Taglist: @staley83 @kellynickelsgirl00 @mrstelford @samcrosfaith @ravennaortiz @mdonez07 @bluenoon5372 @mayanqueenxx @callmesev @tssweets @im-nada @plaidconvers @zombayyyyy @blackwidownat2814 @bubblegirll26 @synysterlucy
----------------------------------------------------------
TW: Canon typical violence, cussing, mentions of grief and death, torture, death, redrum, alcohol consumption.
Part 5
The Long Way Round - 6
The knock on the door came at seven-thirty in the morning, sharp and insistent, cutting through the comfortable chatter of breakfast preparation. You'd been standing at the stove, flipping pancakes while Ellie and Kenny sat at the kitchen table, still in their pajamas and arguing over who got the last of the strawberry syrup.
"I'll get it," you called softly toward the hallway, knowing that Opie was proably still asleep. He'd come home late the night before—not as late as some nights, but late enough that you'd left his dinner plate wrapped in the refrigerator with a note about reheating instructions. The kids had asked for him during bedtime stories, but you'd managed to distract them with extra chapters and silly voices until they'd forgotten to be disappointed.
The knocking came again, more forceful this time, and you wiped your hands on the dish towel before hurrying to answer it. Through the peephole, you could see an older man with graying hair and a weathered face, an oxygen tank on wheels beside him. He looked familiar, though you couldn't immediately place where you might have seen him before.
When you opened the door, his pale eyes swept over you with the kind of critical assessment that made you suddenly self-conscious about your casual jeans and oversized shirt.
It dawned on you, this was the man from the grocery store, Opie's father, clearly someone who belonged to Opie's world—you could see it in the way he carried himself, the denim vest, the hard set of his jaw, the subtle authority in his posture despite his obvious health struggles.
"And who the hell are you?" he asked without preamble, his voice gravelly and direct. The oxygen cannula in his nose didn't seem to diminish the intensity of his stare.
"I'm... I work for Opie," you managed, instinctively stepping back slightly. "I look after the kids."
"Do you now." It wasn't really a question, more like a challenge. He adjusted his grip on the oxygen tank's handle and took a step closer to the doorway. "Mind if I come in? Got some questions for you."
You hesitated, glancing back toward the kitchen where you could hear the kids starting to wonder where you'd gone. "The children are having breakfast, and Opie's still sleeping..."
"Perfect," Piney said, already moving past you into the house like he owned the place.
"Gives us time to chat."
You followed him helplessly as he made his way toward the kitchen, his oxygen tank swinging beside him with a soft mechanical hiss. The kids looked up when he appeared in the doorway, and their faces immediately brightened with recognition and genuine affection.
"Grandpa!" Ellie squealed, jumping up from her chair to run to him. Kenny was right behind her, both children wrapping themselves around the older man's legs with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for favorite relatives.
"There's my babies," Piney said, his stern expression softening considerably as he ruffled their hair. "You two being good for..." He looked up at you with raised eyebrows, clearly waiting for an introduction.
"This is our friend," Ellie said before you could answer. "She makes the best pancakes ever, and she fixed Mommy's cup when we broke it, and she knows all the best voices for our bedtime stories."
"Does she?" Piney's eyes never left your face, but there was something calculating in his expression now, like he was reassessing his initial assumptions. "And what's your name, sweetheart?"
You told him, your voice coming out smaller than you'd intended. There was something intimidating about Piney, even with two children hanging off him and an oxygen tank. He had the same kind of presence that Opie carried sometimes—that sense of someone who could be intimidating in a heartbeat, but Piney didn't seem to have the same gentleness you'd observed in Opie.
"Sit down, kids," Piney said, gently extricating himself from their embraces. "Let Grandpa talk to your new friend here for a minute."
They obeyed immediately, returning to their breakfast while casting curious glances between you and their grandfather. You moved back to the stove, ostensibly to tend to the remaining pancakes, but really because having something to do with your hands made you feel less exposed under his scrutiny.
"So," Piney said, settling himself against the kitchen counter with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent plenty of time in this house. "You've been here how long now?"
"About two maybe three weeks," you answered, flipping a pancake with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Two or three weeks." He repeated the words like they tasted sour. "Funny thing is, I thought you'd help out for a few days while my son got his shit sorted. Temporary arrangement."
You kept your eyes on the pan, heat creeping up your neck. You weren't sure how to respond to that, weren't sure if Opie had changed his mind about your employment or if he simply hadn't informed his father on the situation, you where sure the trail period was at least a month.
