Thanks to everyone for your kind reviews on other Chibs/Ally stories of mine. Though we be but little we are fierce! Love and squish to Jen for keeping me going!

There were only a few moments in her life that she remembered with vivid clarity, where she could close her eyes and she'd be transported there, enclosed in the sounds and smells of the handful of memories she couldn't forget. Most were significant milestones: her mother's funeral, her graduation from the police academy. But others were seemingly indiscriminate snapshots of her thirty-odd years on earth: an uneventful bike ride she'd taken with her sister one afternoon, an episode of Jeopardy that had been playing in the background one night as she worked late.

And in the years to come, she would find that the night of the explosion at Scoops was added to that list of moments she couldn't erase from her memory no matter how hard she tried.

X

As they turn off Main Street and the red and blue flashing lights fade into the distance behind them and fall out of sight in her side mirror, he covers her still shaking hand with his assured one. His rings glint in the streetlights and she looks up at him, eyes swimming with confusion and exhaustion and hunger. And with an uncertainty that she will never be able to shake, she loops her thumb around his pinky finger and holds on tightly.

It is unusual, sitting in the passenger seat of her own squad car. She's actually never done it before. But, just like everything else in this town, the Sons of Anarchy sweep in and turn everything on its head.

"Left here," she hears herself say, her throat raw from barking over the sirens. She points a thin finger and Chibs makes the turn one-handed, never moving the other from it's place atop hers. "Left again, and then I'm down at the end on the right."

The car pulls to a stop in the street in front of her modest home; a pot of orange mums, still in their terra-cotta-colored plastic container from the store, sits on one of the two concrete stairs leading to her front door. A yellowed light flickers in the streetlamp above them, giving the interior of the car an eerie quality.

"Thank you for the ride," she says with a nod. Telford inclines his head her way, still saying nothing, still not moving his hand from hers. She is afraid to move to undo her seatbelt, afraid that his hand will move with hers, and she doesn't know if she can bear that sort of exquisite torture today.

"I should go inside," she says, still not moving. Again, Chibs angles his head, this time in a nod toward her house, as if to say go on then.

It suddenly occurs to her that he has no way to get home, that his bike is still parked outside Scoops and that he just booked a one-way ticket to her house. The thought terrifies and thrills her in equal measure.

"Would you like a drink?" she hears herself say.

She watches him think a moment, then he says, "Aye," and turns off the car. Her hand is suddenly cold from the lack of his atop it. They walk up the driveway together, passing her slate-colored sedan. She can feel him behind her, taller than she remembers, and she's not a short woman. She fishes in her pocket for her keys.

They enter through the side door and she flips on the kitchen light, illuminating the sparsely decorated room in an orange-yellow glow.

"Haven't had time to unpack much," she admits sheepishly, depositing her keys on the kitchen table. "But I've got it where it counts." She pulls a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers from the cabinet closest to the door and likes the way a ghost of a smile dances on his lips.

"You've got good taste, Sheriff," he drawls, removing the lid and pouring for them both.

"Do I?" she asks. They clink their glasses together and take a swig. He finishes his in one gulp; hers takes her two. "I've been told by some that I show a deplorable lack of good judgement."

"Well you got here somehow," he says, pouring another for them both.

She's not sure if he means here, as in Charming, or here, as in alone in her kitchen standing a foot away from the Vice President of the town's most notorious outlaw group.

"But the question is," he continues, finishing his drink, "why am I here?"

She smirks, looks down into her drink, and can feel herself actually blushing. "That blast knock a screw loose, VP? You offered to drive me home."

"Aye, but you invited me in for a nightcap," he returns, shaking his empty glass at her in a way that is downright adorable.

"Well we can argue semantics all night but-"

"I don't think that's what you had in mind for tonight when you invited me in, Sheriff."

The accusation makes her square her jaw in annoyance, mostly because he thinks he knows her better than she knows herself, and a little bit because she's afraid he's right.

"Come on, Telford, we're both adults. Either we're doing this or we're not."

He gives her a nod and a devilish smile. "Ball's in your court, Lieutenant."

"Why is it my decision?"

"Call me old fashioned, but I'm not in the habit of jumping women who aren't looking for the same things I am."

"And what are you looking for, Scotty?" She bandys the nickname between them, swilling her whiskey around in her tumbler.

He closes the gap between their bodies, trapping her between him and the kitchen table. He smells like cigarettes and leather and everything she's always believed a man should smell like. So before she can think about it too much, she slams back her whiskey, grabs the collar of his cut, and pulls him down to her for a bruising kiss.

His beard is far softer than she thought it would be. She feels it feather-light on her lips before she parts them and lets his tongue in. He sweeps her mouth hungrily, possessively, in a way that makes her legs ache and push her pelvis against his. His hands smooth down her still-uniformed sides, cup her ass briefly, but ultimately settle on the backs of her thighs, where he gives a gentle push and lifts her up onto the kitchen table.

