For Reasons Wretched and Divine

Peach Pie

Notes: Psa, it is so hard to write Happy as completely canon compliant because I wanted to give him actual dialogue and Hap says maybe a sentence an episode. So, I gave him a complex thought process and a soul and made him less terrifying to the public. (how else is a relatively ordinary girl supposed to even look at him?)

Almost to the point where I can say he's an original character but oh well.
These won't be terribly long chapters, just chunks of moments.

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The diner was found by accident. The rain was impossible and freezing, roaring down from the sky in sideways sheets that turned the asphalt into a strip of Teflon. It was dangerous conditions for a car, let alone a motorcycle.

Big Jim's Diner and Bakery was still open during a typhoon for some godforsaken reason; the building was small and colorless in the relentless rain, but the inside was lit, and it was a no-brainer decision to head inside.

Happy was positively murderous when he opened the door, the cheery jangle of the doorbell grating his eternally thin nerves. Water poured off him, pooling in his boots and dripping to the worn linoleum floors. The inside was everything promised, pale green vinyl booths pressed against the big windows, blissfully warm air puffed out of the ceiling vents, Nina Simone crooning from the jukebox in the corner, butter yellow walls tacked with photos, and most importantly, the mouthwatering scent of food that all but slapped Happy in the face when he opened the door.

An old man turned to look at him from behind the case of pies, fingers frozen over the keypad of the register. His clever eyes flicked over Happy, taking in the tattoos on his head and the cut-off on his shoulders. Happy never cared when people stared, he understood that he gave off an air of menace, and he never ducked his head when he had eyes on his cut, but he felt too damned waterlogged and horrifically tired even to square his shoulders.

"Can I help you with something, son?" The old man asked, a little weary but respectfully diplomatic.

Happy Lowman was a Son of Anarchy, a Man of Mayhem, he had been shot and tortured and was a professional hitman, he was the motherfucking Tacoma Killer, but he started shivering in the doorway of a diner a little after nine pm on a Wednesday night, and he hated it.

"Bathroom?" He questioned, fingers curling into fists to stave off the shaking. It didn't work.

The man's eyes softened a little, and he pointed an arthritis crooked finger at a small alcove in the corner. "Over that way,"

Happy grunted thanks and stalked over, his boots squeaking with every step.

The bathroom was old but clean, the tile on the wall was chipped, and the faucet had probably been witness to more presidents than Happy could name, but again, it was clean.

Happy couldn't help but feel a little bad as he stripped down, wringing his clothes into the sink, and scrubbed his whole body down with scratchy brown paper towel. He was making a bit of a mess, but as he shoved his head under the ancient hand dryer that sounded like a squadron of robots being tried for war crimes, he felt a little less bad about it.

The puddles of water on the floor were carefully mopped up, the mile of paper towel he used was artfully pressed down into the trashcan, but when it still overflowed from the bin, he just pulled out the bag and tied it off, setting it by the door so he could take it out when he left.

He was a hitman, but he was also his mother's son.

Twenty minutes of holding his clothes under the hand dryer had left them damp but livable, and Happy would be lying if he said he felt comfortable standing ass naked in a diner bathroom forty-five minutes from even the boundary line of Charming.