"Yet here you are," Piney continued, his voice taking on an edge that made you glance nervously toward the kids. "Making yourself real comfortable in my daughter-in-law's kitchen, sleeping in my daughter-in-law's bed for all I know."
"I beg your pardon?" you said quickly, turning to face him with the spatula still in your hand. "I have my own place. I help with the kids during the day, and I stay late if Opie's not home yet, but I always leave—"
"Relax," Piney said, holding up a hand. "I'm not accusing you of anything. Yet. I'm just trying to figure out who you are and what your angle is."
"My angle ?" The question came out sharper than you'd intended, and you saw both kids look up from their plates with sudden attention.
"Everyone's got an angle, sweetheart. Some pretty young thing shows up out of nowhere, starts playing house with a grieving widower and his kids? Usually means she's looking for something. Security, maybe. A meal ticket. Or maybe she's just getting her kicks playing savior to a broken family."
The accusation hit you like a slap, and you felt your cheeks burn with a indignation. "Getting her kicks... I would never..."
"Wouldn't you?" Piney's eyes narrowed. "So what are you getting out of this arrangement? Besides a paycheck that I'm guessing is more generous than it needs to be?"
You opened your mouth to respond, then closed it again, suddenly uncertain. What were you getting out of this? The pay was more then fair and the work was demanding in ways you hadn't expected. You'd stayed later occasionally, doing maybe more things that weren't strictly part of your job description. But it was normal to worry about him when he didn't come home on time, wasn't it ?
"She takes care of us," Kenny said suddenly, his small voice cutting through the tension in the room. "When we're sad about Mommy, she makes us feel better. And she doesn't get mad when we cry."
"She fixed Mommy's cup," Ellie added, nodding seriously. "With gold paint and everything. Now it's even more beautiful than before."
Piney's expression shifted slightly, something flickering in his eyes that looked like sudden recognition. He looked at you again, his head tilting slightly to one side.
"Wait a minute," he said slowly. He studied your face more carefully, and you saw the exact moment when recognition dawned. "Son of a bitch. You're the girl from the grocery store."
You blinked, confused by the sudden change in direction. "I'm sorry?"
"A while ago," Piney continued, his voice losing some of its harsh edge. "These two were with me, running around like wild animals crashed right into you by the produce aisle, knocked a whole bunch of shit off the shelves."
The memory came flooding back to him suddenly—a harried afternoon shopping trip.
"You helped clean up the mess," Piney said, his tone almost wondering now. "Didn't make a big deal about it, didn't act like they were little monsters."
"I remember," you said softly, glancing at Kenny, who was watching the conversation with wide eyes.
Kenny was nodding vigorously now. "Me too, I remember! And now she makes us pancakes"
"Thank you, Ken" you smiled despite the tension in the room.
Piney was quiet for a long moment, his weathered hands drumming against the countertop. When he spoke again, his voice had lost most of its hostility.
"These kids don't warm up to people easy," he said. "Not since Donna."
You nodded, remembering your first few days on the job, the way both children had tested some of your boundaries.
"But they like you," Piney observed. "Really like you. And they don't like just anybody anymore."
"They're good kids," you said simply. "They just miss their mom."
"Yeah, they do." He was quiet again, studying your face with those pale, assessing eyes. "And what about their daddy? He miss his wife too?"
The question caught you off guard, and you felt heat rise in your cheeks again. "Of course he does. They were married for—"
"That's not what I'm asking," Piney interrupted. "I'm asking if you've noticed him missing her, or if you've been too busy making him forget."
"Look seriously do yo—" you started, but he held up a hand.
"I'm not saying you would. I'm asking if you have."
You stared at him, unsure how to answer that question. Had you noticed Opie's grief? Of course you had. It was impossible to miss, woven into every interaction, every silence, every moment when his eyes would go distant and hollow.
But had you been trying to make him forget? The possibility that your presence might be somehow inappropriate, that you might be overstepping boundaries you didn't even know existed, even subconsciously, made your stomach churn with anxiety.
"Grandpa Piney," Ellie said suddenly, apparently bored with the adult conversation, "are you gonna take us to school today? In your truck?"
Piney looked down at his granddaughter, his expression softening again. "You want me to take you and your brother to school ?"
"Yes!" both kids chorused, and Kenny added, "Can we sit in the front seat?"
"We'll see," Piney said, but you could tell he was already planning to say yes. He looked back at you, his demeanor noticeably warmer than it had been when he'd first arrived. "You mind if I steal these two for the morning? Give you a chance to wake up sleeping beauty without having to worry about getting them ready."
