Fic: "Nothing In My Pockets and Nothing Up My Sleeve" (Friday Night Lights)
For the songflashfic challenge #2. Saracen with Street and Riggins, between seasons 1 and 2. Title and lyrics from the prompt song, Jason Isbell's "The Magician."
I am an orphan man but ain't we all
I can make myself disappear
I am an orphan man but ain't we all
I hope there's somewhere worse than here
Jason's over at a table with Tim Riggins, telling stories, his chair flipped back on its wheelie bars and leaving thick black scuffs on the floor. Matt wonders if he can get away with pretending not to see the marks, just mop over them like they're part of the linoleum. He knows if he does, there'll be a nasty note from the morning manager waiting for him when he shows up next time, and he knows that he won't try it anyway, he'll get down on the floor and he'll scrape the tiles clean.
"Hey," Tim shouts, his voice too harsh when it's not expected, too loud, pitched to carry over Jason's laughter. "Hey, can somebody get us some napkins?"
Matt looks around for Smash, but there's nobody pretty and female in the place so he's out back in the parking lot on his cell phone. Matt sighs and grabs a big handful of napkins. "Yeah. I got some."
"Thanks, man," Tim drawls, and Jason breaks down giggling again, like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard, like there's a secret joke in the words. Probably there is; it's Six and Riggs, out on the town, tearing things up, just like old times, just like always. The smell of whiskey stands off both of them sharp enough to make Matt wrinkle his nose.
"You been training?" Jason asks, pointing at him. "Going to conditioning every day?"
Matt nods and shrugs, a single melded gesture. "Yeah. Course I have."
"Good." Jason drops his chair back down to the floor, and Matt winces slightly at the squeaking scrape of the wheels across the linoleum. "That's good. Gonna be ready to go this year, Saracen. Gonna show everybody. Gonna bring it. Not gonna let anybody down."
"Next year," Matt says, wiping the spilled ice cream off the table with the napkins Tim never had taken from his hand.
Jason blinks. "What?"
"It's February."
"Yeah," Tim says, frowning at him. "So football, in August, of this year..."
"That's next school year," Matt points out, knowing already it's a lost cause and it's stupid but going ahead and saying it anyway. "That's all I meant."
"You're funny, Saracen," Jason says, staring at him, doing that thing he does, that thing he got from Coach Taylor, where he says something's funny without smiling or laughing at all, and with that little edge in his voice that means it might be funny but it's also dumb as shit and what were you thinking when you opened your mouth anyway?
"Guess all I meant was..." Matt starts to say, but trails off as Tim wipes ice cream across his chin and Jason cracks up and Matt remembers that they're both drunk, they don't really care anyway, and it's the off-season so Coach Street is just volunteer Street who comes to the weight room and hangs out and offers pointers, nothing the Texas High School Athletic Association could want to have an opinion on.
Matt wonders sometimes if Jason remembers the younger kids watching him, in Pee Wee and in middle school and JV. The kids who were never gonna throw like that, never gonna have the ball settle in their hands like it liked it there, like that was its home. Of course, even when he does wonder that, he knows that Jason doesn't. Part of what makes Jason Jason is that he never noticed, never thought about it. A Jason who noticed would've been Smash, and Dillon couldn't hold two of 'em.
"Six," Tim says, wiping his hands on his pants, "we gotta get going."
"That's right," Jason says, rolling his chair back from the table. "Twenty minutes to showtime."
"What're y'all doing?" Matt asks, rolling the dirty napkins between his palms.
"Ultimate fighting, my friend," Jason said, wheeling his chair in a fast circle. "Ultimate fighting championships, televised, and when it's over my good friend Tim here is going to owe me twenty-five dollars."
Matt almost says he's glad they're friends again this week, it's a hell of a lot easier for everybody when they're talking, but instead he just shoves the napkins in the pocket of his stupid apron and points out the obvious. "Riggins don't have twenty-five dollars."
"Six lets me run a tab."
"Yeah, I do," Jason says, grinning, "because I'm a sucker."
Tim laughs at that, long and loud again, and Matt just nods and smiles slightly because it's obviously another one of those jokes that has a hell of a lot more meaning if you're in on it and he's not anything like that.
"You should come with us, Saracen," Tim says after a minute, staring at Matt with sudden intensity. "Come on over and watch the fight. Do some bonding."
"Yeah!" Jason spins his chair again. "Come with us. We'll hang out."
Matt stares at them for a moment, wondering if there's one more joke here he's missing, something he just doesn't get. "Well...I can't."
"Why not?" Tim asks, sharp and challenging, and Matt swallows before he answers, because he hates having to point out something that's probably going to make at least one person there feel really stupid, especially if that someone isn't him.
"I'm working."
Jason and Tim blink and look around the Alamo Freeze like they can't believe they've found themselves there. "Goddamn, will you look at that," Tim says, and then smiles brightly at Matt again. "Well, come over when you're done, Seven."
"I can't," Matt says, retreating toward the counter. "I gotta go home and check on my grandma."
