watched you instead of the procedure.
“You always this accident-prone?” you muttered.
“Only recently.”
“Mhm.”
“You think I’m lyin’.”
“I think if I asked ten follow-up questions, your story would collapse instantly.”
“Aye, probably.”
You glanced up. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“Honest with you.”
The words landed strangely between you.
Not flirtation.
Not entirely.
Just… truth.
And for reasons you couldn’t explain, that was worse.
You finished wrapping his hand.
“Try not to impale yourself for at least a month.”
“No promises.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet ye patched me up anyway.”
“That’s literally my job.”
“Aye.” His eyes stayed on yours. “Still.”
The third visit happened at two in the morning.
You walked into Trauma Two and stopped dead.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Chibs looked up from the hospital bed, nose visibly broken and ice pack pressed to his face.
“There she is.”
“You cannot keep coming here.”
“Technically I can.”
“You look like someone hit you with a car.”
“Motorcycle, actually.”
You blinked slowly.
“…You drove your motorcycle into something.”
“No.”
“Something drove into you?”
“Aye.”
“That’s worse.”
He shrugged and immediately winced.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, grabbing gloves. “What happened?”
“Dog ran into the road.”
“You crashed avoiding a dog?”
“Wasn’t gonna hit the wee thing.”
You tried not to react to that.
Failed a little.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Did the dog live?” you asked quietly.
“Aye.”
“Okay. Good.”
He smiled through the swelling.
And there it was again—that sharp strange pull in your chest.
Because he looked terrifying.
Scarred and bruised and tattooed and built like violence.
But he’d wrecked his bike to save a stray dog.
You examined his nose carefully.
“Broken.”
“Figured.”
“You have a concussion?”
“Probably.”
“You say that like it’s normal.”
“Depends on the month.”
You sighed heavily.
“You are absolutely my worst patient.”
“And yet ye sound fond.”
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
You pressed gently against his ribs and he hissed.
“Bruised,” you said. “Nothing cracked this time.”
“Improvin’.”
“Debatable.”
When you stepped back, he caught your wrist lightly.
Not enough to restrain.
Just enough to stop you moving away.
His hand was warm even through your gloves.
“Name,” he said softly.
You frowned. “You know my name. It’s on my badge.”
“Aye. Your last name.”
You hesitated.
It was stupid to hesitate.
But something about him felt… dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with physical harm.
Dangerous because he paid attention.
Dangerous because every time he looked at you, you felt seen in a way you weren’t used to.
“Nurse confidentiality,” you said finally.
He grinned despite the broken nose. “That bad, eh?”
“You’d survive without it.”
“Maybe.”
But he looked disappointed.
And annoyingly, that bothered you.
After the fourth visit, your coworkers started taking bets.
“I’m serious,” Nina said over coffee. “That man is in love with you.”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
“He keeps nearly dying in increasingly creative ways to come see you.”
“That is not what’s happening.”
From the other side of the break room, Dr. Harrison looked up from his sandwich.
“The biker with the accent?”
“Yes,” Nina said.
“He asked if you were working before he agreed to stitches last week.”
You froze.
“…What?”
Dr. Patel shrugged. “Thought you knew.”
You absolutely did not know.
And suddenly several things clicked into place.
The suspicious timing.
The weirdly selective compliance.
The fact that he always somehow ended up in your section of the ER.
“Oh my God.”
Nina looked delighted. “OH MY GOD.”
“It’s not like that.”
“It is absolutely like that.”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands.
Unfortunately, your traitorous stomach fluttered.
The fifth visit involved a ferret.
To this day, you still weren’t entirely sure how.
“What do you mean it bit you,” you demanded.
Chibs sat on the bed looking genuinely offended. “The little bastard was aggressive.”
“Why were you near a ferret?”
“Friend owns one.”
“Why.”
“Ask him.”
“Did you try to pet it?”
“Aye.”
“You absolute idiot.”
“It looked friendly.”
You stared at the bite on his arm.
Then at him.
Then back at the bite.
“You’re in a motorcycle club.”
“Aye.”
“You’ve been stabbed.”
“A few times.”
“Shot?”
A pause.
“…Maybe.”