"Of course," you said, relief flooding through you. "They should probably get dressed first, though."
"Go on," Piney told the kids. "Get yourselves ready for school. Brush your teeth, comb your hair, all that stuff your daddy's always nagging you about."
They raced off toward their bedrooms, chattering excitedly about riding in Grandpa's truck, leaving you and Piney alone in the kitchen. The silence stretched between you, less hostile now but still charged with unspoken questions.
"For what it's worth," Piney said finally, "I don't think you're running some kind of con. You've got an honest face, and these kids are good judges of character."
"Thank you," you said, though you weren't sure if it was really a compliment, especially with the about face the conversation had taken.
"But I'm gonna be watching," he continued. "My son's been through enough hell for one lifetime, and those kids don't need any more disappointment. So whatever this is—" he gestured vaguely around the kitchen, encompassing your presence, the domestic scene, the obvious comfort you'd tried to install back into the home. "—you better be sure you're in it for the right reasons."
You nodded, not trusting your voice to remain steady if you tried to speak.
"And if you hurt them," Piney added, his tone casual but his eyes deadly serious, "if you decide this little game gets too real and you bail on them, I will make your life very fucking difficult. We clear here Sweetheart ?"
"We're clear," you managed, meeting his gaze steadily despite the threat.
He studied you for another moment, then nodded once, apparently satisfied. "Good. Now, where do these kids keep their backpacks?"
By the time Opie emerged from his bedroom twenty minutes later, hair disheveled and still in yesterday's t-shirt, Piney and the kids were long gone. You were cleaning up the breakfast dishes, trying to process everything that had just happened, when you heard his footsteps in the hallway.
"Morning," he said, his voice rough with sleep. "Thought I heard voices earlier."
"Your father stopped by," you said, not turning around from the sink. "He took the kids to school."
There was a long pause behind you, and a very frustrated sigh, when Opie spoke again, his voice was tight with concern. "What did he say?"
You turned to face him then, taking in his worried expression, the way his shoulders were tensed like he was preparing for bad news. "He wanted to know who I was, how long I'd been here, usual stuff. I think he was feeling... protective."
"Shit." Opie ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you he might show up. He can be a real bastard when he thinks someone's taking advantage."
"I think he saw I wasn't intending too ?" The question came out smaller than you'd intended.
"He thinks everyone's taking advantage of me these days," Opie said, moving to the coffee maker with the automatic movements of someone who needed caffeine to function.
"Comes with the territory of being a grieving widower, I guess. Everyone's got an opinion about what I should be doing, who I should be trusting, how I should be raising my own damn kids."
You watched him with careful precision, noting the tired lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders carried a weight that seemed too heavy for any one person.
"He wasn't wrong to be protective," you said quietly. "Your kids have been through enough. They don't need someone unreliable in their lives."
Opie paused in his coffee preparation, glancing at you over his shoulder. "You think you're unreliable?"
The question caught you off guard. "I... no. I don't think so. But I can understand why he'd want to make sure."
"Yeah, well, Pops got trust issues that go back decades," Opie said, hitting the brew button on the coffee maker with more force than necessary. "He's got reasons for them, but that doesn't make it easier to deal with."
You dried your hands on the dish towel, choosing your words carefully. "He recognized me, actually. From the grocery store, about a month ago. The kids ran into me, literally."
Opie turned fully then, leaning against the counter while the coffee maker gurgled to life. "Huh, that right ?"
"Yea," you confirmed. "Small world, I guess."
"Maybe not so small," Opie said, and there was something in his tone that made you look at him more closely. "Maybe just... right place, right time."
The comment hung in the air between you. You found yourself studying his face, the way his unbrushed hair curled slightly at the ends, the careful distance he seemed to maintain even in casual conversation.
"He said the kids don't warm up to people easily," you said finally. "Since their mom passed."
"They don't," Opie confirmed, his voice quieter now. "They've been through a lot of temporary arrangements, unfortunately that's on me."
"And you're worried I'll be the same thing?"
He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the steady drip of coffee into the pot. When he finally answered, his voice was carefully neutral.
"I'm worried about a lot of things these days. But yeah, that's one of them."
You nodded, understanding the weight of that admission. "For what it's worth, I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you decide to fire me."
"Yeah?" He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw something vulnerable in his expression that made your chest tight. "What makes you so sure?"
"Because," you said, echoing similar words to the one's you'd spoken to his children weeks ago about the broken mug, "sometimes when something's been through hell, it doesn't need someone to fix it. It just needs someone to stick around while it fixes itself."
