Sons of Anarchy fic: A Study of Courtly Love in Leather and Chrome, Tig Trager
This was the first year I was familiar enough to write more than one of the requests in my Yuletide assignment, and as soon as I saw that, I knew I wanted to try to write more than one story for my recipient.
This was a hard story to write, even though I was intrigued by the idea of a story about courtly love. Part of the problem was that I hadn't finished the season yet, and part of the problem was that I really, truly hate Tig. I hate Tig a lot. I find him a sick and disturbing man in a world that is built on killers and gun runners and sick and disturbing men. I hate him partly because of what he did in season one (being purposely vague here, but probably if you are reading this and are familiar with the show, you've already seen my rage) and partly because of some little aside comments that get made about him and the way he treats the women he fucks.
So it was very, very freaking difficult to write a story in which he is, more or less, the romantic lead. I hope this story works despite my dislike of the main character, and I tried to twist in a bit of a commentary on what the show basically holds up as a joke. I also tried to balance in the fact that I fully believe Tig is enamored with Gemma and always has been.
Title: A Study of Courtly Love in Leather and Chrome
Author: escritoireazul
Written for: turnonmyheels for Yuletide 2010
Rating: 13+
Spoilers: Through season three, though it veers away.
Word Count: 1300+
Author's Note: This is a transformative work of fiction for the television series Sons of Anarchy.
Summary: Tig is a story without order, without beginning or end.
Picture, if you will, the tableaux: The dark-haired beauty who will inherit the throne and rule beside her prince; all who cross her shall look on her and despair. Kneeling before her, head bowed, the knight who cannot bear to stand one moment more now that he has returned to his most beloved. Her hand, so delicate, outstretched to brush her fingertips against his hair.
She is no princess, this woman, but a doctor brave and true, and he no knight in shining armor.
***
He who is not jealous cannot love.
A long strand of Tara’s hair, torn loose as she rushed into the clubhouse, falls across her face. Her gloved hands are slick with blood and she can’t spare one to brush it out of her eyes. She squints against the strand and gives her head a little shake, trying to toss it out of the way.
Tig’s fingers twitch. He’s halfway across the room, keeping out of her way while she stitches up Juice. Sweat shines on her forehead and upper lip and the tremor in her upper arm gives away how fucking nervous she is. There’s a shadow of dirt on her jaw, or maybe the faintest trace of blood flaking away. He can’t tell, not with the bright light over Juice throwing harsh shadows across her face.
He should know blood from dirt. Tig frowns and stubs out his cigarette.
Of course Jax is right there next to her, all pretty little prince watching her like she’s the goddamn queen. Not queen yet, and they’d do good to remember it. Tig’s eyes flick to Gemma, who’s standing back, out of the way but there so Juice can see her when he opens his eyes. She takes care of her family, even when Tara’s the one getting her hands dirty.
Jax reaches over and tucks that strand of hair behind Tara’s ear. She blinks up at him a second and her mouth trembles when she smiles.
Tig clenches his hand around his shot glass. It’s empty, the glass warm and dry. He tightens his jaw and a sharp tension rushes up the back of his neck. He wants some damn whiskey or the bite of tequila masking the bitter aftertaste of jealousy.
***
That which a lover takes against the will of his beloved has no relish.
Tara dabs at his split lip with a small cloth. It’s faded from washing and soft. Probably it was a baby cloth once, but now it’s something of Tara’s, cupped so gently in her hand. Her hair is loose and spills forward over her shoulders.
She put on weight with the baby and then more weight after and now she looks lush and sexy as hell. Tig shoves his hands into his pockets so he won’t touch her, slide his hand from her hip up to the rise of her breast.
His side aches. The knife went in clean at least, and Tara stitched him up no problem. All that’s left for her to take care of is his busted mouth. Twisted as people think he is when it comes to sex -- and yeah, he’s done some nasty things that sort of make him sick to think about -- Tara’s gentle touch is almost too much.
Picture, if you will, the tableaux: She curls her thumb along his jaw and he is undone.
“You’d better start watching your back,” Tara teases, her voice affectionate. “One of these days I’m not going to be able to patch you.”
“Liar.” He lets himself touch three fingers to her wrist. “You can fix anyone.”
There’s a momentary sadness in her eyes, but the she smiles, bright and beautiful just for him. “I do my best.” Her hand lingers against his face, only the soft cloth separating their skin.
Tig slides his fingers across the back of her hand, covering it by touching his mouth after, testing the wound. She lets the cloth fall against his hand, a token already marked by his blood.
“Thanks, Doc,” he says and flashes her a lecherous grin.
***
Love can deny nothing to love.
Tara smothers a laugh as she gets behind the wheel.
“I don’t see what’s so goddamn funny,” Tig snarls and kicks his feet hard into her floorboard.
“Yeah, big bad biker grounded by the law, nothing funny about that.” She sounds serious, her voice steady, but when he looks, he catches the wide grin.
