(no subject)
[How much is too much?]
After 3X03, storyline with dillonmilkshake
Dinner was supposed to be a chance for Buddy to get to know ‘the real Tim Riggins’, Lyla’s words, not Tim’s. Of course that hadn’t been how it had gone at all. Tim suspects this was because whether Lyla wanted to admit it or not, ‘the real Tim Riggins’ is an asshole but then so is ‘the real Buddy Garrity’ so Tim isn’t sure what the problem is. Birds of a feather and all that bullshit.
The problem had ended up being that Tim hadn’t gotten out of there fast enough. As in five minutes after he’d stepped in the door. Everything went downhill from there, culminating in Tim storming out with Buddy yelling behind him. Lyla had followed shortly afterwards. At least she wasn’t yelling. Tim thought that was a good sign.
Boy had he been wrong.
“Nice, Tim.” She comes up behind him, the disappointment in her voice salting previously inflicted wounds.
“What did I do now, Lyla?” He’s too exhausted and frustrated for the kind of sarcasm he’d like to inject so it’s actually an honest question.
“Where do you want me to start? He just wanted to know what your plans for college were. I’ve been telling him about the interest letters.”
“You mean the interest letters you’ve been responding to,” Tim fires back. He shakes his head and takes a long swig of the beer so recently liberated from the toolbox of his truck. “He wanted to tell me all the ways I wasn’t good enough for his little girl. Again,” he corrects Lyla.
“Tim-he didn’t-“
“Didn’t what, Lyla? Mean it when he said I was never gonna amount to nothin’?” Tim asks, turning to look at her for the first time. “I know I’m kind of dumb, but there aren’t many ways to take that.”
“Tim, you don’t try,” Lyla chastises him. “You don’t have plans, you don’t have an idea of plans. I’m the one that’s been emailing them back about the letters.”
“Maybe I don’t wanna go to Okla-fuckin-homa.” His voice raises a little.
There’s a moment of silence, stretching brittle between them before it starts flaking apart.
“Don’t yell at me, Tim Riggins.”
“Christ, Lyla, I didn’t yell at you.”
“And don’t take God’s name in vain.”
“Oh fuck! You sure as hell didn’t have a problem with it last night in bed,” Tim reacts almost violently but it’s not directed at her. He takes it out on the now empty beer can, launching it through the air. Absently, randomly the thought occurs to him that he could have been a quarterback.
“Tim, don’t.” Her voice has an edge to it now, a hardness that wasn’t there a moment ago. “You could try harder. You could-it’s not like you’ve got a lot of options.”
“So I’m supposed to take whatever scraps get sent my way?” Tim asks as he pulls another beer out of the toolbox and pops the tab on it. He guzzles down a bit of it before wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.
“You could have tried harder. You could have talked to Daddy about the things you want to major in or the schools you’d like to get into,” Lyla starts again. It always goes back to what he could have done. Should have done. Little Timmy Riggins-royal fuck up.
“I don’t fuckin’ know what I want to major in! I’m not even fuckin’ sure what a major is!” Tim responds whip quick. “Ain’t that the point of college? To figure out what the hell you wanna do with your life? I just wanna play football, Lyla. Another four years and then I’ll figure out what the hell to do from there.”
“You realize you have to go school to play football, Tim. And you’ve got to make decent grades.” Her voice is condescending and oh so superior.
“Yeah, your father mentioned that,” Tim responds dryly as he takes another long sip of his beer.
“He has a point, Tim. There aren’t going to be any rally girls there.” She’s trying to talk to him, certain she’s perfectly reasonable.
“So why would I even bother goin’, Lyla? Might as well stay right here in Dillon and live up to everything that everyone expects of me. Maybe I can drink myself to death by the time I’m twenty-one.”
“Tim…don’t say that.” The tone of her voice indicates that he’s hurt her in some way that he doesn’t understand. He’s said it before, she’s said it before and he’s pretty damn sure Buddy Garrity has said it before. Probably to her.
