Alexander "Tig" Trager

The apartment was warm with late morning heat, sunlight pouring through the blinds in hazy gold stripes that stretched across the unmade bed and scattered clothes on the floor. Somewhere outside, a motorcycle roared past the building, fading into the sleepy hum of Charming traffic.

Inside the bedroom, Chibs was still half tangled in the sheets, one tattooed arm hooked lazily around {{user}}’s waist while she rested against his chest. His reading glasses sat crooked on the nightstand beside an ashtray and two empty beer bottles from the night before.

For once, everything felt still.

Easy.

Then the front door slammed open.

"BABY GIRL?"

Tig’s voice hit the apartment like a shotgun blast.

Chibs went rigid instantly.

Every muscle in his body locked.

{{user}} jerked upright so fast the blankets nearly hit the floor, eyes blown wide as another shout echoed down the hallway.

"I brought breakfast! An’ coffee! The good coffee, not that watery bullshit you drink!"

Chibs muttered a thick Scottish curse under his breath and sat up hard enough to nearly crack his head against the wall behind the bed.

"Oh, ye have got tae be fuckin’ kiddin’ me."

The heavy stomp of Tig’s boots echoed through the apartment.

Closer.

Closer.

Completely oblivious.

"Hey, you decent?" Tig called casually. "Actually don’t answer that, I’m comin’ in anyway."

Panic detonated through the room.

{{user}} scrambled for the nearest shirt while Chibs practically launched himself out of bed, snatching his jeans off the floor one-handed. He hopped trying to pull them on fast enough, muttering curses the entire time. "Why does he always just walk in?!"

"Because he’s Tig," {{user}} hissed back.

"Exactly my point!"

The bedroom doorknob rattled once.

Both of them froze.

Then Tig’s voice came again, muffled through the door now. "Ohhh, okay, hold on." A grin was obvious in his tone instantly. "You got company."

Chibs looked genuinely horrified.

{{user}} slapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself laughing.

Tig barked out a delighted cackle from the hallway. "Atta girl! Finally! Jesus Christ, I was startin’ to think you didn’t like anybody."

Chibs stared at the door like he was witnessing psychological warfare.

Meanwhile Tig kept going completely uninvited. "He stayin’ for breakfast? I brought enough bacon for like six people. Actually maybe seven. Juice eats like a raccoon."

Chibs mouthed silently:

"What the fuck is happening?"

{{user}} shoved him toward the closet before he could finish pulling on his boots.

Again.

The betrayal on Chibs’ face was immediate. "Lass...Not the bloody closet again—"

"Shh!" The closet door clicked shut just as Tig pushed into the room carrying a cardboard drink tray and a giant paper bag smelling overwhelmingly of grease and syrup.

Tig stopped short. The grin on his face widened instantly. "Well, well, well."

{{user}} sat on the edge of the bed trying to look remotely composed while Tig’s sharp blue eyes scanned the room with open amusement.

There was one boot half hidden beneath the bed.

A flannel shirt hanging off the lamp.

And very obviously not enough time between his knocking and entering for anyone to have escaped.

Tig noticed all of it.

His smirk turned wicked.

"Aww, baby girl." He looked almost emotional. "You had a sleepover."

Inside the closet, Chibs closed his eyes slowly like a man enduring active combat.

Tig wandered around the room shamelessly nosy, setting breakfast down while continuing to talk. "He cute? Or is this one of those ugly-hot biker dudes?" He squinted thoughtfully. "Actually wait, don’t tell me. I wanna profile him myself."

The closet remained utterly silent.

Tig leaned closer to {{user}}, lowering his voice theatrically.

"…He still here?"

A beat.

{{user}} tried not to react.

Tig immediately pointed at her. "OH, he is."

From inside the closet came the faint sound of something falling over.

Tig’s eyebrows lifted.

Then slowly… suspiciously… he turned toward the closet door.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Chibs wasn’t even breathing at this point.

Tig stared another second longer before suddenly shrugging.

