Chapter 22 The Pledge Circle
The Pledge Circle
A Trust Exercise
Riggs had the bright idea to make the Bitches pair up this week and write pledges to each other. Something about mutual accountability and healing through structured vulnerability.
In practice, it’s become roast hour with yarn.
Riggs stands in the middle of the room, clipboard in one hand, rainbow-colored yarn unraveling from his wrist like he forgot he was still attached to his project.
“I swear to Christ,” he says, already tired, “if this turns into a trust fall, I’m climbing out the window.”
McCormick, with his CAMP BALLS t-shirt half untucked. “There’s a perfectly good door right there,” he points out around a mouthful of pork rinds. He wipes his hand on his shorts, of course.
“I call catching you!” Jax pipes up. “And by catching I mean side-stepping and yelling timber.”
“Y’all are the worst support group I’ve ever been in,” Riggs mutters, but there’s no heat in it.
Rhett clears his throat dramatically. “I’ll go first.”
He stands, unfolding a crumpled sheet of paper like it’s the Declaration of Independence. “This is my pledge to Riggs.”
Riggs groans.
Rhett reads aloud:
"I solemnly swear to do my absolute best not to draw dicks on your therapy clipboard, unless they are necessary for scientific purposes or holiday-themed."
"I will not mock your tea collection, even though it tastes like sadness and scented candles had a baby."
"I promise to not swap your carefully selected cabinet knobs with googly eyes again, except on April Fools' Day. Or Thursdays. Or whenever I need a laugh."
"Most importantly, I will try to be less of a jackass, show up when I say I will, and not make your job harder than it already is. You're a good man. And I guess, like, weirdly wise or whatever."
Silence.
“And wicked hot,” he adds, not reading from the paper.
Then Jax claps way too hard. “That was beautiful. Really touched my inner child.”
“I’ll touch your inner child,” Pharo says, which earns him a boot to the shin.
Nash glances sideways at Mandy, who’s been smirking behind his needles the whole time.
“You write yours?” Nash asks.
Mandy shrugs. “Kinda.” He clears his throat and stands up. “This is for Nash. Who I didn’t choose. Fate forced us together.”
Nash flips him off.
Mandy smirks. “I solemnly swear to attempt punctuality when it matters, shut up when you need me to listen, and refrain from challenging you to arm wrestling when you’re already injured.”
Snorts of laughter all around.
“I will not replace your gluten-free snacks with Oreos. Again. Even though Oreos are superior. And I will stop referring to therapy homework as ‘emotional taxidermy.’”
“I liked that one,” Nash mutters. Mandy grins.
“I promise, on my honor as a God-fearing-country-loving vet to give a shit. Like, actually. About your progress. About this group. About you. You’ve carried a lot for all of us, and I’ll be here to help carry you when it gets heavy.
Or at least carry your weird-ass cat to group when your arm’s in a sling again cause I broke my former promise not to challenge you to arm wrestling. ”
Nash stares at him a moment, then nods once. That’s as good as a hug from him.
West stands up, arms crossed, expression somewhere between sarcastic and serious. He doesn’t have anything written down. Of course not. That’s not how West works.
“This is for Brandt,” he says, glancing over. “Obviously.”
Brandt raises an eyebrow. “Obviously.”
“I pledge to stop pretending I’m fine when I’m clearly not, just so you don’t worry about me and burn yourself out trying to fix my shit.”
A few knowing grunts from the group.
“I pledge to actually eat something green once in a while and not just whatever’s within arm’s reach and shaped like a chip.”
Brandt snorts. “Progress.”
“I promise to listen when you say you're tired and not take it personally. To let you rest without making it a crisis about me.”
There’s a pause—barely noticeable, but weighted.
“I swear to stop acting like I don’t need anyone, when the truth is, I’d be lost without you. You're the one who drags me back when I start to drown in my own bullshit.”
Brandt looks at him then. Really looks. West shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but his voice gets quieter.
“You’ve had my back through everything. Through the worst of me. So I promise, going forward, I’ll have yours. I’ll show up. I’ll take care of you the way you take care of me. Even when you pretend you don’t need it.”
Then, louder, with a smirk:
“And I will try not to hog the blanket. But no promises.”
Brandt lets out a short laugh and rolls his eyes, but there’s something soft in the way he nods.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Is that all?” he asks, hedging for more.
