Okay, this chapter…I am in love, I'm just going to tell you that. I just…yes. Also, I am completely in love with the finale. Kurt Sutter, you are perfection.

Oh, and I guess I lied. It is pretty long. Huh...

Chapter Five

The Road to Hell…

A Son hated to feel helpless. It was another word for weak and that was something they were not. No member could afford to be that way. His life and the lives of his brothers depended on his strength. He would shoulder any burden and even lay down his life for the sake of the club. There was no such thing as weak, no such thing as helpless.

And yet, that was how Clay felt.

No words registered to him as he listened to the endless ringing. There was a muffled sound in the background that might have been Gemma but she may as well have been any other droning noise in the house. She would not get through to her King that night.

He sat down, heavy and stiff, where he and Claire once had their conversation. There he waited for the inevitable, the phone call that confirmed two children were fatherless and their mother was a widow. And it would all be his fault. He may not have been the one to pull the trigger but the action would have never taken place without his consent. His mouth was the gun; his words the bullets.

It felt like an eternity waiting on Death. The Horseman took so long that when Clay finally heard the sound of a cell, he almost felt relieved. Instantly he began to play out how it would happen, how he would talk his way out of this one. Jax would suspect, hell he would know. It didn't matter how they covered up the death, Opie could have hung himself for all he cared. Jax would find a way to blame him. But he would keep quiet about it. He was smart. Better to lose a friend than the entire club to their namesake of anarchy. If not, he was sure Unser could paint a pretty picture of Opie's betrayal.

Jax answered his phone and Clay watched. Most days he would dare to say he knew his stepson well, could even guess at what he was thinking on the good ones. However, one trait kept him from fully keeping a bead on his VP: his hotheadedness. When angry, Jax was unpredictable. He could either be incredibly intelligent or horribly reckless. Clay had a guess at what he might see tonight.

The look of surprise Jax gave him was expected but what followed was not.

"We've gotta go," he practically whispered. Suddenly Clay felt his senses improve tenfold and he found himself able to hear everything with a clarity that disturbed him.

"What happened?" he asked, standing. He could probably win every goddamn award for the performance he was giving.

"It's Donna."

It took Clay all his strength to stay standing. Donna? That was not the name he was supposed to hear.

"What about Donna?" Gemma asked as the party fell silent and the rest of the participants circled around.

Clay closed his eyes, listening to his stepson's reply.

"She's dead."

Damn him.

For all the waiting he had done, Clay found the ride to the scene relatively quick. Maybe it was because he had no thoughts to occupy him, only the cold emptiness of realization filled his shell, numbing all other emotion and whatever pain that may have been in his hands. Then again, it just may have been fate toying with him, eager to show off the consequences of his actions, the price he had to pay to hold his throne.

They pulled up to the scene where Opie's truck still sat at the intersection, the back window busted open from several rounds having shot through. Emergency responders were in the process of lowering her body from the vehicle. Her. Donna. Not Opie but his wife.

He caught the sound of screeching tires. It was hard not to. Opie started to cry out her name and then it became nothing more than a muffled whimper as he wept over her lifeless body, as he cradled her bloody and broken head in his hands.

Clay buried his face in his palms, hiding the anguish written all over his face.

Damn him to Hell.

He turned around then, eyes landing on an ambulance in the distance. The back doors were wide open. He could see Hale standing before it, silhouetted by the light escaping the vehicle. The son of a bitch was going to have a field day with this, he could tell. As he followed the deputy's gaze, he noticed there was someone sitting in the ambulance, their legs swinging freely in the cool night air. They were wrapped in a blanket, their facial features obscured by the distance and light, but there was no mistaking that auburn hair.

"Claire?" he whispered, as though he did not believe what he saw. No, he refused to believe it. She had been at the party, enjoying it in her own awkward way. At that very moment she was there helping Gemma clear guests out of the house, not at the scene of the crime, not a near victim of his Sergeant at Arms, not a witness to his command. She was at the house, damn it! She could not be there!

"Claire!" he shouted, jogging now. Hale sensed him on his radar and stepped in his path, blocking the route to her. "Get out of the way, she's my daughter!"

"I know she is," the deputy replied, his stern commanding voice in play once more. Still, Clay could not miss the surprise that flickered through his eyes. "But you're not going anywhere near her."