"Eh. Long as he ain’t a cop or a vegan, I’m supportive."

Inside the closet, Chibs looked ready to collapse from stress.

Tig sat down on the edge of the bed, completely relaxed now, stealing one of {{user}}’s pillows to prop behind his back.

"So," he said cheerfully, opening the breakfast bag, "you usin’ protection or am I too emotionally delicate for this conversation?"

The afternoon heat clung to the air outside Charming like it didn’t know when to quit. Tig Traeger let himself in without much ceremony, same as always—key turning, boots thudding over familiar floorboards, like the whole world was just an extension of SAMCRO territory and his girls’ spaces fell under that same protection.

"Baby girl?" he called out, voice already warm with that too-bright affection of his. "You decent in there, or am I about to get an eyeful I didn’t sign up for?"

He was smiling before he even reached the hallway.

Tig didn’t rush. He never did when it came to them. Even if his energy came in sharp bursts, chaotic and unpredictable, there was something steady in the way he checked in on his daughters—like a ritual he didn’t always say out loud but never skipped.

He pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder.

And paused.

The room looked… lived-in. A little too lived-in. Sunlight spilling across the bed, sheets rumpled like someone had been here not long ago trying to make sense of the morning. {{user}} was there, sitting on the edge of the mattress in a big, loose tee, hair slightly messy in that way that made Tig’s face soften instantly.

"Hey, there she is," he said, grin widening as he stepped in. "Look at you. You been lazin’ around all morning, huh?"

His eyes drifted around the room out of habit—old instincts from club life never fully switching off.

That’s when he noticed it. The kutte, Chibs’ leather cut hung casually over the back of the chair like it belonged there.

Tig’s brows lifted slightly. "…Huh."

Then his gaze slid to the nightstand.

The silver crucifix sat there, catching the light.

That got a different reaction. A slower one. A quieter one. Tig’s smile didn’t disappear, but it shifted—less carefree, more curious. His head tilted a fraction like he was trying to piece together a joke someone hadn’t finished telling him yet.

"Well that’s… interesting," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than her.

He stepped further into the room.

Still no Chibs, Still no obvious explanation.

Tig looked back at {{user}}, eyes narrowing just a touch—but not in anger. More like suspicion tangled up with confusion and the faintest spark of amusement he didn’t quite trust yet.

"Alright," he said, voice lighter again as he tried to read the vibe. "You wanna tell me why my Scot’s jacket is draped all cozy-like in your room… and why his rosary’s chillin’ on your nightstand?" He gave a small half-laugh, scratching the back of his neck.

Then, casually—too casually—he glanced toward the closet. "…And am I crazy, or is Chibs in there?"

Tig Traeger came in like he always did—like the world was just a place he was passing through on his way to something more important.

No knock. No hesitation. Key in, door open, boots already heavy on the floorboards.

“Hey, kiddo,” he called out, voice bright in that too-fast, too-affectionate way that never quite matched how dangerous he actually was. “You up? I brought coffee, don’t act like I didn’t just do somethin’ real nice for ya.”

He was smiling when he stepped into the hallway.

Smiling when he reached the bedroom door.

Smiling when he pushed it open without waiting.

And then—

He stopped.

The shift was immediate. Like someone had cut the sound out of the room.

{{user}} was there, sitting on the edge of the bed in an oversized T-shirt, hair messy, posture slightly off like he’d only just managed to make himself look normal again. A little too normal. A little too fast.

Tig clocked that instantly, even if he didn’t know why.

His son. Early twenties. His kid. The one he still saw, in his head, as something younger than he actually was—despite the way time kept proving him wrong.

“Jesus, you look like hell,” Tig said automatically, trying to keep the moment light as he stepped further in. “You get sleep or you tryin’ to win some kinda award for stayin’ up all night?”

But his voice trailed off.

Because the room didn’t feel right.

Not messy in a normal way.

Messy in a lived-in-overnight-but-not-alone way.

Tig’s eyes drifted without permission.

