FNL Fic: wandering eyes over the dashboard
wandering eyes over the dashboard
lyla; lyla/tim- pg
1410 words
tentative el accidente
for _vicodin. lu.
It’s always been the same: girl, this is your definition here and she’s learned to live with it; it’s now, now, that she’s starting to understand it just shouldn’t be.
Now the water to my knees
Think of him all waxy wings
PJ Harvey| Water
-
She thinks about his hands a lot.
Doesn’t mean to- but Lyla’s been secretly wandering since she was six and Mom refused to put her in pageants much to Daddy’s Mama’s dismay.
(‘suppose cheerleading was enough)
Her fingers curl around the steering wheel, a little tighter than usual at a light, her eyes glued to the waving wires. She’s sure that Jason’s gonna know at some point because Jason’s known a lot more of her a lot longer. It just happened that way.
“We’ll get through this,” Tim stumbles warmly against her throat.
She wonders if she really can believe him.
-
It’s Sunday service, between Daddy and Mom, flanked by her siblings on the either side.
Lyla fidgets in front of God like she’s seven again, Mom’s hand dropping to her knee and pressing a sympathetic kiss to her jaw. She doesn’t really ask what’s going on and maybe, Lyla prefers it that way.
She’s tuning the service out like any other day.
Afterwards, Daddy’s arm is wrapped ‘round her shoulder, lips to her forehead, and a silly, little smile.
“We love you, baby.”
It just doesn’t mean the same, but, like clockwork, her lips part:
“Love you too,” she sighs.
-
Fifth period, she remembers that Tim called her sweetheart by accident.
It just sorta happens when she’s next to the window during history, her chin resting on her hand. Her pencil taps twice against the spine of her notebook and there’s another pre-game moment, another press conference on the field outside.
He called her sweetheart, low and barely there as he pressed against her. His sheets were all over the place, his room lit with the smell of a six-pack- but it was okay, it was them, it was real.
She doesn’t know how to handle that. It’s always been the same: girl, this is your definition here and she’s learned to live with it; it’s now, now, that she’s starting to understand it just shouldn’t be. But she spots Tim across the field, lazily draped across a chair and his head cocked to the side as her attention turns back.
Tim never touched her like that guy, that guy that everybody makes him out to be. Tim was just Tim and never anything less; it’s learning to appreciate that, what Jason (and she knows) got to see, what she overlooked just like everybody else and guilty as sin.
So she’s a little bit envious and a little bit curious even though, she’s promised herself to stop- she’s not supposed to be.
“Ms. Garrittyy,” the teacher drawls, causing her to blink.
Lyla’s lips turn. “B,” she says absently. “Not C.”
She looks away when Tim’s gaze wanders.
-
She thinks about leavin’ a lot.
Doesn’t feel the need to tell anyone, Jason breathing baby, you got your future makes her feel so guilty sometimes, so confused, and awkwardly defined. Because really, that’s it. Dillon defines kids by seven, after mass and if they make some sort of contribution to Texas and what’s good and gold.
(there’s nothing here, baby, Mom breathes quietly, don’t you see?)
So Lyla folds her hair into a ponytail, the ends brushing against the tie at her neck as she steps out and fingers her keys. She turns, momentarily, dropping them into the little bowl Mom tries to get everybody to use.
She scrapes against the sidewalk, her dress whirling against her knees. There’s a new scar, the latest, when she fell during a tumble and got up only to hit into something. Almost funny and Lyla grinned and bared it- it’s why she gets Mom, gets what she’s trying do with each little push of don’t be like me.
“Hey, where’ya going?” Her brother swims an appearance out of the neighbor’s yard, curiously following her along the opposite sidewalk.
Lyla shrugs him off and would ruffle his hair if she could. “Out.”
She stops though, at the end of the block, over left and right and wondering which way would be better for a minute.
Here’s thing: she doesn’t know.
-
Eventually, after the hospital a couple days later, she works her way over to see Tim.
Jason’s trying to be subtle and she’s trying not to think about it- they don’t fight much and maybe that’s why when they do, it explodes in front of them. She’s mainly tired, but she’s been a selfish bitch for even remotely touching those thoughts. She’s got to expect it though and wonders why she’s just conceded to the fact that it’s coming.
She makes it up the path, past the #33 Riggins sign, before losing it and whirling around on her heels. Her ponytail crashes against her neck and there’s a laugh, Billy on the porch with a beer in hand.
“Where ya going, sweet girl?”
Her lips part and she almost loses her footing, her arms drawing across her chest with a self-indulgent what are you doin’? as she slides back.
“Never mind,” she mutters.
Billy snorts, casting his hand to the side. “In the garage.”
Her eyes widen and she steps back again, turning and following the steps to the driveway. The grass seems longer than it was since the last time she’s been here and that’s still a disconnecting though. She peeks around the side though, finding Tim under the hood of his truck.