“You can go to college and get some attention then go on the pros and we’ll be alright, Tim.”
“I’m not him.” He’s staring back out into a field of nothing guzzling beer like its air.
“Pardon?” Lyla asks and he can hear the affront in her voice. She knows what he’s talking about and she’s daring him not to say the words.
“I’m not Jason. I’m not going to UT and I’m not gonna make the pros. I’m not the number one quarterback in Texas.”
She slaps him so hard, he drops the beer can, what’s left of the liquid foaming out onto the ground and soaking into the dirt.
“It’s the truth, Lyla. Your dad wants me to be him and when you really look hard at yourself, you want me to be him. You want me to be Six before the damn chair. I ain’t him. I ain’t ever gonna be him, no matter how much schoolin’ I get or where I go in football. It’s about time you stop lookin’ at me to be something I ain’t ever gonna be. Something I never was.”
He almost feels guilty for the tears in her eyes but it’s something that’s been on his mind for years.
“It’s not that, Tim.” Her voice is cracked, strained through the middle and tired. “Maybe we should-“
“Break up?” he puts words in her mouth, his own fear of her intentions surfacing. He wants her to accept him, and everything he is without expectations of what he will be. He wants her to accept him and not because J isn’t J anymore or because he’s left over scraps.
“No,” her protest is too quick, too violent and entirely too fraught with things he doesn’t want to hear. “I was thinking-maybe we should keep things…secret. Just until you figure things out…until Daddy calms down.” Her forehead is creased with worry and even if he wanted to tell her no, he can’t; not when she looks like that.
“Yeah…secret.” He’s not drunk enough to be pissed and he’s too numb to yell. “I’m gonna go. Sorry ‘bout tonight. Just-lemme know when you wanna see me.” Because he’s loved Lyla Garrity for a very long time.
She’s saying something, her hand is on her arm but he shrugs it off and gets in the truck, roaring away and drowning out her words.
He’s never been good enough for Lyla Garrity and he’s stupider than most of Dillon knows for thinking he could be.
After 3X03, storyline with dillonmilkshake
Dinner was supposed to be a chance for Buddy to get to know ‘the real Tim Riggins’, Lyla’s words, not Tim’s. Of course that hadn’t been how it had gone at all. Tim suspects this was because whether Lyla wanted to admit it or not, ‘the real Tim Riggins’ is an asshole but then so is ‘the real Buddy Garrity’ so Tim isn’t sure what the problem is. Birds of a feather and all that bullshit.
The problem had ended up being that Tim hadn’t gotten out of there fast enough. As in five minutes after he’d stepped in the door. Everything went downhill from there, culminating in Tim storming out with Buddy yelling behind him. Lyla had followed shortly afterwards. At least she wasn’t yelling. Tim thought that was a good sign.
Boy had he been wrong.
“Nice, Tim.” She comes up behind him, the disappointment in her voice salting previously inflicted wounds.
“What did I do now, Lyla?” He’s too exhausted and frustrated for the kind of sarcasm he’d like to inject so it’s actually an honest question.
“Where do you want me to start? He just wanted to know what your plans for college were. I’ve been telling him about the interest letters.”
“You mean the interest letters you’ve been responding to,” Tim fires back. He shakes his head and takes a long swig of the beer so recently liberated from the toolbox of his truck. “He wanted to tell me all the ways I wasn’t good enough for his little girl. Again,” he corrects Lyla.
“Tim-he didn’t-“
“Didn’t what, Lyla? Mean it when he said I was never gonna amount to nothin’?” Tim asks, turning to look at her for the first time. “I know I’m kind of dumb, but there aren’t many ways to take that.”
“Tim, you don’t try,” Lyla chastises him. “You don’t have plans, you don’t have an idea of plans. I’m the one that’s been emailing them back about the letters.”
“Maybe I don’t wanna go to Okla-fuckin-homa.” His voice raises a little.
There’s a moment of silence, stretching brittle between them before it starts flaking apart.