A leather kutte hanging over the chair.

Chibs’ kutte.

That made him pause just a fraction.

Then his gaze slid to the nightstand.

A silver crucifix.

He stared at it longer than he meant to.

“…Huh,” he said quietly.

Not a joke. Not his usual sarcasm. Just a sound of his brain trying to find a file that wasn’t opening.

Something in his expression tightened.

Then loosened again as he forced a grin back into place like it was muscle memory.

“Alright,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the room. “That’s… nothin’. That’s nothin’, Tig. Don’t start.”

He took another step in.

And that’s when he noticed the closet.

Just slightly ajar.

Too still.

Too intentional.

Tig’s grin faded again.

“…Hey,” he said, voice shifting. Lower now. Less playful. “Why’s the closet look like it’s holdin’ its breath in there?”

No answer.

Of course there wasn’t.

He walked toward it anyway.

Each step slower than the last, like his instincts were trying to catch up with something his brain refused to name yet.

“Kid?” he called again, but softer this time. Testing.

Still nothing.

Tig stopped in front of the closet.

Put his hand on the door.

For a second, he just stood there.

Like he didn’t want to know what came next, but also couldn’t stand not knowing.

Then he pulled it open.

Chibs stood inside.

No dramatic exit. No escape. No clean version of reality where this made sense.

Just him.

Caught.

Too close. Too still. Too obvious in a way that made Tig’s stomach drop before his mind even fully processed why.

Everything went silent again.

Tig stared.

Longer this time.

The kind of stare that wasn’t anger yet.

It was worse.

It was understanding arriving too late to stop anything from breaking.

“…No,” Tig said quietly.

Not accusing.

Not loud.

Just disbelieving.

Then it snapped.

“Oh—OH, COME ON—ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!” His voice exploded upward as he stumbled back from the closet like it had physically offended him. “ARE YOU ACTUALLY HIDIN’ IN MY SON’S CLOSET?!”

He pointed between Chibs and {{user}} like his brain was trying to triangulate an impossible problem.

“You two—what—what is this? Huh? Some kinda joke? Some sick club prank I didn’t get invited to?!”

His pacing started immediately. Fast, sharp steps across the room.

Tig didn’t do stillness well.

He never had.

“This is my kid,” he snapped, gesturing at {{user}}. “This is my goddamn kid, Chibs. You understand how this looks?!”

A beat.

Then quieter, sharper:

“…Do you understand how this is?”

He stopped.

Looked at Chibs again.

Looked at his son.

And something in his face shifted—not rage now.

Something more complicated.

Confusion tangled with hurt he didn’t know where to put.

Because Tig loved his kids. Loudly. Imperfectly. The kind of love that showed up late, chaotic, but still real.

And right now, he didn’t know where to aim it.

“Talk,” he said finally, voice low. Controlled in a way that meant it was barely holding together. “Both of you. Right now. Before I start makin’ assumptions I can’t un-make.”

And for the first time since he walked in the door—

Tig Traeger wasn’t smiling anymore.

The morning light cut through the blinds in hard, pale strips, laying itself across the tangled bed like bars of gold. The apartment still smelled faintly of sleep, cheap coffee from earlier, and something more intimate beneath it—his cologne still clinging to the sheets, the quiet aftermath of a night that hadn’t meant to become what it did, but had anyway.

Chibs Telford lay on his back for a moment longer than he should’ve been willing to risk.

He didn’t move.

Not yet.

His chest rose and fell slow, controlled—but there was tension under it now, a quiet awareness creeping back in with daylight. The kind of awareness that didn’t belong in a bed like this, in a room like this, with a situation like this.

Beside him, {{user}} shifted in the bed.

Half-dressed in an oversized T-shirt that didn’t quite belong to him—or maybe it did now—hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. Young, warm, real. Not a fantasy, not a mistake he could laugh off in the daylight. Just… there. Too close. Too important.

Chibs exhaled through his nose, something almost like a soft laugh trying and failing to form.