"Your grandma," Tim says, and then he cracks up again and kicks at the tire of Jason's chair. "Hey, we ought to send my brother to live with Matt's grandma, and Matt can come live with me. Bet everybody would have a hell of a lot more fun that way."
"Shut up, Tim, you're a jackass," Jason says, without heat at all, and Tim does, chuckling to himself and digging his keys out of his pocket. "I'll see you tomorrow in the weight room, Saracen."
"No, tomorrow I can't," Matt says, and it comes out like an apology even though it's just a fact. Jason frowns again and he hurries to explain. "I got a meeting with Mrs. Taylor."
Nobody says anything, just nods, because Mrs. Taylor's off-limits and nobody ever makes any comments about her, even now that Coach wasn't the coach anymore and she should've been fair game. They just...didn't, about her. Except for Julie, of course, and nowadays Julie has plenty to say on the subject of both her parents, stuff that Matt's not going to repeat anywhere or even think too loud in case Mrs. Taylor could somehow read his mind and tell.
He's a little worried that one day he's going to slip up and tell Julie that at least she doesn't have to worry about anybody shooting at her dad while he's gone, not down in Austin. That won't go well at all, if that happens. He needs to not do that.
"Not flunking anything, are you, Saracen?" Jason asks, and Matt just shakes his head. Jason won't ask more and Matt won't offer, because as long as he'll be eligible to play nobody cares about the rest, except Mrs. Taylor with her serious eyes telling him he needs to start thinking about taking practice tests and planning for applications. He'll end up leaving her office with a whole lot of papers he'll throw out on his way to meet Landry in the parking lot. Matt doesn't want to make her all disappointed by telling her there isn't any point, even though there's not.
Jason's looking at him kind of thoughtfully, eyes bright with alcohol and something else, like he might be coming up with something to say, some words like one of those passes he used to throw that would just float and float and float until they fell, dead-on perfect into someone's hands. Matt waits for it, rubbing his palms anxiously on his jeans under his apron, not sure if he should sit down or salute or look away.
"Shit, Six, we gotta go," Tim says, drumming his hands on the back of a chair. "See you later, Saracen, tell your hot girlfriend to call me."
"Riggins!" Jason scolds as he shoves the door open and they move out into the night. "You're an animal."
The door slams shut behind them and Matt blinks a few times in the sudden quiet before finding the wet rag under the counter and going to wipe down the tabletop. He hears Smash come in in the back, singing to himself, voice rising up into a falsetto to provide a call and answer to his own questions.
Matt wipes the table down spit and polish perfect and then runs his fingers over the cool surface, tapping out a rhythm that doesn't match Smash's words. He's got another hour before he can lock up and head home, running down the empty sidewalks to keep warm in the dark.
He thinks, vague and distant, that you could run away from this town all night long and end up right back where you were by morning.
I am an orphan man but ain't we all
I can make myself disappear
I am an orphan man but ain't we all
I hope there's somewhere worse than here
Jason's over at a table with Tim Riggins, telling stories, his chair flipped back on its wheelie bars and leaving thick black scuffs on the floor. Matt wonders if he can get away with pretending not to see the marks, just mop over them like they're part of the linoleum. He knows if he does, there'll be a nasty note from the morning manager waiting for him when he shows up next time, and he knows that he won't try it anyway, he'll get down on the floor and he'll scrape the tiles clean.
"Hey," Tim shouts, his voice too harsh when it's not expected, too loud, pitched to carry over Jason's laughter. "Hey, can somebody get us some napkins?"
Matt looks around for Smash, but there's nobody pretty and female in the place so he's out back in the parking lot on his cell phone. Matt sighs and grabs a big handful of napkins. "Yeah. I got some."
"Thanks, man," Tim drawls, and Jason breaks down giggling again, like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard, like there's a secret joke in the words. Probably there is; it's Six and Riggs, out on the town, tearing things up, just like old times, just like always. The smell of whiskey stands off both of them sharp enough to make Matt wrinkle his nose.
"You been training?" Jason asks, pointing at him. "Going to conditioning every day?"
Matt nods and shrugs, a single melded gesture. "Yeah. Course I have."
"Good." Jason drops his chair back down to the floor, and Matt winces slightly at the squeaking scrape of the wheels across the linoleum. "That's good. Gonna be ready to go this year, Saracen. Gonna show everybody. Gonna bring it. Not gonna let anybody down."
"Next year," Matt says, wiping the spilled ice cream off the table with the napkins Tim never had taken from his hand.
Jason blinks. "What?"
"It's February."
"Yeah," Tim says, frowning at him. "So football, in August, of this year..."
"That's next school year," Matt points out, knowing already it's a lost cause and it's stupid but going ahead and saying it anyway. "That's all I meant."
"You're funny, Saracen," Jason says, staring at him, doing that thing he does, that thing he got from Coach Taylor, where he says something's funny without smiling or laughing at all, and with that little edge in his voice that means it might be funny but it's also dumb as shit and what were you thinking when you opened your mouth anyway?
"Guess all I meant was..." Matt starts to say, but trails off as Tim wipes ice cream across his chin and Jason cracks up and Matt remembers that they're both drunk, they don't really care anyway, and it's the off-season so Coach Street is just volunteer Street who comes to the weight room and hangs out and offers pointers, nothing the Texas High School Athletic Association could want to have an opinion on.