"That's not your call, Hale," Clay said, stepping closer, his voice a threat. The man said nothing but his jaw twitched. He knew he had him there. They both turned to the bundle sitting a few feet behind them. She had been staring at the ground but seemed to sense their gazes. When she turned upwards to face them, Clay cursed himself more. Her eyes were dead, lost in that thousand mile stare that he had seen so many others experience the first time they saw death. Not the kind where people drifted off to sleep, looking content. It was the bloody kind, the inhumane destruction that brought grown men to their knees but she was not a grown man, not even a boy. This was a nineteen year old girl.

Her nod was small, hardly visible, but Clay saw it. He took a step forward only to find Hale gripping his cut. It took a lot for Clay not to deck him right then and there.

"I know she saw something, Clay," Hale whispered in his ear. "Don't drag her down with you."

For once, Clay had nothing to say in response. He shrugged out of Hale's grasp and marched forward to his daughter whose eyes were examining the ground once more. Clay preferred it that way, unsure if he could take looking into them.

No words of comfort came to him as he sat there next to her. At first he had reached out, almost wrapped his arm around her shoulders, but pulled back before he committed. There was something so wrong about the gesture. If it were not for him, she would not have been in this situation in the first place. What right did he have to consoling her?

"Did you…see anything?" he asked eventually, the need for self preservation finally winning him over. Right now she was the one thing that could make or break this club, the daughter he had known all of a week. She had no loyalties to him or the Sons. If she identified Tig, he was done. There would be no helping him.

Just as he thought it, the sound of more motorcycles approaching got his attention. Juice and Tig had arrived. The man had balls coming here. Hell, he might not have even known that Claire had been in the truck. For a moment, Clay allowed himself to become paranoid. He watched every cop that patrolled the area but their glances toward the SAA were no different than usual. They did not know, just as Hale had hinted at.

He watched Tig turn in their direction. His eyes became locked on something, the look on his face one Clay had never seen him possess. Instantly he knew Tig was looking at Claire. Curiosity caused him to look down at his daughter.

Her eyes were locked on Tig's. They no longer looked distant but held a coolness in them, a reserved anger that burned deep within. The accusation in them cut him like a knife and Clay was not even the recipient.

"No," she said flatly, her voice not her own. "I saw nothing."

That was all she said. All the emotion she had left was spent in that one look. She was as silent and still as Donna the rest of the evening. When she was finally cleared to go home, she moved like a girl possessed. Innocence had died that night.

Damn them both.

The house had fallen silent but Claire hardly noticed. Echoing in the distance was the horn of the truck, the sound once a solid tone turned into some lamentation to the woman slain in its interior. It would be broken by the sound of shattering glass, by the sickening thud of metal colliding with flesh. Even in the darkness, Claire could see her eyes. They stared straight through her into forever. She urged them to move but her pleas were useless. Donna was no more alive than her mother.

She heard the sound of tires. Suddenly the image changed. Blue eyes stared at her through a mask until it melted away, revealing the face of Tig. He looked so confused and lost, a part of her even dared to say afraid. Even monsters had things to fear.

However his fear suddenly vanished. He lips curled into a sneer and he began to raise his right arm. He did not stop until the gun in his hand centered on her chest. Claire barely had time to open her mouth, some unearthly sound caught in her throat, before he fired. It all moved in slow motion. She could see smoke curling around the barrel, watch the growing amusement in his eyes as the bullet began to bury itself in her ribcage.

Claire bolted upright, grasping at her chest. It burned where the round had imbedded itself. She scratched at her skin, not realizing it was all an illusion. It was not until her chest was a deep red that she stopped. She looked around the dark room for any sign of him but found herself just as alone as she had been earlier.

Tossing the covers off her sweat soaked body, Claire slipped out of bed. Her room was warm and stuffy, suffocating. The walls seemed to creak as they closed in around her causing the echo of her heartbeat to only amplify. She had to get out, go somewhere, anywhere, away from the sounds and the images, away from everything.

The house had been very still, the world outside even more so. It made Claire jump every time a noise interrupted it. A few times a lone car would pass by, causing her to bolt for the nearest bush or fence line for cover. It had been a stupid idea to leave but then again it would have felt stupid to stay. The rock and the hard place, she had wondered when they would meet.

Claire was not certain how much time had passed as she roamed the streets of Charming. The only thing she was truly aware of was the growing chill in the air. Her blouse was probably still at the crime scene where she had tossed it off quickly, afraid of the blood that lingered on it. All she had was her tank top. While California hardly ever qualified as cold, especially considering where she used to live, Claire nonetheless found herself shivering. Part of her wished to turn back but she did not listen, mostly because the rest of her knew she was lost.