“What the hell am I gonna do?” He switches his glare to the police station he can still see through the windshield. No way he can stay mad at her for long. ‘Sides, she just got him out of jail.
“Bus pass?” Tara giggles again and starts the car.
Tig’s still pissed off, but sorta he can see the funny side, too. Or at least the side that makes Tara so happy after she’s stormed around for weeks. He don’t blame her. Jax has been a little shit lately.
He slumps in the seat and breathes in. The car smells like her. Not often he gets to surround himself with her like this, the sweet smell of her shampoo and perfume and the warmth of her body. This is her space, Jax hasn’t marked it at all.
Takes him a second to realize Tara’s staring at him and even longer to figure out they aren’t moving.
“What?”
“Buckle up.”
“Come on!” He hates being bound like that. Bad enough he’s in a box instead of on his bike, but damn it, no, enough is enough.
But Tara keeps watching him, her hands resting on her thighs, and with a stream of curses to cover up the way she makes his heart beat, he fists the buckle and slams it down, locking himself into the car.
“Good boy,” she teases and the corner of his mouth lifts.
Picture, if you will, the tableaux: He captures her hand in his and kisses her fingertips as ardently as he would her mouth, and the moment is frozen between them as they share their perfect, secret understanding.
***
Boys do not love until they arrive at the age of maturity.
Jax sneers at Clay, his lower lip puffed out. Tig presses his fists against his thighs under the table. He wants to rear up and knock him around until Jax stops acting like a spoiled little kid who's being sent to bed without supper.
***
Every lover regularly turns pale in the presence of his beloved.
A brisk wind blows fresh air and Tara into the clubhouse. At the bar, Tig can smell rain and wet grass and her perfume. She shakes water from her hair and leaves her raincoat draped over the back of a chair near the door, then makes her way over to where Jax and Opie play pool.
“Better drink up,” Chibs claps his hand on Tig’s shoulder. “You’re looking washed out, lad. Nothing better than BenRiach in a storm like this.”
Tig isn’t much of a single malt scotch drinker, but he tosses back the drink and lets the heat of it warm him.
***
Nothing forbids one woman being loved by two men or one man by two women.
Tig stands almost exactly between Gemma and Tara, the once and the future queens. They are flanked by Clay and Jax, Tig just a step behind the women. He stares straight ahead, just like the others do, watching Abel on stage with his guitar and his band, blond hair flopping over his eyes.
He doesn’t need to look to see Tara’s hand turn and her fingers curl toward him.
***
Picture, if you will, the tableaux: He sits astride his fiery steed and watches from afar as she bestows her kisses elsewhere and allows her prince to carry her away. But she shall return. She always returns.
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/316502.html with
comments. Reply here or there.
This was a hard story to write, even though I was intrigued by the idea of a story about courtly love. Part of the problem was that I hadn't finished the season yet, and part of the problem was that I really, truly hate Tig. I hate Tig a lot. I find him a sick and disturbing man in a world that is built on killers and gun runners and sick and disturbing men. I hate him partly because of what he did in season one (being purposely vague here, but probably if you are reading this and are familiar with the show, you've already seen my rage) and partly because of some little aside comments that get made about him and the way he treats the women he fucks.
So it was very, very freaking difficult to write a story in which he is, more or less, the romantic lead. I hope this story works despite my dislike of the main character, and I tried to twist in a bit of a commentary on what the show basically holds up as a joke. I also tried to balance in the fact that I fully believe Tig is enamored with Gemma and always has been.
Title: A Study of Courtly Love in Leather and Chrome
Author: escritoireazul
Written for: turnonmyheels for Yuletide 2010
Rating: 13+
Spoilers: Through season three, though it veers away.
Word Count: 1300+
Author's Note: This is a transformative work of fiction for the television series Sons of Anarchy.
Summary: Tig is a story without order, without beginning or end.
Picture, if you will, the tableaux: The dark-haired beauty who will inherit the throne and rule beside her prince; all who cross her shall look on her and despair. Kneeling before her, head bowed, the knight who cannot bear to stand one moment more now that he has returned to his most beloved. Her hand, so delicate, outstretched to brush her fingertips against his hair.
She is no princess, this woman, but a doctor brave and true, and he no knight in shining armor.
***
He who is not jealous cannot love.
A long strand of Tara’s hair, torn loose as she rushed into the clubhouse, falls across her face. Her gloved hands are slick with blood and she can’t spare one to brush it out of her eyes. She squints against the strand and gives her head a little shake, trying to toss it out of the way.
Tig’s fingers twitch. He’s halfway across the room, keeping out of her way while she stitches up Juice. Sweat shines on her forehead and upper lip and the tremor in her upper arm gives away how fucking nervous she is. There’s a shadow of dirt on her jaw, or maybe the faintest trace of blood flaking away. He can’t tell, not with the bright light over Juice throwing harsh shadows across her face.
He should know blood from dirt. Tig frowns and stubs out his cigarette.