Matt wonders sometimes if Jason remembers the younger kids watching him, in Pee Wee and in middle school and JV. The kids who were never gonna throw like that, never gonna have the ball settle in their hands like it liked it there, like that was its home. Of course, even when he does wonder that, he knows that Jason doesn't. Part of what makes Jason Jason is that he never noticed, never thought about it. A Jason who noticed would've been Smash, and Dillon couldn't hold two of 'em.
"Six," Tim says, wiping his hands on his pants, "we gotta get going."
"That's right," Jason says, rolling his chair back from the table. "Twenty minutes to showtime."
"What're y'all doing?" Matt asks, rolling the dirty napkins between his palms.
"Ultimate fighting, my friend," Jason said, wheeling his chair in a fast circle. "Ultimate fighting championships, televised, and when it's over my good friend Tim here is going to owe me twenty-five dollars."
Matt almost says he's glad they're friends again this week, it's a hell of a lot easier for everybody when they're talking, but instead he just shoves the napkins in the pocket of his stupid apron and points out the obvious. "Riggins don't have twenty-five dollars."
"Six lets me run a tab."
"Yeah, I do," Jason says, grinning, "because I'm a sucker."
Tim laughs at that, long and loud again, and Matt just nods and smiles slightly because it's obviously another one of those jokes that has a hell of a lot more meaning if you're in on it and he's not anything like that.
"You should come with us, Saracen," Tim says after a minute, staring at Matt with sudden intensity. "Come on over and watch the fight. Do some bonding."
"Yeah!" Jason spins his chair again. "Come with us. We'll hang out."
Matt stares at them for a moment, wondering if there's one more joke here he's missing, something he just doesn't get. "Well...I can't."
"Why not?" Tim asks, sharp and challenging, and Matt swallows before he answers, because he hates having to point out something that's probably going to make at least one person there feel really stupid, especially if that someone isn't him.
"I'm working."
Jason and Tim blink and look around the Alamo Freeze like they can't believe they've found themselves there. "Goddamn, will you look at that," Tim says, and then smiles brightly at Matt again. "Well, come over when you're done, Seven."
"I can't," Matt says, retreating toward the counter. "I gotta go home and check on my grandma."
"Your grandma," Tim says, and then he cracks up again and kicks at the tire of Jason's chair. "Hey, we ought to send my brother to live with Matt's grandma, and Matt can come live with me. Bet everybody would have a hell of a lot more fun that way."
"Shut up, Tim, you're a jackass," Jason says, without heat at all, and Tim does, chuckling to himself and digging his keys out of his pocket. "I'll see you tomorrow in the weight room, Saracen."
"No, tomorrow I can't," Matt says, and it comes out like an apology even though it's just a fact. Jason frowns again and he hurries to explain. "I got a meeting with Mrs. Taylor."
Nobody says anything, just nods, because Mrs. Taylor's off-limits and nobody ever makes any comments about her, even now that Coach wasn't the coach anymore and she should've been fair game. They just...didn't, about her. Except for Julie, of course, and nowadays Julie has plenty to say on the subject of both her parents, stuff that Matt's not going to repeat anywhere or even think too loud in case Mrs. Taylor could somehow read his mind and tell.
He's a little worried that one day he's going to slip up and tell Julie that at least she doesn't have to worry about anybody shooting at her dad while he's gone, not down in Austin. That won't go well at all, if that happens. He needs to not do that.
"Not flunking anything, are you, Saracen?" Jason asks, and Matt just shakes his head. Jason won't ask more and Matt won't offer, because as long as he'll be eligible to play nobody cares about the rest, except Mrs. Taylor with her serious eyes telling him he needs to start thinking about taking practice tests and planning for applications. He'll end up leaving her office with a whole lot of papers he'll throw out on his way to meet Landry in the parking lot. Matt doesn't want to make her all disappointed by telling her there isn't any point, even though there's not.
Jason's looking at him kind of thoughtfully, eyes bright with alcohol and something else, like he might be coming up with something to say, some words like one of those passes he used to throw that would just float and float and float until they fell, dead-on perfect into someone's hands. Matt waits for it, rubbing his palms anxiously on his jeans under his apron, not sure if he should sit down or salute or look away.
"Shit, Six, we gotta go," Tim says, drumming his hands on the back of a chair. "See you later, Saracen, tell your hot girlfriend to call me."
"Riggins!" Jason scolds as he shoves the door open and they move out into the night. "You're an animal."
The door slams shut behind them and Matt blinks a few times in the sudden quiet before finding the wet rag under the counter and going to wipe down the tabletop. He hears Smash come in in the back, singing to himself, voice rising up into a falsetto to provide a call and answer to his own questions.
Matt wipes the table down spit and polish perfect and then runs his fingers over the cool surface, tapping out a rhythm that doesn't match Smash's words. He's got another hour before he can lock up and head home, running down the empty sidewalks to keep warm in the dark.
He thinks, vague and distant, that you could run away from this town all night long and end up right back where you were by morning.