A few minutes passed and Claire suddenly found herself staring at Teller-Morrow. She watched it for a long time across the street, waiting for something to move, to show any sign of life but it was the middle of the night and everything was as still as it should have been. Cautiously she walked forward until she stood in the middle of the lot looking over the scenery. She faced the door to the clubhouse and wondered if she should wander inside. Perhaps her old room would be available still.

Maybe he would be there.

It was this thought that stayed her hand above the doorknob. She felt frozen and could no longer tell if it was from the weather or the fear that now coursed through her veins. Her room had not been the only one, that much she knew. Others must have stayed there but who exactly was a piece of information that eluded her. Did he actually stay there? Would he do anything to her? Would the others even care?

Claire sighed. She had too many thoughts and they were beginning to weigh her down, literally. Briefly she rested her head against the door until it gave way from the pressure, having not been fully closed.

Stepping back, Claire stared into the dark interior of the clubhouse. She half expected something to jump out at her but it was the same as the rest of the world had been: still. How she was starting to hate that. It made her feel as though the entire world was dead save for herself. How fitting.

Sick of the stiff breeze at her back, she decided to take the chance and step inside. The only noise that was made was the sound of her shoes hitting the floor. It gave the building an eerie feel, like a haunted house. Claire stumbled around in the darkness a few moments before she found her way to the hall and moved along it with her hand tracing along the wall. She stopped at her room. The door was wide open and it was, thankfully, empty. She was about to lock herself inside when a large thump caught her attention.

Claire froze in place. She listened intently for a long time. There were no other sounds save for the soft snoring in the room across from her. It was then she noticed a small sliver of light near the end of the hall. Someone was awake and by the sound of it, they were not doing too well.

Maybe she should have started keeping track of how many times she had ignored that little voice in her head because already in the past few days, the amount seemed to be unreal.

She slid carefully in front of the door, making sure she made no sound. Through the small crack, Claire could pick out a man on the floor, a bottle gripped tightly in his hand. It did not take her long to figure out who it was. She slapped a hand across her mouth as a gasp managed to escape her throat. Tig looked up at the sound, his gaze driving her into the wall across from his room.

"Who's there?" he slurred. She could hear him grunt as he attempted to stand; she also heard (and felt) when he fell back down to the floor. "Fuck."

Claire remained on the wall a few moments, waiting for her breathing to calm and her fingers to cease clawing at the woodwork. She then stepped forward and dared another peek into the room. There was Tig, the cold blooded killer, the Sergeant at Arms for the club, the murderer of Donna, looking like a right mess sprawled out on the floor. He was mumbling something, clutching that bottle as though it was the only thing that separated him from death. His forehead was bleeding. It had not been earlier and she briefly wondered if it was self inflicted.

Slowly she opened the door, careful to not hit his head which rested so close to it. He glanced up at her, a look she could only describe as shock crossing his face. His head turned upward, then he sat up and for a moment appeared sober.

"Claire," he whispered, his voice a mixture between disbelief and awe, the latter sparking confusion within her. She watched his eyes flit up and down as he tried to confirm her presence as real instead of a drunken hallucination. Her own eyes reflected something less than friendly as they looked over the man but deep inside she felt something of the opposite sort. Slowly fear was losing its grip on her soul and whatever anger she might have felt, should have felt, was not there to fill the void.

Tig suddenly reached out to her. Claire backed up, instantly on alert. A wounded animal was the most dangerous and she would treat him as such. He seemed to understand immediately and lowered his hand, looking away. Her confusion only grew. None of it made any sense to her. This was not the man she had met a few days ago, the one who thought she was dirt and never thought to take it back.

There had been many men like him in her life: egotistical, chauvinist pigs who would toss her mother aside like trash when they were finished. They expressed no remorse, gave no indications that they were anything more than assholes and so she labeled them all as such and any other man that came across her with a matching attitude. Tig had been no exception but here, now, his thick shell was stripped away. He was not like the others, not one bit; he was a broken, miserable creature and somehow she was starting to feel pity for him.

She stepped back inside, not stopping until she stood just in front of him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, something was questioning her actions but she did not hear it. She was no longer in control.

Claire reached out to him now, her arm hesitant and shaking. Tig remained still, watching her until her hand made contact with his hair. She heard him sigh then as her fingers wrapped around a few stands of his curly locks.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. He then lurched forward, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her stomach. She could feel his body shake as he began to cry. He mumbled various forms of apologies into her shirt as he gripped her as tightly as he had that bottle. Claire stood still, wrapping her arm around his neck. She said nothing. There were no words to be said. She simply waited until he finished.