Music is low, grainy, but makes this his home, his sphere, and another realization that she doesn’t know that much.
So she watches.
His hands never fail to be anything but steady, working around wires and things that she doesn’t know the names of- but hey, this year’s taught her how to change tires, sort of. She sighs and he turns, his hair falling over his eyes as his lips turn slightly.
“Lyla Garrity,” he drawls lazily.
Her lips curl slightly. Can’t help herself. “Hey.”
She doesn’t know really what she wants to say to him, if there’s anything to say, and if she can do this at all. She does step forward, her fingers skimming his jaw and brushing off a smudge of grease. It’s a film in the making, she thinks in amusement. A comedy and everything else.
She takes a deep breath.
“Think I should stick around?” It’s a quiet question, encompassing things she’s just not ready to deal with yet. And maybe, for the time, it’s just going to keep slipping until she starts to deal the right way, the best way- If Mom only knew how many times she really did listen to her.
The truck moans and Tim turns to slam the hood close. They did it there once, too, and Lyla hates to admit that she purposely let that one time stick in her head, Tim’s mouth over her stomach as if he were meant to touch her. It was real dirty, but god, it was something unexpected, something that was hers and it’s probably why she let the comment about her thighs slip with a laugh.
But she’s pushed out of her thoughts when his hand drops against her hip, for just a second, and he shakes his head.
“That’s the same dress,” he murmurs.
She blinks, looking down. Paper-printed flowers skim over her knees as her hair teases against her neck. “Oh.”
She feels kinda stupid, but drifts back to his hand on her hip. Her dress is probably stained, but she doesn’t care. He laughs lightly, at her or with her, she can never tell. But she’s always liked the sound; it made him somethin’ to watch, she thinks.
“You’re gonna come back.” It’s not really an answer and she really wasn’t expecting anything. His mouth hovers over hers and she thinks he’s going to kiss her, again (she kinda hopes, okay), but he doesn’t move and she watches him curiously.
She shakes her head. She never said anything and she wonders how many kinds of obvious she really is. It’s unsettling, a little bit more than she’d like it to be, and maybe, that’s why she says dryly: “Think so?”
He smirks, but says nothing, stepping back and going back to the truck. He opens the hood, the groan thick in the space, and leans forward again.
“Yep.”
That’s twice, she thinks, the color of his voice washing over her as she takes a step back and away from the garage. That’s twice he’s said it’s gonna be okay.
(she’s gotta believe him now)
end.
lyla; lyla/tim- pg
1410 words
tentative el accidente
for _vicodin. lu.
It’s always been the same: girl, this is your definition here and she’s learned to live with it; it’s now, now, that she’s starting to understand it just shouldn’t be.
Now the water to my knees
Think of him all waxy wings
PJ Harvey| Water
-
She thinks about his hands a lot.
Doesn’t mean to- but Lyla’s been secretly wandering since she was six and Mom refused to put her in pageants much to Daddy’s Mama’s dismay.
(‘suppose cheerleading was enough)
Her fingers curl around the steering wheel, a little tighter than usual at a light, her eyes glued to the waving wires. She’s sure that Jason’s gonna know at some point because Jason’s known a lot more of her a lot longer. It just happened that way.
“We’ll get through this,” Tim stumbles warmly against her throat.
She wonders if she really can believe him.
-
It’s Sunday service, between Daddy and Mom, flanked by her siblings on the either side.
Lyla fidgets in front of God like she’s seven again, Mom’s hand dropping to her knee and pressing a sympathetic kiss to her jaw. She doesn’t really ask what’s going on and maybe, Lyla prefers it that way.
She’s tuning the service out like any other day.
Afterwards, Daddy’s arm is wrapped ‘round her shoulder, lips to her forehead, and a silly, little smile.
“We love you, baby.”
It just doesn’t mean the same, but, like clockwork, her lips part:
“Love you too,” she sighs.
-
Fifth period, she remembers that Tim called her sweetheart by accident.
It just sorta happens when she’s next to the window during history, her chin resting on her hand. Her pencil taps twice against the spine of her notebook and there’s another pre-game moment, another press conference on the field outside.
He called her sweetheart, low and barely there as he pressed against her. His sheets were all over the place, his room lit with the smell of a six-pack- but it was okay, it was them, it was real.
She doesn’t know how to handle that. It’s always been the same: girl, this is your definition here and she’s learned to live with it; it’s now, now, that she’s starting to understand it just shouldn’t be. But she spots Tim across the field, lazily draped across a chair and his head cocked to the side as her attention turns back.
Tim never touched her like that guy, that guy that everybody makes him out to be. Tim was just Tim and never anything less; it’s learning to appreciate that, what Jason (and she knows) got to see, what she overlooked just like everybody else and guilty as sin.
So she’s a little bit envious and a little bit curious even though, she’s promised herself to stop- she’s not supposed to be.