“And a ferret is what gets you?”
“Mock me all ye like, nurse, but the wee demon drew blood.”
You laughed so hard you had to sit down.
Actually laughed.
Not the tired polite version you gave patients.
Real laughter.
Tears-in-your-eyes laughter.
And Chibs looked at you like he’d gladly get mauled by a thousand ferrets if it meant hearing that sound again.
The realization hit him suddenly.
Hard.
Oh.
Oh, he was in trouble.
You learned things about him in pieces.
Never all at once.
He rode with the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original.
He smoked too much.
He drank whiskey like water.
He had a daughter he spoke about with a softness that transformed him.
He was fiercely loyal.
Protective to a fault.
Smarter than people expected.
And lonely in a way that settled deep in his bones.
He learned things about you too.
You worked too many hours.
You forgot to eat when stressed.
You hummed unconsciously while charting.
You had a habit of touching people gently even when they were difficult because you believed fear deserved kindness.
You laughed hardest when exhausted.
And despite spending your life taking care of everyone else, almost nobody took care of you.
That one bothered him.
A lot.
The sixth visit was bad.
Actually bad.
No jokes.
No ridiculous excuse.
No teasing.
You walked into trauma and your stomach dropped.
Blood.
So much blood.
Chibs sat slumped on the gurney pale beneath his beard, one hand clamped over his abdomen while another biker hovered nearby.
You recognized him vaguely from previous drop-offs.
Tall. Blond. Panicked.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathed.
Chibs looked up slowly.
And even half-conscious, bleeding through gauze, he relaxed when he saw you.
“There’s my girl.”
Your heart stumbled.
Professional.
Stay professional.
“What happened?” you snapped.
“Knife wound,” the blond man said quickly. “He wouldn’t let us call sooner.”
“Because he’s an idiot,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” the blond agreed immediately.
You cut through layers of blood-soaked fabric with shaking hands you prayed nobody noticed.
The wound was deep.
Too deep.
Fear hit you hard and sudden.
Not patient fear.
Not the detached clinical concern you were trained for.
Personal fear.
Sharp enough to hurt.
“Filip,” you said firmly. “Stay with me.”
His eyes dragged to yours immediately.
“There y’are.”
“You are not allowed to flirt while bleeding out.”
A weak grin.
“Bossy.”
“Pressure’s dropping,” another nurse warned.
Your pulse spiked.
“OR now.”
The blond biker moved aside as they rushed the bed forward, but before Chibs disappeared through the doors, his hand caught yours weakly.
Just for a second.
Enough.
And quietly, almost too quiet to hear:
“Didn’t mean t’scare ye.”
Then he was gone.
You couldn’t stop shaking afterward.
Nina found you in the supply room twenty minutes later.
“You okay?”
“No.”
The honesty surprised both of you.
You leaned against the shelves and pressed a hand over your mouth.
“I shouldn’t care this much.”
Nina’s expression softened instantly.
“Oh.”
“He could’ve died.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No, but—” Your voice cracked unexpectedly. “God, Nina, I thought he was going to die.”
And there it was.
The thing you’d both been avoiding naming.
Because somewhere between broken ribs and ferret bites and late-night teasing conversations, Filip Telford had become important.
Terrifyingly important.
He was in recovery for three days.
You visited exactly zero times.
Because that would be inappropriate.
Unprofessional.
Dangerous.
You absolutely did not stand outside his room twice during shift changes.
You absolutely did not ask for updates from his surgeon.
You absolutely did not feel sick every time someone mentioned complications.
On day four, you walked into work to find a coffee sitting at the nurses’ station.
Your exact order.
You frowned.
Nina smirked from across the hall. “Guess who’s ambulatory.”
You turned.
And there he was.
Pale still. Slower moving. One hand pressed carefully against healing stitches beneath his flannel.
Alive.
Your chest physically hurt with relief.
Chibs watched the emotion cross your face and looked strangely overwhelmed by it.
“Hi, nurse.”
“You should not be walking around.”
“Doctor said light activity.”
“This does not qualify as light activity.”
“Brought ye coffee.”
You stared at him.
At the careful way he stood like the movement hurt.
At the exhaustion under his eyes.