Opie stared at you for a moment, and you saw something shift in his expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition.
"Pops say anything else I should know about?" he asked finally, deflecting from the moment with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned not to dig too deep into dangerous emotional territory.
"Just that he'd be watching," you said, matching his lighter tone. "Making sure I don't hurt you or the kids."
"Sounds about right." Opie poured himself a cup of coffee, inhaling the steam like it was a lifeline. "He's been doing that since I was sixteen and stupid enough to think I knew everything."
"You're lucky," you said, and he raised his eyebrows in question. "To have someone who cares that much. Who's willing to be the bad guy if it means protecting his family."
Opie considered this, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "Never thought about it that way. Usually just feels like a pain in the ass."
"The best protection usually does," you said, smiling slightly. "Ask your kids about it in about ten years."
That earned you a genuine laugh, the first one you'd heard from him in a few days. The sound transformed his entire face, making him look younger, less burdened by the weight of everything he carried.
"Yeah, they're gonna hate me when they're teenagers," he said, still smiling. "Gonna think I'm the most unreasonable, overprotective father."
"Good," you said firmly. "That's exactly what they'll need you to be."
He looked at you then with something that might have been admiration or gratitude or simply surprise that someone understood the impossible balance he was trying to strike between protection and freedom, between holding on and letting go.
"Coffee's good," he said finally, raising his mug in a small salute.
"Thanks for not firing me after your father's interrogation," you replied, and he laughed again, the sound easier this time, more natural.
"Day's still young," he said with mock seriousness, but his eyes were warm with something that felt like acceptance, like trust that went deeper than professional necessity.
The call had come in just after dinner, Jax's voice tight with something that might have been rage—with his best friend, it was often hard to tell the difference.
Opie had been helping Kenny with his math homework when his burner buzzed, the boy's pencil scratching across paper as he worked through subtraction problems with the focused intensity of a six-year-old determined to get every answer right.
"We got him," Jax had said without preamble when Opie answered. "The Mayan who killed Donna. Intel came through an hour ago. We know where he is."
The words had hit Opie with more force then a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs and making his vision blur at the edges. He'd been back for weeks, he'd been trying to build some semblance of a normal life again—getting up with the kids, eating breakfast at his own table, coming home to the sound of voices and laughter instead of crushing silence.
But underneath it all, the rage had been simmering, never quiteing despite the months that had past, waiting for exactly this moment.
"You sure it's him?" His voice had come out rougher than he'd intended, and Kenny had looked up from his homework with confused but worried eyes.
"Positive. We're moving in an hour."
Opie had looked around his kitchen—at Kenny bent over his math problems, at Ellie sprawled on the living room floor with her coloring books, at you moving quietly between the sink and the stove as you sorted dinner.
This was his life now, the life he was trying to build from the ashes of everything he'd lost. But Donna's killer was out there, breathing free air while she lay cold in the ground.
"Yeah," he'd said, already moving toward his bedroom to change clothes. "I'm in."
The next few hours had blurred together in a haze of preparation and anticipation. He'd kissed both kids goodbye, told them to be good for you, ignored the way Ellie's eyes lingered on his face like she could sense something different in his energy.
You'd looked at him with perceptive eyes that seemed to see too much too, but you hadn't asked questions—just nodded when he said he'd be late, reminded him that his dinner would be waiting when he got home.
The ride to the warehouse had been tense, two vans cutting through the Charming night with deadly purpose. Opie rode with Jax, Chibs, and Tig, the familiar weight of his gun reassuring against his ribs.
They'd gone over the plan three times, but it was simple enough—find the Mayan, and then he'd make him pay for what he'd done to Donna.
When they'd cornered him in that abandoned building on the outskirts of town, Opie had expected to feel satisfaction, vindication, something that would ease the constant ache in his chest.
Instead, he'd felt only a cold, focused rage that seemed to sharpen every sense, every movement to a single point.
The Mayan had been younger than he'd expected, with nervous eyes and hands that shook when he saw them coming. When he had grabbed him, demanding confirmation of what he'd done, the man had looked genuinely confused.
"I don't know what you're talking about, man," he'd stammered, his accent thick with fear.
"I never killed nobody's old lady. You got the wrong guy."
For a moment, doubt had flickered in Opie's mind. The man seemed genuinely bewildered, not like someone trying to save his own skin with lies.
