@notforcalamity cont from here
He winces - cringes - more out of sympathy for Nora than anything else. In the end, Caleb looks to be merely wrinkling his nose, despite the fact that the whole right side of his face is black and blue.
“Couple of Russian punks,” he half-spits. A smile blossoms, fades, but still lingers, as he raises a hand to cover the one cupping his cheek. He laces his fingers with Nora’s, brings her hand to his lips, and presses a lingering kiss there.
“Eh, there’s some kinda beef between the mother charter and the Irish. There’s this guy that they both want for one reason or another - none of ‘em good. We had to help deliver the package, and it went south. Same ol’, same ol’.”
Caleb moves away from Nora in favor of the living room couch. Shrugging out of his kutte, he bites his lip and slings the leather across the arm of the couch before slumping into the cushions. “I’m fine,” he grunts, and pouts.
❝ A couple . . . ❞ Nora croaks as Caleb stalks away. The butt of her thumb massages the skin on the back of her hand still tingling from the kiss, while Nora watches Caleb strip his colors and fall onto her father’s-- her-- their couch. Same old, same old.
Nora pivots on the balls of her feet and marches through the kitchen to the fridge. There’s an icepack on the third shelf of the freezer side, heavy-duty, hospital-grade, and purchased around the last time mention of the mother charter had followed a kiss off Caleb’s lips. Nora retrieves it, and returns to Caleb, perching beside him and pressing the pack to his temple.
It only takes a moment for curiosity to get the best of her. ❝ Why do the Russians care what SAMCRO’s up to with the Irish ? ❞ she asks. ❝ And, uhm-- and why don’t any of them believe in a fair fight ? If you can’t answer the first, answer that. ❞