She pulls her knees apart and lets him stand between them, her hands sliding under his cut and winding up his front to unzip his jacket. She marvels at the feel of truly worn leather under her fingers; it's soft and smooth and hard to grab on to. He makes quicker work of her uniform, skilled fingers slipping buttons through their holes efficiently. He tosses the dark shirt across the table, untucking her thin undershirt and swiping a hand across the smooth plane of her stomach. Ally shivers under his touch, causing him to smirk against her lips.

"Getting antsy, Lieutenant?" he teases.

"Shut up," she sighs, shucking off his cut and jacket, then pulling his shirt over his head. His tattoos tell stories she will learn later, maybe if he stays the night, maybe another time, when his hands aren't pulling her hair down around her shoulders and working the back of her scalp in a way that instantly undoes the headache she's felt forming since the explosion.

She shuts her eyes and hums into the movement, a sound that turns into a moan when he gathers her hair at the nape of her neck, twists it around his hand, and pulls her head all the way back to lay hot kisses down her neck. He is rough and possessive but somehow simultaneously gentle and it makes her excited and terrified.

Ally reaches out to undo his belt buckle, but she's found he's already done it himself, and leaves him to finish while she works at her own.

"Too many layers," she mumbles nervously, gesturing down to her uniform. God, why is she nervous?

And then his hands are covering hers again, strong and sure as he takes her slacks to the floor, removes her boots, and drags his lips up her thigh in a way that has her grasping at his bicep for balance. His hands settle at her hips, playing absently with the small strip of lace on the top of her dark panties.

"Better?" he asks against her ear, his accent falling softly into her hair.

Her hum of approval turns into a laugh. "Who knew you could be so charming, Telford?"

A roguish smile extends to his scars and he says, "I'm just getting started."

The sound she makes when he slips a finger inside her is unholy; she tightens her hold on his arm and bites down on her lip to keep from making it again as he moves slowly and deliberately, extending his thumb to work her clit.

"If this is your idea of charming," she says, trying to keep her breathing even as she speaks, "I'd hate to see what you think it is to be rude."

"Oh, I highly doubt that, darlin'," Chibs says, adding a second finger. He puts his other hand on the small of her back, pulling her to the edge of the kitchen table and flush against him. And she almost can't believe it, that he exists, that he is touching her so sweetly, when hours before she knows the fingers that are curling inside her were curling along the trigger of a Glock.

"Tell me," she jokes, "does your boss know how you're spending your overtime?"

"How I spend my overtime is none of Jackson's goddamn business." He presses roughly on her clit, making her gasp. His other hand reaches around to turn her face up to look at him. "What would your boss say, Sheriff?"

She studies his face; his eyes are clear, focused. He's not the man she's seen him be with his club. He's still playful, of course, confident, damn near gentlemanly, but there's something about the way his eyes are sweeping her face that tells her this isn't the one of the felons she'd been briefed on upon her arrival into Charming. Right now, he's not Chibs, and so she calls him the name few do, the name she read in capital lettering on the side of a file folder, the name she first knew him by.

"I'm my own boss, Filip," she purrs, "and don't let anybody tell you differently."

And maybe it's because she uses his given name, or maybe it's because she's beaming brightly with the glow of a shooting star in the dark, but he lifts her from the table and they stumble to the couch. Somewhere along the way his boxers fall to the wayside and her bra disappears, and when he's seated, she climbs on top of him, straddling his lap, and her eyes fall shut as she slides down onto his erection. A groan escapes his lips that makes her smile in satisfaction and dip her head to nip at his earlobe.

"You're a devil of a woman, Althea Jarry," he chuckles, guiding her hips up and down at first. "Using a man's Christian name like that."

"Formality has its uses," she replies, seeking leverage and finding it in his broad shoulders.

"You don't seem like a formal girl."

"I most certainly am not," she says with a wicked smile, and then she presses down onto him, harder and closer, running one hand down his chest and digging in with her fingernails. His hands rise over her slender sides to cup her breasts, to place rough kisses that will surely leave marks on places that her uniform will cover tomorrow, but that he'll know are there.

She can feel the pressure building inside her, feel the coils winding tight, and he must be able to feel it too, because he slows her movements with a squeeze on her ass, making her whimper in arousal and annoyance. Wordlessly, he lifts her like she's nothing, and now she's kneeling on her couch, balance unsteady for the overstuffed cushions, and then he is behind her, strong and sure.

"Couldn't stand not being in control, huh?" Ally jokes over her shoulder, pressing her thighs together, desperate for release.

"Lost control a long time ago, love," he says, his voice low and alive. And then he slides into her, maddeningly slow, making her grab fistfuls of the blanket that drapes across the back of the couch.