“Don’t yell at me, Tim Riggins.”
“Christ, Lyla, I didn’t yell at you.”
“And don’t take God’s name in vain.”
“Oh fuck! You sure as hell didn’t have a problem with it last night in bed,” Tim reacts almost violently but it’s not directed at her. He takes it out on the now empty beer can, launching it through the air. Absently, randomly the thought occurs to him that he could have been a quarterback.
“Tim, don’t.” Her voice has an edge to it now, a hardness that wasn’t there a moment ago. “You could try harder. You could-it’s not like you’ve got a lot of options.”
“So I’m supposed to take whatever scraps get sent my way?” Tim asks as he pulls another beer out of the toolbox and pops the tab on it. He guzzles down a bit of it before wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.
“You could have tried harder. You could have talked to Daddy about the things you want to major in or the schools you’d like to get into,” Lyla starts again. It always goes back to what he could have done. Should have done. Little Timmy Riggins-royal fuck up.
“I don’t fuckin’ know what I want to major in! I’m not even fuckin’ sure what a major is!” Tim responds whip quick. “Ain’t that the point of college? To figure out what the hell you wanna do with your life? I just wanna play football, Lyla. Another four years and then I’ll figure out what the hell to do from there.”
“You realize you have to go school to play football, Tim. And you’ve got to make decent grades.” Her voice is condescending and oh so superior.
“Yeah, your father mentioned that,” Tim responds dryly as he takes another long sip of his beer.
“He has a point, Tim. There aren’t going to be any rally girls there.” She’s trying to talk to him, certain she’s perfectly reasonable.
“So why would I even bother goin’, Lyla? Might as well stay right here in Dillon and live up to everything that everyone expects of me. Maybe I can drink myself to death by the time I’m twenty-one.”
“Tim…don’t say that.” The tone of her voice indicates that he’s hurt her in some way that he doesn’t understand. He’s said it before, she’s said it before and he’s pretty damn sure Buddy Garrity has said it before. Probably to her.
“You can go to college and get some attention then go on the pros and we’ll be alright, Tim.”
“I’m not him.” He’s staring back out into a field of nothing guzzling beer like its air.
“Pardon?” Lyla asks and he can hear the affront in her voice. She knows what he’s talking about and she’s daring him not to say the words.
“I’m not Jason. I’m not going to UT and I’m not gonna make the pros. I’m not the number one quarterback in Texas.”
She slaps him so hard, he drops the beer can, what’s left of the liquid foaming out onto the ground and soaking into the dirt.
“It’s the truth, Lyla. Your dad wants me to be him and when you really look hard at yourself, you want me to be him. You want me to be Six before the damn chair. I ain’t him. I ain’t ever gonna be him, no matter how much schoolin’ I get or where I go in football. It’s about time you stop lookin’ at me to be something I ain’t ever gonna be. Something I never was.”
He almost feels guilty for the tears in her eyes but it’s something that’s been on his mind for years.
“It’s not that, Tim.” Her voice is cracked, strained through the middle and tired. “Maybe we should-“
“Break up?” he puts words in her mouth, his own fear of her intentions surfacing. He wants her to accept him, and everything he is without expectations of what he will be. He wants her to accept him and not because J isn’t J anymore or because he’s left over scraps.
“No,” her protest is too quick, too violent and entirely too fraught with things he doesn’t want to hear. “I was thinking-maybe we should keep things…secret. Just until you figure things out…until Daddy calms down.” Her forehead is creased with worry and even if he wanted to tell her no, he can’t; not when she looks like that.
“Yeah…secret.” He’s not drunk enough to be pissed and he’s too numb to yell. “I’m gonna go. Sorry ‘bout tonight. Just-lemme know when you wanna see me.” Because he’s loved Lyla Garrity for a very long time.
She’s saying something, her hand is on her arm but he shrugs it off and gets in the truck, roaring away and drowning out her words.
He’s never been good enough for Lyla Garrity and he’s stupider than most of Dillon knows for thinking he could be.