For Reasons Wretched and Divine

Violence is my love language

Notes:

Why did it take me so long to write this? That's a good question that I don't have the answer to.
I've manically cleaned the bathroom and still have energy, so let's see how many words I can get out before my heart medication kicks in and knocks me out. Sorry, it's short, but something is better than nothing.

0o0

The garage looked like the scene for a horror movie, with a concrete floor, drab walls, bleak lighting, the faint smell of iron and bleach, and a tattoo machine stuffed in the corner.

Happy was willing to admit that it didn't look great.

Onion spent exactly four minutes standing in the doorway to the garage, watching his human layering blankets on the stained second-hand massage table and spraying Febreeze before the creature turned back to the house. Not everything could be helped, and that garage was one of those things.

To give her credit, Sunshine did NOT make the 'this looks like a fantastic place to murder someone' joke that would have been appropriate when her colorful Converses stepped onto the concrete. She never made murder jokes to Happy, something he hadn't noticed until it was more than acceptable to make one.

A wave of appreciation hit him first, an appreciation that she never made comments, but then a sharp pull of dread snagged his stomach like a fishing hook. His life in the club was hardly a topic of conversation. Her purposeful avoidance of that particular flavor of comedy was more than likely rooted in the fact that she had her suspicions.

Nausea weakened his stomach, but he fought hard to shrug it off. There was no way in hell he would be the first to bring up the talk, it had ended marriages and lifelong friendships before his very eyes, and it boiled his organs in anxiety thinking about it.

He was learning to be a better man; he was putting in backbreaking work in the art of regaining his humanity; he was relearning a lifetime of chaos to become an ounce of the man she deserved. But at the same time, he wasn't a good enough man to tell her the truth. He handed over so much, the bullet wounds and the vulnerability; he gave her his heart and soul, he would unwind his DNA if she asked.

But he'd be dragged to hell in bloody shreds before even considering giving her the burden of his sins.

And Happy was a sinner.

0o0

"You bring a lot of girls back here?" Sunshine teased over her shoulder. "It's very romantic."

Snorting, Happy spared her a look before going back to the tattoo coming to life under his hands. He'd never brought someone back to his house before, period. Not a woman, not someone from the MC, only friends of the four-legged variety crossed his threshold. There wasn't really a need to bring that up here, so he kept his lips closed and his technique gentle.

With a combined six hours of internet research rattling around in his tattooed skull, he had amassed knowledge on how to tattoo over scars and on dark skin. The flowers had been drawn and redrawn a dozen times while he got progressively more pissed off at a back seat driving Juice, who had hovered over his shoulder making critiques.

The bluebell and chamomile stems braided together with the surgical scar, an idea that had made Sunshine tear up when Happy had given her the sketch.

"It's not going to feel that great going on," he had warned her before he had even put the stencil on.

"Having my spine forcibly realigned with metal sticks didn't feel all that great either," she had laughed while pulling off her hoodie, and the point that Happy was trying to make left his head, along with all his blood.

"How's the pain?" No part of him thought she'd be vocal about the discomfort, but the slight flexion in her back muscles and steady, and the catch in carefully measured breathing making his hands rise and fall, caught his attention.

"Not what I thought it'd be, honestly. I was expecting it to be worse over the scar, but it's like sharp static everywhere." Though he didn't look away from the delicate leaves of a bluebell he was shading in, Happy could hear in her voice that her nose was wrinkled.

"Do you wanna take a break?" He paused, stepping off the floor pedal.

"Nope, ain't nothin' I can't handle."

Happy hesitated. It was hard not to get caught up in the fact that he had irreparably hurt so many people but was having a hard time tattooing his girlfriend because it was causing her mild irritation.

Freud would have a field day with him.

In an effort to not upset her back with the odd position she insisted on sitting in, Sunshine carefully reached behind herself and sought out blindly until her hand collided with his knee.

"My darling sweet Happy, I promise it doesn't hurt enough to stop, and if it does, I'll tell you." Her hand squeezed his knee, a simple enough gesture but damn if it didn't soothe him like barbiturate to the heart.

"Okay," he nodded, more for himself than for her since she hadn't turned around to look at him.

0o0

The only mirror in his house was on the medicine cabinet door from the bathroom, so Happy had dutifully unscrewed it that morning to use later.

"Oh, Happy," Sunshine breathed, looking over her shoulder at the mirror in his hands. "I love it,"

He smiled in relief, the death grip he had been choking the mirror with loosened.

"This is exactly what I had in my mind," tears welled in her eyes. She was a sight, standing half-naked in his garage, a blanket hugged to her chest, curly hair pulled over her shoulder to see the mark better. "My Grandma hated tattoos, said they were for bad, unrepentant men, but I think she'd like this one,"

"Would she have liked me?" Happy didn't much care if a dead woman favored him, but Sunshine did.

"Grandma didn't like men very much after Grandpa cheated on her and had a kid, so I can't really answer that," She smiled wryly, blinking back the tears.

Happy snorted.

"But I'm serious, Happy; I love it. It's beautiful," turning around and stepping closer; she pressed an agonizingly sweet kiss to his mouth.

"What can I say," he shrugged. "Violence is my love language."

Her laughter filled the room and his body like a breath of life.

Notes:

The end is near, my friends.
It hurts me too, but it's time. Just a few more chapters, 62 isn't set in stone, but it's damn close.
Not everything can last forever.
** I have a tattoo between two massive surgery scars but not on them, so I'm making an educated guess on the sensation of it**