“Yer gonna wear that shirt out just sittin’ there,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep and something softer underneath it. His hand found {{user}}’s wrist without thinking, thumb brushing over skin like it was muscle memory now. “Dinnae start pickin’ at me neck again, lad. I’m already half fallin’ apart.”

There was a quiet ease between them—something that had been building for a long time. Not sudden. Not reckless. Something steadier than that. Stolen moments in garages, late-night excuses that didn’t quite sound like excuses, looks that lasted too long to be brotherly and too controlled to be anything openly named in their world.

Because in SAMCRO, nothing came without risk.

And this—this had risk written all over it.

The room held them in a fragile kind of stillness.

Then—

Clack.

The front door.

Both of them froze in the same instant, like the world had just shifted under their feet.

“Kiddo?” came the voice, loud, familiar, already halfway into the apartment like boundaries didn’t exist in his vocabulary.

Tig Trager.

“C’mon, I know you’re in there. I brought coffee. And—shit, I think I left the receipt somewhere, I dunno, it’s early.”

Bootsteps followed immediately after. Heavy. Confident. Completely unbothered by the idea that the world might require knocking first.

Chibs’s body changed before his face did.

The softness drained out of him in a second. Old instincts snapped into place—club instincts, survival instincts, the kind that came from too many close calls and too many secrets kept under pressure.

His hand left {{user}}.

His eyes flicked to the door.

“Ah, Christ,” he breathed under his breath, already sitting up.

Because it wasn’t just anyone.

It was Tig.

And Tig didn’t miss things when he started looking.

The footsteps came closer.

“Where are ya, kid? You sleepin’ your life away or what? I swear, I raised you better than that.”

That last part hit differently. Not harsh—never harsh. Tig’s version of love always came out loud, chaotic, and slightly misplaced, but it was still love. Real, uncomplicated father love in a man who had never quite learned how to hold it gently.

{{user}} was his son.

Not just blood on paper, but something Tig had decided mattered, even if he hadn’t always known how to show up for it properly.

Chibs was already moving.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, grabbing for his jeans, one leg half caught, balance gone. Calm negotiator, experienced gunman, man who had survived chaos—reduced in seconds to a man trying not to make noise while panicking in someone else’s bedroom.

Because this wasn’t a gunfight.

This was worse.

The closet.

It happened fast.

Too fast.

{{user}} was suddenly there, grabbing him, urgency replacing warmth. Not fear of violence—fear of exposure. Of consequences. Of a world that didn’t forgive this kind of thing easily, not in their circles.

“No—wait—” Chibs started, voice low, sharp.

But the closet door was already closing.

Darkness swallowed him halfway, hanging coats brushing his shoulders as he stumbled back, breath catching in his throat.

The wood clicked shut.

And just like that—

Silence.

Dim, cramped, suffocating silence.

From the other side of the room, the bedroom door opened.

“Hey, there you are,” Tig said, immediately lighter again, like the world made sense now that his kid was visible. “Jesus, I thought you were dead in here or somethin’. You don’t answer your phone, you don’t—what is this, monk mode?”

Chibs stood completely still in the closet.

Every muscle locked.

He could hear everything.

The bed creak.

The casual movement of Tig stepping further inside.

The familiar rhythm of a father walking into his son’s space like it belonged partly to him too—because in Tig’s mind, it did.

“You eat yet?” Tig asked. “I brought donuts. The good kind. Not that health crap you pretend to like.”

A pause.

Then Tig’s voice softened slightly, closer now.

“…You good, kid? You look tired.”

Chibs barely breathed.

Through the thin crack of the closet door, he could just see movement—shadows, light shifting, the edge of the room where {{user}} sat on the bed, too close to the truth of what was hidden just a few feet away.

Tig didn’t know.

Couldn’t know.

Not about this.

Not about what had been building for months between his son and the man he trusted like a brother.

Because in Tig’s world, loyalty was simple.

Family was simple.

And anything that didn’t fit those rules… had a way of tearing everything apart.