A/N: Tig Trager is my favourite SONS character. I have this fantasy of him having some kind of happily ever after - mainly because I know this is never happening on the actual show. This story is my contribution. Morena is an OFC.
"Go to hell. You're a fucking miserable piece of shit, Tig!"
The words were spat in his general direction as a woman hastily collected her clothes and headed for the front door. She was a pretty thing if she cleaned up some, but in her current state, she looked more like the shitty disposition she'd accused him of.
She paused at the door and threw a glance back, unable to mask the hope that he might change his mind and call her back. But he wasn't interested. The night was over. The sex had been great – he was sure – but then again, he didn't remember much of it.
When Nadya or Miriam (she had some exotic name he didn't remember either) realised he wasn't going to call her back, the door slammed, sending the windows in the little apartment rattling threateningly. He winced and breathed a sigh of relief. His head was pounding to the rhythm of the best rock anthem.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. But a piece of shit I am darlin'," he drawled under his breath. There was no one to hear him. The story of his life.
Dragging himself into a sitting position, he surveyed his surroundings. He spent most of his time at the club. Well maybe all of his time was a better description. But he kept this little apartment, nothing more than a one bed-roomed, open planned space because sometimes a man just needed to be in his own surroundings to think. And in the last couple years, he had needed a lot of time and space to think. And breathe. And sometimes late at night, even cry.
He had come here a lot after killing Donna. Just the thought of it and his gut clenched in reaction. It didn't matter what he was doing, he always remembered Donna. Even when he was drunk beyond words, incoherent and stumbling around with no purpose. Donna whispered to him. Always.
"Park that shit, Trager," he slurred. It was going to be a long day.
Moving slowly, trying not to jar his head too much, he stumbled nakedly into the tiny bathroom and stepped into the shower, turning on the spray and resting his head against the wall. He purposefully stood under the cold water, his body rigid until the water warmed and his muscles relaxed. This was where he experienced and battled the worst of his emotions. This is where his demons always caught him. Not at night, not while sleeping. But here, in this tiny stall, scalding water pounding ruthlessly down his body, with steam billowing and swirling in thick, hot masses, rivalling the thickest fog from the Scottish highlands.
It was here where he had cried for the first time in years, the tiny cubicle witnessing the sobs that had wracked his body - the night he'd realised he had killed a woman who had been nothing but kind to him. Afraid of me sometimes, he thought. But kind nonetheless. No one with a beating heart and some measure of a soul recovered from that. Even one as tutored in violence as he was.
He blindly groped for some soap and lathered his body, shampooed his hair and rinsed himself, more than once. He slept with many women, and often. But he always scrubbed their odour from his body after. He couldn't explain it. Some things were not meant for understanding. He didn't want their smell on him. So he lathered once more before turning off the spray reluctantly and stepping out.
The mirror that hung over the sink was small and chipped on the top corners. He didn't notice that as he wiped across the surface quickly, the heavy silver rings on his fingers scratching as his reflection became visible. Piercing blue eyes took stock.
He wasn't a handsome man. In fact, he looked weather beaten after too much time in the sun. Wrinkles lined his face, this way and that. His nose was slightly hooked and dozens of frown lines raced across his forehead like the steel tracks of a train. His dark hair curled wildly, too long and in desperate need of a trim. As did his goatee, dark against his skin despite his tanned complexion.
But what Tig didn't know was that put together, his face had character. It spoke of adventure and exciting journeys. It spoke of laughter around his eyes, and concentration in the furrow between his eyes. And it spoke of sadness in the creases around his mouth. His face had character. And to many women, that was wildly attractive.
Dropping his toothbrush back onto the little shelf above the sink, he winced as plastic made contact with glass. Fuck. This day really was going to be fucked up.
Naked as the day he was born, but feeling negligibly better after the scalding pummelling, the last thing he expected was his front door to open and his two-day-a-week domestic worker to breeze in, bringing in the smell of sunshine and lemons.
Morena always smelled like lemons. The thought hit him just as he wondered why the fuck he even remembered that.
Seeing motion in the corner of her eye, Tig watched her glance in his direction; draw an audible gasp before flushing pink and turning her back to him.
"Mr. Trager, I... I'm so sorry. You aren't normally here..."
Irritation rode his nerves and made his voice sharper than he intended. "Jesus. How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Mr. Trager?"
When he saw her back stiffen, remorse hovered, but he punched it back down. Lemons. Why the fuck did he have to remember the lemons? Jesus. He was not fucking lusting after the hired help. He had to draw the line somewhere. And fucking innocent, wide-eyed med-students wasn't something he was interested in. Ever.
"Well maybe if you weren't standing around bloody naked I would be able to formulate a coherent thought!" she hissed. Her voice had tapered off and he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. He still had a hangover and his hearing wasn't at its best. Fuck. He really didn't want to be around this tempting morsel.
Tig rolled his eyes as irritation drove him hard. Tempting morsel? Christ. He was losing his mind.
"It's my damned place and I'm on my way out."
Silence was all his declaration got in return.
He took his time locating and then donning his clothing. He was in fact fully dressed but kept unzipping and then redoing his zipper. The way her shoulders would subtly tense amused him and made him forget. For just a little while.
But playtime was over. Grabbing his gun, Tig slipped it into the holster near his left arm and grabbed his leather wrist cuffs. He stopped behind her, too close to her he knew. He couldn't resist.
She was a lot shorter than he was, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulders. She peered over her shoulder and their gazes locked uneasily. Her eyes were large and dark, almost too large, and they were rimmed by the longest, darkest lashes. Tig thought he felt his head swim. He told himself it was the alcohol leaving his system.
"Money's in the usual place," was all he said before slipping on his sunglasses and heading out the door.
He was hell bent on escaping his apartment and the forbidden within. In haste, he didn't see her peer out after him, watching his retreating form until he was out of sight.