"Goddammit," she hears herself say, squirming in frustration.

"Seems like you have as well." His voice is in her ear.

"Jesus Christ, just… fuck me already."

And then he does. Rough and quick and the way she wants him to, the way she needs him to. He grabs her arm with one hand and reaches forward with the other, sweeping across her hip and down between her legs to rub her clit, and then her vision blurs and her ears ring and she doesn't remember anything for several seconds.

When she comes to, his breath is hot in her ear, his breathing slowing, even though she can feel his heart pounding against her back, still pressed flush up against her.

"Fuck," she says, sweeping her hair away from her face and turning to look over her shoulder. Her brow furrows when she catches a glimpse of something dark smeared across his chest. "Filip." She points. "You've got-"

He notices at the same time, shakes his head. "No, it's you. Your arm-"

She twists to look, and sure enough, a thin line of blood trickles down the back side of her right arm.

"From the blast?" he offers, and she nods.

"Let me just jump in the shower real quick," she says, hurrying down the hall to the bathroom.

He watches her retreating figure, the bounce of her hair at her shoulders, the tight muscles in her back that seemed to have loosened almost imperceptibly. There is something fascinating about her that is equally unexpected and totally unsurprising, and it makes him follow her down the hall, feet creaking over hardwood and announcing his presence in the bathroom doorway as she twists her hair up on top of her head.

"I'll just be a sec," she says, reaching in to turn on the water, then slipping behind the curtain. She lets the water sluice at her skin and rubs down the back of her arm, watching the blood circle around the drain like paint from a watercolor brush. Laying flush to the floor with glass flying over head seems like a lifetime ago; she's having a hard time remembering anything other than the last half hour.

Ally grabs the bottle of body wash, squeezing and lathering in her palms, swiping down across her chest over still-sensitive nipples, around her side where she feels small finger-shaped bruises beginning to form, down between her legs, where she shivers at the wetness she finds there.

"You getting started again without me?" he drawls from behind her, loosing her hair from atop her head and running a damp hand through it.

She shudders out a breath and smiles. Her voice is like honey when she says, "That all depends if you'd like to watch."

A chuckle rolls off his throat. "I'm much more of the participating type, love."

"Then get over here," she says, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn't hesitate, placing a hand on her hip and pulling her towards him for a kiss, warm and then slippery as she sways off balance and into the stream of water from the showerhead. Chibs keeps her upright with a hand on her shoulder, planting one of his strong legs in between hers.

She reaches down between them and takes him, hard again, into her hands. She is thorough and efficient, ruthless in her pleasure, locking eyes with him and not looking away. Something about the closeness, the stillness, the humid heat of the shower makes her bolder and she can meet his eyes in a way she couldn't before.

"Christ Almighty, woman," he groans, dropping his head to her shoulder. She raises her other hand to cup the base of his skull and work her fingernails slowly up and down the back of his neck.

"Come on, Filip," she whispers, and his grip on her waist tightens.

She feels his teeth nip at her earlobe and tugs him tighter, wringing her wants, her needs, her fears out of him, until he comes undone in her hands, whispering Gaelic curses in her ear that leave her breathless in their unintelligible beauty.

When he looks up at her again, she is smirking, all satisfaction and proud womanhood.

"You're mighty full of yourself, aren't you?" he teases.

She rolls her eyes and gives him a chaste kiss on the lips, something that already feels habitual in nature, and for once she doesn't shy away from it. Maybe this is all it has to be right now. Maybe she can want him enough to have him, but not too much.

With a gentle hand across her stomach, he brushes past her and into the spray of water, washing himself clean as she stares along the length of his back and the curve of his ass. She doesn't know when she started wanting him, just that it happened, simply and without much thought, like starting the coffeemaker in the morning or brushing her teeth before bed.

"How about some more of that whiskey?" he asks, reaching to turn off the tap, but her hand stalls him.

"I think there's something in the top right drawer of the vanity that you'll like even better," she says with a sly smile. "I'll be right out."

He winks and pushes back the curtain, grabbing a towel off the rack above the toilet, and leaving her under the spray, which has almost run cold by now. She hears a delighted chuckle as he pulls open the drawer.

"You're full of surprises, Lieutenant," he says, and then wanders out into the hallway to find a lighter.

Ally lets the shower cool her down, relax the muscles that have been tensing in her neck ever since she set foot in Charming. Maybe she can do this. Maybe it can work. Keeping work and pleasure separate. People do it all the time, she tells herself as she turns off the water and fishes for a towel.

By the time she enters the bedroom, he is on the phone, face dark and clouded, reminding her that they aren't the only people in the world, that they don't exist in a vacuum that smells of sweet smoke, that there are shouldn'ts and shoulds. But she reaches down and takes the joint from him, and for a moment it's what she has. And maybe it's enough right now.