At the fact he’d come here first.
“You got stabbed,” you said quietly.
“Aye.”
“You could’ve died.”
His expression changed.
Softened.
And for the first time since meeting him, the joking disappeared completely.
“I know.”
Silence stretched.
People moved around you both.
Phones rang.
Machines beeped.
But suddenly it felt strangely private.
“You scared me,” you admitted finally.
The words seemed to hit him harder than the knife had.
His throat moved.
“Sorry, lass.”
You looked down at the coffee because the tenderness in his voice was too much.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Aye.”
“You keep getting injured in increasingly ridiculous ways.”
“To be fair, gettin’ stabbed was less ridiculous than the ferret.”
A startled laugh escaped you.
And just like that, the heaviness cracked.
His eyes warmed instantly at the sound.
God.
You were in trouble too.
After that, things changed.
Subtly at first.
Then all at once.
He started stopping by when he wasn’t injured.
Which honestly should’ve been reassuring, except somehow it wasn’t.
Because injured Chibs at least gave you an excuse.
Healthy Chibs showing up with coffee just to see you was significantly more dangerous.
“You know,” Nina said one morning while watching him lean against the nurses’ desk talking to you, “most people buy flowers during courtship.”
“He’s not courting me.”
At the desk, Chibs caught your eye and smirked slowly like he knew exactly what was being discussed.
Traitor.
Nina snorted. “That man looks at you like you invented sunlight.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“And you’re doomed.”
One night near the end of your shift, you found him outside the hospital smoking.
Rain misted lightly over London streets.
He looked tired.
Older somehow.
You approached carefully. “You know those’ll kill you.”
“Aye.”
“You say that very casually.”
“Occupational hazard.”
You leaned beside him against the wall.
For a while neither of you spoke.
Then quietly, he said, “Ye ever think about quittin’?”
“The ER?”
“Aye.”
“All the time.”
“But ye won’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
You thought about it.
About the exhaustion.
The trauma.
The impossible hours.
The heartbreak.
Then about the little old lady who squeezed your hand last week because you sat with her while she was scared.
About saving lives.
About making unbearable things slightly less unbearable.
“Because it matters,” you said softly.
He looked at you for a long moment.
“Aye,” he murmured. “That sounds like you.”
The rain grew heavier.
You should’ve gone back inside.
Instead you stayed.
“You know,” you said eventually, “I still don’t believe half your injury stories.”
“Only half?”
“Maybe less.”
He grinned.
Then winced because apparently smiling still pulled at healing stitches.
“You really should consider safer hobbies.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Knitting.”
“Can ye imagine?”
Despite yourself, you did.
Chibs Telford sitting in a leather kutte knitting aggressively.
You burst out laughing.
And he looked absurdly pleased with himself.
The first time he touched you outside the hospital, it was accidental.
Mostly.
You’d fallen asleep in the break room during a brutal overnight shift.
Head on folded arms.
Completely dead to the world.
Until warmth brushed hair gently away from your face.
You startled awake instantly.
Chibs froze beside your chair.
“Sorry, lass.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Brought food.”
You blinked blearily at the takeaway bags.
“…You brought me food?”
“Nina said ye forgot dinner again.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Nobody did things like that for you.
Not really.
And the terrifying part was how natural it seemed to him.
Like caring for you wasn’t a big deal.
Like you were worth the effort automatically.
“Filip…”
He looked suddenly uncertain.
“I can stop.”
“No.” Too fast. You softened immediately. “No, I just…”
Emotion clogged your throat unexpectedly.
Exhaustion made you vulnerable.
Dangerously vulnerable.
“You remembered,” you whispered.
Something shifted in his face then.
Something deep and aching.
Because he knew that tone.
Knew what it meant when people were surprised by kindness.
Slowly, carefully, he crouched beside your chair.
“You matter t’me, lass.”
The words shattered something in you.
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
At the scars cutting across his face.
At tired blue eyes.
At rough hands capable of violence and tenderness in equal measure.
At the man who kept showing up.
Again and again and again.
And suddenly it became impossible to pretend this was casual.
“You matter to me too,” you admitted.
His breath caught.
Silence.