"Why…why were you in the truck? Why was she in the truck?" His ramblings went on and on along those lines until his shaking stopped and he looked up at her with genuine curiosity in his eyes. "Why didn't you scream?"

She knew why he asked it. If she had done so, had reacted in any way, shape or form, he would not have stopped and they would not find themselves in this situation now. They would be content to hate one another. His question caused her to pause. She had no answer. Internally she asked this to herself.

"Doesn't matter," Claire replied, shaking her head. "C'mon, get up."

She grabbed his cut and tried to pull him up. Her effort would not be much without some assistance on his part. Thankfully he complied, managing to stand on his shaky legs. He wobbled on his feet and nearly fell to the floor again but somehow Claire managed to keep him up instead of being dragged down with him. She put his arm over her shoulders and helped him walk the four feet to his bed, which may as well have been forty in their case.

Tig sat down hard on the end of the bed, causing something underneath to crack. She thought he would tip right over but the Sergeant at Arms surprised her by remaining upright. His eyes had lost focus though and he appeared to be staring at nothing. Claire left him like that as she walked to the bathroom. She grabbed a hand towel and began to wet it down in the sink, ignoring the stark contrast of his blood on her white top.

Glancing up, Claire's gaze locked on the mirror in front of her. It was smashed and blood covered the edges of the shards. So this was how he did it. He could not stand his reflection staring back at him. Claire noted her own in the broken glass. It began to glare at her and so she never glanced its way again.

Eventually she went back to Tig, only to find him nursing his bottle of alcohol. She crossed the room and took it from him after a few moments of coaxing. Planting her knees on the floor, Claire leaned in to get a good look at his cut. When she was satisfied that there was no glass to be found, she began to clean it with the towel, keeping her left hand firmly on his shoulder lest the pressure caused him to tip over. He said nothing as she worked, just stared past her as though she was invisible. However, when she finished, his eyes were able to lock on her again. He looked at her as though it was the first time he had seen her, that same disbelief reflected in his gaze.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice sounding hoarse and tired.

Claire sighed. She had no answer for this question either. What she knew was that she felt like she was buying a ticket to Hell for this. Donna had been dead only a few hours and here she was comforting her murderer. As wrong as it seemed, though, she could not get herself to stop.

"Someone has to take care of you." And she was probably the resident expert on drunks. Maybe that was why she helped him. It felt like home.

"But you…I…"

Claire put a finger to his lips. "No more talking. Go to sleep."

She went back to the bathroom briefly in order to dump the contents of his bottle in the sink. Afterwards she headed to the door without another look at Tig. She had done far too much.

"Stay."

Stopping, Claire turned to face him. She looked at him as though he were crazy, which of course he might have been, its power amplified by the alcohol pumping throughout his body. She thought to turn him down as soon as he said it but when she met his gaze again, the words became caught, nearly choking her. Something about him was stopping her. Instead of leaving, she could only find herself being drawn closer, like a moth to the flame.

She sat near him on the bed, watching him curiously. "What do you want from me, Tig?"

He shook his head, looking away from her a moment. Claire waited for him to say something but as time passed on, she knew she was waiting for the impossible.

Claire could not resist touching him again. Her hand moved forward, brushing against his cheek. He looked at her and for one moment she thought he might lash out at her but her hand remained where it was. Tig watched her cautiously, unsure of her intent. So was she.

And then it hit her, the words she needed to say. They were strange words, things that she could not wrap her head around, her tongue uncertain of how to pronounce them. But despite everything that had happened, she knew it was right. Somehow she knew.

"It's okay," she whispered, her tone forgiving and sympathetic.

Tig visibly relaxed, closing his eyes and leaning against her hand. He slowly moved forward, resting his head on her lap. Claire did nothing to stop him. She placed her hand gently on his head as his own gripped her knee tightly, each a source of comfort for the other in a strange way. And there they stayed for a long time, even well after he had fallen asleep.

Claire knew then that even if she wanted to leave, she could not. She had signed her deal with the devil.

Let her be damned with them.

Not really sure where Tig actually lives so I just chose the easy route. And don't worry, normal Tig will be back next chapter. I hope none of ya'll think he was OOC, but if so, don't be afraid to point it out.

Umm…I really don't have anything else to say this chapter except that I still hold the belief that Kozik is alive. :D

Cheers!