For Reasons Wretched and Divine

Mine and Yours

Gemma, for all of her talents, wasn't subtle.

She leered at Happy over the rim of her beer bottle, craning her neck this way and that, looking at his face and body.

Jax frowned at her.

"Mom, are you checking out Happy?"

All eyes turned to them.

Dramatically, Gemma rolled her eyes, swatting her son's chest with the back of her hand.

"God, Jackson, no. He's got too many tattoos, I'm trying to see if a hickey will catch on the light,"

Bobby snorted, and Chibs stood from the couch and handed Juice his beer as he walked to the hitman.

Happy growled at the Scotsman, whose hand gripped the top of his head like a basketball and tipped his head back, exposing his throat. Chibs hummed as he tipped his head left and right, inspecting his neck.

"Nope, we're all clear. I'm not taking off his clothes to check for more, Gem; I love you, but please don't make me,"

The men chuckled into their drinks while Gemma stared at him, eyes squinted and lips pursed.

Happy wasn't in the business of praying, but he sent one up just in case. The club walls were more than privy to stories and every graphic, lewd detail possible, but he'd sooner cut out his tongue than speak of Sunshine in an echo of that way. Wax poetic about the way her laugh filled him in ways he never knew he was empty, sure. Voice anything other than they went on a date? Well, then, there goes his tongue.

Her wicked and cunning eyes passed over him once more, but she kept her mouth shut as if she sensed his silent plea.

---

"How good are you with a screwdriver?"

There was a joke in there somewhere, no matter how grotesque, about how good he was with a screwdriver or an icepick and that he knew his way around every manner of pointy things.

"I can manage," he offered slowly, taking the tool Jim handed him with confusion.

"Good. Fix the cash register."

"Please," Sunshine added, giving Happy a smile that made the earth heave and dance underneath him.

God, the wars he'd start for that smile.

"Yeah, fine, please, the pie's on the house if you can get the damn thing open," Jim grumbled, waving dismissively at them while he walked back to his seat by his friends on the other side of the peninsula.

"You guys couldn't figure it out?" he asked, eyeing the row of usuals sitting at the counter.

"Arthritis," one called out.

"Not my job," said another.

Happy sighed.

Hopping the counter in place of taking the extra fifteen steps to go under the flip-top, he landed within touching distance of Sunshine.

"I told him that he should call the company that made it, but he's such a stubborn old man," Sunshine said, close enough that Happy could count her freckles if he wanted.

And trust that he wanted.

"I can do it," Happy shrugged a shoulder. "It's not my first time trying to get into a cash register," the attempted joke fell flat, and he felt the weight of the old men watching him interact with Sunshine.

"And to think, I was just starting to trust you," Jim said drily, fixing Happy under a judgmental stare, paternal and scolding.

"Be nice," Sunshine chastised, walking out into the serving area, leaving Happy alone with the group of old men.