Of course Jax is right there next to her, all pretty little prince watching her like she’s the goddamn queen. Not queen yet, and they’d do good to remember it. Tig’s eyes flick to Gemma, who’s standing back, out of the way but there so Juice can see her when he opens his eyes. She takes care of her family, even when Tara’s the one getting her hands dirty.
Jax reaches over and tucks that strand of hair behind Tara’s ear. She blinks up at him a second and her mouth trembles when she smiles.
Tig clenches his hand around his shot glass. It’s empty, the glass warm and dry. He tightens his jaw and a sharp tension rushes up the back of his neck. He wants some damn whiskey or the bite of tequila masking the bitter aftertaste of jealousy.
***
That which a lover takes against the will of his beloved has no relish.
Tara dabs at his split lip with a small cloth. It’s faded from washing and soft. Probably it was a baby cloth once, but now it’s something of Tara’s, cupped so gently in her hand. Her hair is loose and spills forward over her shoulders.
She put on weight with the baby and then more weight after and now she looks lush and sexy as hell. Tig shoves his hands into his pockets so he won’t touch her, slide his hand from her hip up to the rise of her breast.
His side aches. The knife went in clean at least, and Tara stitched him up no problem. All that’s left for her to take care of is his busted mouth. Twisted as people think he is when it comes to sex -- and yeah, he’s done some nasty things that sort of make him sick to think about -- Tara’s gentle touch is almost too much.
Picture, if you will, the tableaux: She curls her thumb along his jaw and he is undone.
“You’d better start watching your back,” Tara teases, her voice affectionate. “One of these days I’m not going to be able to patch you.”
“Liar.” He lets himself touch three fingers to her wrist. “You can fix anyone.”
There’s a momentary sadness in her eyes, but the she smiles, bright and beautiful just for him. “I do my best.” Her hand lingers against his face, only the soft cloth separating their skin.
Tig slides his fingers across the back of her hand, covering it by touching his mouth after, testing the wound. She lets the cloth fall against his hand, a token already marked by his blood.
“Thanks, Doc,” he says and flashes her a lecherous grin.
***
Love can deny nothing to love.
Tara smothers a laugh as she gets behind the wheel.
“I don’t see what’s so goddamn funny,” Tig snarls and kicks his feet hard into her floorboard.
“Yeah, big bad biker grounded by the law, nothing funny about that.” She sounds serious, her voice steady, but when he looks, he catches the wide grin.
“What the hell am I gonna do?” He switches his glare to the police station he can still see through the windshield. No way he can stay mad at her for long. ‘Sides, she just got him out of jail.
“Bus pass?” Tara giggles again and starts the car.
Tig’s still pissed off, but sorta he can see the funny side, too. Or at least the side that makes Tara so happy after she’s stormed around for weeks. He don’t blame her. Jax has been a little shit lately.
He slumps in the seat and breathes in. The car smells like her. Not often he gets to surround himself with her like this, the sweet smell of her shampoo and perfume and the warmth of her body. This is her space, Jax hasn’t marked it at all.
Takes him a second to realize Tara’s staring at him and even longer to figure out they aren’t moving.
“What?”
“Buckle up.”
“Come on!” He hates being bound like that. Bad enough he’s in a box instead of on his bike, but damn it, no, enough is enough.
But Tara keeps watching him, her hands resting on her thighs, and with a stream of curses to cover up the way she makes his heart beat, he fists the buckle and slams it down, locking himself into the car.
“Good boy,” she teases and the corner of his mouth lifts.
Picture, if you will, the tableaux: He captures her hand in his and kisses her fingertips as ardently as he would her mouth, and the moment is frozen between them as they share their perfect, secret understanding.
***
Boys do not love until they arrive at the age of maturity.
Jax sneers at Clay, his lower lip puffed out. Tig presses his fists against his thighs under the table. He wants to rear up and knock him around until Jax stops acting like a spoiled little kid who's being sent to bed without supper.
***
Every lover regularly turns pale in the presence of his beloved.
A brisk wind blows fresh air and Tara into the clubhouse. At the bar, Tig can smell rain and wet grass and her perfume. She shakes water from her hair and leaves her raincoat draped over the back of a chair near the door, then makes her way over to where Jax and Opie play pool.
“Better drink up,” Chibs claps his hand on Tig’s shoulder. “You’re looking washed out, lad. Nothing better than BenRiach in a storm like this.”
Tig isn’t much of a single malt scotch drinker, but he tosses back the drink and lets the heat of it warm him.
***
Nothing forbids one woman being loved by two men or one man by two women.
Tig stands almost exactly between Gemma and Tara, the once and the future queens. They are flanked by Clay and Jax, Tig just a step behind the women. He stares straight ahead, just like the others do, watching Abel on stage with his guitar and his band, blond hair flopping over his eyes.
He doesn’t need to look to see Tara’s hand turn and her fingers curl toward him.
***
Picture, if you will, the tableaux: He sits astride his fiery steed and watches from afar as she bestows her kisses elsewhere and allows her prince to carry her away. But she shall return. She always returns.
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/316502.html with
comments. Reply here or there.