But then Jax was pulling him aside, asking Opie what the hell he was doing, with both men occupied Tig was stepping forward with the frantic detrimination that meant someone was about to have a very bad day.
Tig's shot to the man's cheek had been precise, calculated—not to kill, but to destroy his ability to speak, to plead, to deny what some of SAMCRO had decided the truth Opie heard was going to be. Blood had sprayed across the concrete floor, and the Mayan had fallen to his knees, clutching his ruined face with both hands.
What followed had been brutal and methodical. Opie had lost himself in it, channeling months of grief and rage and helplessness into every blow, every cut.
When it was over, when the man lay still and silent on the warehouse floor, Opie had taken out his knife and carved a letter 'A' deep into the cooling flesh of his belly—a message for anyone who found the body, a claim of responsibility that would ensure the right people knew exactly who had done this and why.
The drive home had been different from the ride out. The adrenaline was still pumping through his system, making his hands shake and his heart race, but underneath it was something else—not the satisfaction he'd expected, but a unfillable hollow emptiness that felt disturbingly familiar.
He'd killed the man who murdered his wife, and somehow he felt exactly the same as he had that morning.
It was nearly midnight when he pulled into his driveway, surprised to see lights still on in the house. You should have been gone hours ago—your day officially ended at seven, and it was well past that now.
But as he sat in his truck, trying to get his breathing under control, he could see your silhouette moving past the kitchen window.
The reality of what he'd just done hit him as he walked toward the garage. There was blood on his kutte, dark stains that looked black in the dim light. His gloves were worse, soaked through in places where he'd gotten too close to his work.
The smell of it clung to him—metallic and sharp and wrong.
He couldn't go inside like this. Not with you there, not with the kids sleeping just down the hall. Whatever innocence you'd brought into his house, whatever peace you'd helped him build over the past few weeks, he couldn't contaminate it with this. Not tonight.
In the garage, he stripped off his kutte and gloves with mechanical precision, stuffing them onto a hook resigned to the fact that he'd deal with them tomorrow. His t-shirt was mostly clean, just a few small spatters that could have been anything. His hands were another story—stained with blood that had seeped through the seems of the gloves, dirt and grime under his fingernails that told their own story.
He scrubbed them in the utility sink until the water ran clear, until his skin was raw and red but finally clean. Only then did he allow himself to go inside, slipping through the back door as quietly as possible.
You were at the stove, stirring something that smelled like home—comfort food that made his chest just a little tighter. When you heard him come in, you turned with a smile that faltered slightly when you saw his face.
"Hey," you said softly, your voice careful in the way it got when you sensed something was wrong but didn't want to push. "The kids went down around eight, a little restless but no real problems with bedtime."
"Thanks," he managed, his voice coming out rougher than he'd intended. "You didn't have to stay this late."
"I wasn't going to leave them here alone," you said simply, as if the idea was absurd, which it was. "Besides, I figured you'd be hungry when you got home."
The casual kindness of it—the fact that you'd stayed, that you'd kept his dinner warm, that you'd taken care of his children without being paid for it—hit him harder than it should have.
A few hours ago, he'd been carving letters into a dead man's belly, and now he was standing in his kitchen while someone showed him more consideration than he deserved.
"Everything okay?" you asked, ladling what looked like beef stew into a bowl. "You seem... I don't know. Off."
He sat heavily at the kitchen table, running both hands through his hair. The adrenaline was finally starting to fade, leaving him feeling wrung out. "Long night," he said, which was true enough.
You set the bowl in front of him along with a few pieces of buttered bread, then poured yourself a glass of water and sat across from him. You didn't eat—just sat there with that patient, gentle presence that had become so familiar over the past weeks.
"Want to talk about it?" you asked quietly.
The question hung between you both, loaded with more weight than you could possibly realize. He could tell you everything—about the phone call, about the warehouse, about the way the Mayan's blood had felt warm against his hands. He could watch the horror bloom in your eyes, watch you realize exactly what kind of man you'd been working for, what kind of world his children were growing up in.
Yea, real smart, he thought, maybe he could hold the door open and wave you off too, you'd bolt if you knew what he'd done only hours beforehand.
Instead, he took a bite of the stew and tried to find words that wouldn't shatter the fragile peace you'd helped him build.
"Nothing you need to worry about." he said finally.
You nodded, accepting the non-answer with the same grace you brought to everything else. "Must have been important, to keep you out this late."
"Yeah." He forced himself to eat another spoonful, even though he had no appetite. "It was."