West shrugs, then blows out a big breath, his shoulders sagging. “Fine,” he huffs. “I won’t disconnect the electricity again next time you put Top Gun on.” He drops down in his chair dramatically. “Fuck.”
Brandt’s smile is genuine this time. “Deal.”
Jax gets to his feet and turns to Pharo. “I promise to stop hacking your phone.”
Pharo snorts like he doesn’t believe him.
“I promise to stop calling you old when you put on your reading glasses and ignore me for those stupid mission briefs, and those dusty-ass Reader’s Digest books you think I don’t know are hidden in your closet.”
“My mother gave me those,” Pharo protests in a voice no one challenges with a joke.
“Annnnd… I promise not to put sugar in the gas tank on your bike.”
Pharo pops to his feet, advancing on him. “That was you?”
“No?” Jax backs up a step.
Riggs groans. “Christ. Someone go before they fight again.”
McCormick stands. “Alright, fine. This one’s for Stiles. My emotional support cryptid.”
Stiles flips him off fondly.
“I, Ernest McCormick, hereby pledge to try—try, mind you—to stop hiding your truck keys so you can’t ghost out of events early.”
Snickers from around the circle.
“I also pledge to stop making fun of your weird-ass hobby of organizing our fridge by emotional temperature, whatever the hell that means.”
Stiles: “It makes sense and you know it.”
McCormick ignores him.
“I promise to tell you when something’s wrong instead of throwing a wrench at a wall and hoping you figure it out from context clues.”
Someone coughs “growth” from the back.
“I’ll be your pain-in-the-ass battle buddy whenever you need me. I’ll show up, and I’ll sit through group even though I’ve clearly evolved beyond needing support.”
“Doubtful,” Jax coughs.
“I’ll make you soup when you’re sick, even if you claim it ‘ruins your digestion.’”
Stiles mumbles, “It does.”
“I’ll keep calling you out when you act like you don’t care about anything, because I know you care too much.
I’ll drag your broody ass into the sunlight when necessary.
Figuratively. Maybe literally.” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck.
“And if you ever need someone to sit next to you in the quiet when everything hurts, I’ll be there.
No questions, no pressure. Just… there.”
Then, with a sly smirk, he adds, “And yes, I still reserve the right to call you a punk-ass bitch when warranted, even though we’re sleeping together.”
Stiles snorts. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Stiles unfolds a neatly typed pledge from his back pocket. “McCormick,” he says, with a deadpan look that’s already got everyone grinning, “this was supposed to be serious. But since you made fun of my fridge, all bets are off.”
McCormick winks, unrepentant.
“I, Bertrand Stiles, pledge not to publicly psychoanalyze your obsession with zip ties, gas station burritos, or your weird need to sit in the same damn chair every week like you own it.”
“I do own it,” McCormick mutters.
Stiles continues without a blink.
“I pledge to keep snacks in my car for when your blood sugar tanks and you turn into a bigger asshole than usual.”
“Thank you,” someone whispers. “On behalf of us all.”
“I’ll listen when you need to talk, and I’ll keep showing up even when you pretend you don’t need anyone. I’ll take your bad moods, your sarcasm, and your terrible taste in podcasts, and I’ll keep showing up anyway.”
McCormick’s smirk fades a little at that.
“I’ll remind you you’re not the only one who made it out. I’ll remind you to stop looking over your shoulder and start looking at what’s right in front of you.”
He folds the paper once, twice, then looks up.
“And if you ever forget that you matter, I’ll find you and I’ll drag your dramatic ass back to the people who love you.”
He’s quiet for a beat before adding, “But yeah, I still reserve the right to correct your grammar mid-sentence.”
McCormick stares at him, then nods once, quietly. “Deal. Don’t forget the part about not limiting my processed meat consumption.”
Stiles just stares. “Right. That.”
“No, you have to say it as part of the pledge or it doesn’t count.”
“I swear to Christ, you’re fucking two years old.”
“Say it, Bert,” Mac insists.
With a deep breath of patience, Stiles vows, “I solemnly swear not to limit your consumption of processed meat.”
McCormick grins like he’s satisfied with that.
“Or, your consumption of my meat,” Stiles adds with a smirk.
McCormick laughs, but the rest of the group bombards Stiles with yarn balls and knitting needles.
“There’s my cue to find the door,” Riggs says, getting to his feet.