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(1) Chibs
"This is a bad idea." Juice scrubs his hand over the thin stripe of hair tracing his skull, steps back and fumbles a pack of smokes and a lighter out of his cut. "Chibs... she scares me a little."
Chibs huffs out a dry laugh. "That's not unreasonable, Juicy, and you're not the first." In fact, Chibs is well aware that if he were to start spouting out the list of truly frightening men who'd already admitted to being scared of Fiona, Juice'd likely hop the first plane back to the states and deal with the fallout later.
"Chibs..."
Chibs drops his cigarette half-smoked, crushes it between his boot heel and the stone floor of the alley as he steps closer, risks laying his hand against the warmth of Juice's cheek just because he needs to and despite the risk of his brothers being just around the corner, partying around the bright sparking firepits in the big lot behind Ashby's. There are things that he wishes he could find the words for to tell Juice - how being back in Belfast is a lot like drowning in the mossy lochs of his youth; how being with Fi and Kerrianne is both a constant ache of dread in the pit of his gut and constant sense of free relief at being able to touch them both. How being in Jimmy O's backyard feels a lot like being suicidal - the never ending pressure of that bullet marked for his brain, that knife for his gut, and how it's only the thought of being back in Charming - alone in his bed with Juice - that makes it livable.
How, for all of that, there's part of him that never wants to leave again.
What he says, though, is, "There's no one else I trust with them, Juicy."
"Oh, well, no fucking pressure then. Jesus," Juice grumbles, but Chibs can tell he's got the kid. "Alright, alright. I mean, what's the worst that can happen? She realizes I'm fucking her husband?" Juice laughs a little, sickly, as Chibs feels his guts slide somewhere down around his toes.
"Yeah, lad, about that..."
(2) Juice
Juice doesn't know how he gets himself into shit like this, but he's pretty sure it's some sort of Catholic backlash for skipping his altar boy mass duties to smoke reefer and get his fingers wet under Mary Katherine McCullough's skirt, and also that Chibs owes him a blowjob for this. Or, like, three.
And then he's pretty sure that three blowjobs won't equal out to the ball-crawling sensation of Chibs's wife settling herself next to him on a dumpy sofa in a shabby rectory in Belfast, a neat glass of whiskey in her hand.
Maybe four will do it.
"So, you're the one," Fiona says, brogue lilting as she sips her whiskey and Juice shifts his weight a little, making sure the Taurus .40 is still secure in the small of his back.
"The one?" he asks, and even he can hear the small quaver in his voice.
"The one my husband has taken a fancy to."
Maybe ten.
(3) Fiona
She doesn't want to, but she likes the lad. He's everything that Filip always liked attached to a prick - pretty, and funny, and not quite as dumb as he looks. She's not sure what to do with the fact that this is obviously a mite more than Filip getting a bit of strange, but then... she guesses she does not have the right to ask questions anymore.
Sometimes, she has a hard time believing it's been as long as it has.
So she keeps them both supplied with drinks until the boy - Juice, and Jesus Christ, that's worse than being called Chibs - looks at her conspiratorially and says, "Y'know, I was scared of you, but now... I think I get it."
And she feels a smile come across her face, feels less tired than she has in years as she leans toward him and whispers, "Mind your tongue, lad, or I'll forget that my husband likes it and cut it out."
The kid leans back and laughs at her, and it's suddenly easier to know that she and Kerrianne will be staying here in Belfast, accepting that there was never any doubt about that, despite what she let Filip think.
Easier knowing that Filip has someone to watch him while she can't be there.
-End