“Ms. Garrittyy,” the teacher drawls, causing her to blink.
Lyla’s lips turn. “B,” she says absently. “Not C.”
She looks away when Tim’s gaze wanders.
-
She thinks about leavin’ a lot.
Doesn’t feel the need to tell anyone, Jason breathing baby, you got your future makes her feel so guilty sometimes, so confused, and awkwardly defined. Because really, that’s it. Dillon defines kids by seven, after mass and if they make some sort of contribution to Texas and what’s good and gold.
(there’s nothing here, baby, Mom breathes quietly, don’t you see?)
So Lyla folds her hair into a ponytail, the ends brushing against the tie at her neck as she steps out and fingers her keys. She turns, momentarily, dropping them into the little bowl Mom tries to get everybody to use.
She scrapes against the sidewalk, her dress whirling against her knees. There’s a new scar, the latest, when she fell during a tumble and got up only to hit into something. Almost funny and Lyla grinned and bared it- it’s why she gets Mom, gets what she’s trying do with each little push of don’t be like me.
“Hey, where’ya going?” Her brother swims an appearance out of the neighbor’s yard, curiously following her along the opposite sidewalk.
Lyla shrugs him off and would ruffle his hair if she could. “Out.”
She stops though, at the end of the block, over left and right and wondering which way would be better for a minute.
Here’s thing: she doesn’t know.
-
Eventually, after the hospital a couple days later, she works her way over to see Tim.
Jason’s trying to be subtle and she’s trying not to think about it- they don’t fight much and maybe that’s why when they do, it explodes in front of them. She’s mainly tired, but she’s been a selfish bitch for even remotely touching those thoughts. She’s got to expect it though and wonders why she’s just conceded to the fact that it’s coming.
She makes it up the path, past the #33 Riggins sign, before losing it and whirling around on her heels. Her ponytail crashes against her neck and there’s a laugh, Billy on the porch with a beer in hand.
“Where ya going, sweet girl?”
Her lips part and she almost loses her footing, her arms drawing across her chest with a self-indulgent what are you doin’? as she slides back.
“Never mind,” she mutters.
Billy snorts, casting his hand to the side. “In the garage.”
Her eyes widen and she steps back again, turning and following the steps to the driveway. The grass seems longer than it was since the last time she’s been here and that’s still a disconnecting though. She peeks around the side though, finding Tim under the hood of his truck.
Music is low, grainy, but makes this his home, his sphere, and another realization that she doesn’t know that much.
So she watches.
His hands never fail to be anything but steady, working around wires and things that she doesn’t know the names of- but hey, this year’s taught her how to change tires, sort of. She sighs and he turns, his hair falling over his eyes as his lips turn slightly.
“Lyla Garrity,” he drawls lazily.
Her lips curl slightly. Can’t help herself. “Hey.”
She doesn’t know really what she wants to say to him, if there’s anything to say, and if she can do this at all. She does step forward, her fingers skimming his jaw and brushing off a smudge of grease. It’s a film in the making, she thinks in amusement. A comedy and everything else.
She takes a deep breath.
“Think I should stick around?” It’s a quiet question, encompassing things she’s just not ready to deal with yet. And maybe, for the time, it’s just going to keep slipping until she starts to deal the right way, the best way- If Mom only knew how many times she really did listen to her.
The truck moans and Tim turns to slam the hood close. They did it there once, too, and Lyla hates to admit that she purposely let that one time stick in her head, Tim’s mouth over her stomach as if he were meant to touch her. It was real dirty, but god, it was something unexpected, something that was hers and it’s probably why she let the comment about her thighs slip with a laugh.
But she’s pushed out of her thoughts when his hand drops against her hip, for just a second, and he shakes his head.
“That’s the same dress,” he murmurs.
She blinks, looking down. Paper-printed flowers skim over her knees as her hair teases against her neck. “Oh.”
She feels kinda stupid, but drifts back to his hand on her hip. Her dress is probably stained, but she doesn’t care. He laughs lightly, at her or with her, she can never tell. But she’s always liked the sound; it made him somethin’ to watch, she thinks.
“You’re gonna come back.” It’s not really an answer and she really wasn’t expecting anything. His mouth hovers over hers and she thinks he’s going to kiss her, again (she kinda hopes, okay), but he doesn’t move and she watches him curiously.
She shakes her head. She never said anything and she wonders how many kinds of obvious she really is. It’s unsettling, a little bit more than she’d like it to be, and maybe, that’s why she says dryly: “Think so?”
He smirks, but says nothing, stepping back and going back to the truck. He opens the hood, the groan thick in the space, and leans forward again.
“Yep.”
That’s twice, she thinks, the color of his voice washing over her as she takes a step back and away from the garage. That’s twice he’s said it’s gonna be okay.
(she’s gotta believe him now)
end.