For a while, you both sat in comfortable silence. You scrolled through something on your phone while he methodically worked his way through the bowl, grateful for the normalcy of it, for the way you didn't feel the need to fill every quiet moment with conversation.
"The kids asked about you at bedtime," you said eventually. "Kenny wanted to know if you were coming home tonight, and Ellie made me promise to tell you that she finished her book report."
"She's been working on that thing for ages," Opie said, and despite everything, he felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "What's it about again?"
"Charlotte's Web. She's very passionate about the injustice of Wilbur almost becoming bacon, she may have adjusted the grocery list." You grinned. "She spent twenty minutes explaining to me why Charlotte was the real hero of the story, not Wilbur."
"Sounds about right." He pushed the empty bowl away, feeling more human than he had since walking into that warehouse. "She gets worked up about things she cares about."
"Sounds like her dad," you said quietly, and there was something in your tone that made him look up sharply.
You were watching him with those too-perceptive eyes, and for a moment he wondered if you could see right through him, if somehow you knew exactly where he'd been and what he'd done. But then you looked away, gathering up his dishes with efficient movements.
"I should probably head home," you said. "Let you get some rest. You look exhausted."
He was exhausted—bone-deep tired in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep and everything to do with the weight of carrying so much rage for so long. But he wasn't ready for you to leave yet, wasn't ready to be alone with his thoughts and the memory of what he'd done.
"Stay," he said, the word coming out before he could stop it. When you looked at him in surprise, he cleared his throat and tried again. "I mean, it's late. You could... if you wanted to crash on the couch tonight, instead of driving home this late."
You considered this, head tilted slightly. "I wouldn't want to impose."
"You're not imposing." The truth of that hit him as he said it. Your presence in his house hadn't felt like an imposition since those first couple days—quite the opposite.
You'd brought something with you that he hadn't even realized he'd been missing, the sense that this place could be a home again, not just a house where he and his kids existed.
"It's okay," you said finally. "I always sleep better in my own bed"
You moved around his kitchen with the easy familiarity of the past few weeks, cleaning up the dinner dishes, checking that the doors were locked, turning off lights. Normal, domestic actions that somehow felt more intimate than they should have.
When you disappeared down the hall to check on the kids—something you did every night before leaving, he'd noticed—Opie remained at the kitchen table, staring at his hands. They looked clean now, scrubbed raw under the harsh fluorescent light, but he could still feel the ghost of blood on them, still smell the metallic tang that seemed to cling to his skin.
He'd gotten his revenge. He'd looked his wife's killer in the eye and made him pay for what he'd done. So why did he feel so empty? Why did the rage that had sustained him for months feel like it was collapsing in on itself, leaving nothing but a hollow ache where his heart used to be?
"They're both knocked out." you said softly, reappearing in the kitchen doorway. "Kenny's got a small army of stuffed animals in bed with him, and Ellie's sleeping with her book report under her pillow."
"She does that sometimes," Opie said. "Sleeps with things that are important to her."
"Smart girl. Keeps the important things close." You paused in the doorway, studying his face with that gentle concern that made his chest tight. "Are you sure you're okay? You've seemed... different since you got home."
Different. If only you knew how different. A few hours ago, he'd been a killer, hands bloody with righteous vengeance. Now he was just a tired man sitting in his kitchen, grateful for the presence of someone who saw him as nothing more dangerous than a grieving father trying to hold his life together.
"Just tired," he said, which again was true enough. "It's been a long day."
You nodded, accepting the explanation even though he could see in your eyes that you didn't entirely believe it. "Well, I'll be off, I'll see you tomorrow Ope."
"Thank you," he said, and meant it more than he could express.
"That's what I'm here for, just doing my job." you said simply, and then you were gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the weight of what he'd done.
Later, lying in his bed and staring at the ceiling, Opie couldn't sleep turning over for what felt like the millionth time.
He'd killed a man tonight.
As he lay there, Opie couldn't help but wonder why he was worried about you discovering what he had done. You, who had shown his kids kindness and understanding when they needed it most.
Carved his club's initial into cooling flesh and felt nothing but hollowed out instead of satisfaction he'd been imagining.
You, who had looked at him with empathy rather than judgment.
Perhaps, deep down, he feared that your perception of him would shatter, and his kids would loose the new anchor.
That had to be it, it was just worry for his kids, nothing to do with your too-perceptive eyes.
With a heavy sigh, Opie closed his eyes, trying to push away the nagging thoughts and find some solace in the fact that, with the help of his brothers the man who had snatched his wife from his kids, was rotting in a cold warehouse.