Then very gently:
“Dangerous thing, that.”
“Yeah,” you whispered.
It really was.
The seventh ER visit happened because he got shot in the ass.
You stared at the chart for a full ten seconds before entering the room because surely you’d read it wrong.
You had not.
“You got shot in the ass.”
“To be fair—”
“No. No, there is no ‘to be fair’ here.”
“It grazed.”
“You got grazed in the ass.”
“Aye.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose while he laughed helplessly.
“You are the stupidest man alive.”
“Probably.”
“How does this even happen?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“That is not an occupation!”
“Debatable.”
You pointed sternly. “Pants off.”
His eyebrows lifted immediately.
“Buy me dinner first.”
“Filip.”
“Worth a try.”
You were trying so hard not to smile.
And failing.
Terribly.
As he shifted carefully onto the bed, he hissed in pain.
Instantly your amusement faded.
“You okay?”
The softness in your voice seemed to catch him off guard.
“Aye.”
“You sure?”
His gaze held yours.
Then quietly:
“Better now.”
Oh.
Oh, you were absolutely doomed.
By then, everyone knew.
Not officially.
You still hadn’t kissed.
Hadn’t dated.
Hadn’t crossed the line hanging between you both.
But the entire ER knew.
The bikers definitely knew.
And judging by the amused looks you occasionally got from heavily tattooed men dropping Chibs off, they found the whole thing hysterical.
One afternoon a man with dark, curly hair and sunglasses leaned over the nurses’ station while Chibs was getting stitches.
“You the nurse?”
You looked up cautiously. “Yes?”
He grinned. “Thanks for keepin’ our boy alive.”
Before you could answer, Chibs shouted from the bed:
“Fuck off, Tig.”
“Make me.”
“You’re bleedin’ on my floor,” you called calmly. “Behave.”
Tig blinked.
Then burst out laughing.
“Oh, this is serious serious.”
Chibs looked genuinely murderous.
You had no idea why that made warmth bloom in your chest.
It happened three months after the stabbing.
Not during some dramatic moment.
Not after a near-death experience.
Not in pouring rain or under fireworks or whatever nonsense romance movies preferred.
It happened at four in the morning in a hospital vending machine alcove.
You were exhausted.
He was bruised again—minor this time, thank God.
And both of you were sharing terrible coffee while the hospital hummed quietly around you.
“You know,” you said, “normal people usually meet in bars.”
“Aye?”
“Or through friends.”
“Mm.”
“We met because you apparently view bodily injury as a hobby.”
“In my defense, ye looked pretty the first time.”
You choked on coffee.
He grinned.
“You cannot say things like that casually.”
“Why no’?”
“Because I’m holding near-boiling liquid.”
“Avoidin’ the compliment, I see.”
You looked away because he was watching you too closely.
Too warmly.
“You flirt more when sleep deprived,” you muttered.
“And ye blush when complimented.”
“I do not.”
“Lass, your ears are red.”
“Oh my God.”
His laugh was soft this time.
Fond.
Dangerously fond.
The vending machine buzzed quietly beside you.
Then he said, very carefully:
“Can I take ye to dinner?”
Your heart stuttered.
There it was.
The thing that had been coming for months.
Real.
Terrifying.
You looked at him.
At the hope hidden carefully behind humor.
At the vulnerability he tried so hard to mask.
And suddenly the answer felt obvious.
“Yes.”
He blinked.
Actually blinked.
Like he’d expected resistance.
“You sure?”
“You got shot in the ass for me.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Debatable.”
A grin spread slowly across his face.
Warm. Real. Beautiful in a rough uneven way.
And before fear could stop you, you leaned forward and kissed him.
Soft.
Brief.
Coffee and smoke and whiskey and surprise.
For one stunned second he didn’t move at all.
Then one hand cupped your jaw carefully—so carefully for a man built like violence—and he kissed you back.
Like you were something precious.
Something he’d been afraid to break.
When you pulled away, both of you looked a little wrecked.
“Well,” Chibs said hoarsely.
“Well,” you echoed.
“That seemed promising.”
You laughed quietly.
And God, the look on his face after hearing that sound while kissing you—
You were never surviving it.
