FNL Fic: here suddenly about everything
here suddenly about everything
for falseeeyelashes. friday night lights. lyla. buddy. tim/lyla. bad ideas. 1219 words. pg.
There’s this pronounced affinity for the small town mindset, a exhausted hate, but she’s not that kind of girl, the kind that moves forward with a push because she’s got to go.
Will you terrorize this
With your perfect lips
I watch you eat and feed this mess
To the running wind
But I know you from before and after until then
Do you have your answer?
(cat power) living proof
Jesus ain’t that great of a Holy Savior on that night, Daddy spitting and spilling as she and Tim try to drag him up and away.
She remembers it now again, a different day, the call from the bar as she spent that one weekend, quietly telling those who just knew - Daddy’s a mess, please call me instead of home.
She’s been sitting with her fists a lot, her gaze to the windows in classes. She’s not really leading anymore, muttering to herself about another start, something fresh, even though she’s promised herself, quite a bit, a fresh sticking start. She thinks she deserves that at least, if things are gonna go around this way.
But round two or seven or eight, if she doesn’t lie, Daddy’s not making it out of the door and she’s flushing Jack and Sam down the sink of his tiny little room, watching the spooning color be swallowed into the drawn. She sighs, brushing a thumb against the bottle’s mouth.
“Why do you keep doin’ this?” Mama’s been asking, she’s sure there’s a message on the phone; you’re better atthis, at blinking away the guilt, she wants to shoot back but snide little comments only slip in folds.
Lyla’s mouth presses tightly, because she loves him, and she moves back into the living room. Daddy’s on the couch, on his back and snoring to Leno. There’s a stain painted across the collar of his shirt and now down the buttons too. She’s got to roll him to his side before she goes, the town a-whispering Buddy’s lettin’ himself go and all she wants, all she really wants is for this to stop.
“Can’t keep doin’ this,” she mutters, her fingers brushing over his forehead. From mother, filtered to daughter, “Daddy, you just can’t keep doing this.”
She’s never wanted the answers this badly, not just one, or maybe, it’s all going to be linked to one; she wants that sense of forward, the momentum to the movement. She thinks about groups, about people still laughing with their mouths. There’s a sense of synchronicity, in being there and maybe even linked to the greater good, of having the water cast across her skin. She’s romanticizing like before; the white fence, the statistical kids, education and the happy wife.
Buddy grunts when he turns himself. Lyla just sighs and turns and moves to keep the television low. It’s something about familiarity, keeping the small room in context. But just in case, she pulls the keys out from his jacket and hides them, deep under the cushion of the lazy chair and away, at least for an hour or two.
She’s hesitant at the door, each arm in her jacket, and her hair coming loose. She frowns and the band snaps, only when she tries to fix it. She sighs softly, rubbing her eyes and just leaving, for the sake of leaving now.
The hall’s kind of quiet and she wonders what’s happen to the other place, the place that Daddy’s been talking about really buying, for the sake of buying for the rest of them. There’s this pronounced affinity for the small town mindset, a exhausted hate, but she’s not that kind of girl, the kind that moves forward with a push because she’s got to go.
And maybe that’s it, maybe it’s her turn to spin out of her self-induced rut, like Mama’s been pushing her too. But it’s not that easy, it’s never that easy, and she’s got the scars to prove all of it, the nervous adjustment that opened up to her.
Her feet shuffle against the carpet, her hands into her pocket, and she’ll just take the truck, she decides, but can’t because she hid the keys in Daddy’s room. She doesn’t feel like calling the Vegan either, to see Mama smug with the you see because she really doesn’t like the guy and it’s a double-edge sword, Mama’s happy and what can she do?
“Hey.”
She turns, blinking. “Hi.”
Tim’s against the wall, almost so she can’t see him, a shoulder pressed into the side as he watches her. The exit! sign blinking over him and she looks back, shaking her head as she sees how well her attention is going anyway. She was going the wrong way, left instead of right, and so there goes her adjustment.
“What - why are you here?” She asks softly, her teeth sliding over her lip. She adds, for the sake of adding a filler, “It’s late.”
His mouth turns and he shrugs, pushing off and swinging his keys. His hair’s over his eyes and she itches, seriously itches, for the motion of courage. But as per usual, it doesn’t come, like everything else, it doesn’t come. She amounts the frustration to something she’s done because, in the end, it’s going to always be her. That’s how it works, it seems.
“How’s Jesus?”
Her eyes roll. “He’s fine - you should try asking him, you know.”
Tim’s forward again, his grin amused as he pushes over her height as if to prove a point. But she’s higher, she’d like to think , for the other sense, the strive of courage misplaced in the moment, she tilts her chin up and dares him quietly.
She can take it. She can take it. She can take it.
“Saw your mom who then saw me -,” he says quietly, his feet shuffling. It’s almost too awkward to occur. “Come on, she’s doin’ that spazzing thing with her eye - at least, when I saw her earlier.”
Her lips curl and she shakes her head, a quick glance down and away, to the door of Daddy’s room. The reluctance is quiet, when she comes and when she goes, and maybe, it’s only this. This is it. This is what she’s got to offer.
But she never decides on that thought.
“Gonna kiss me again?”
He laughs thickly, his fingers brushing against her palm. He doesn’t answer and she’s left, really, with that half-yes, half-no feeling and ignores the bating for the I hope in her head. Instead, she relents to being close to him and holds the door open as he makes comment about being very Christian to mock her.
“And get rubbed with that crazy shit of yours,” he smirks, “no thanks, Garrity - I am what I am and pretty fuckin’ happy about it.”
She bites a laugh and shakes her head and not up for the argument of context, turning to press her back against the truck. They watch each other, she turns away, and his hand is pressed against the glass next to her head. She’s breathing softly, it’s getting cooler again, and she’s got a History test she really should be thinking about.
Her lips purse. “You don’t have to do this,” she’s shy, opening herself to an answer. It could be something she wants, it could be nothing. “Really. You don’t have to.”
He kisses her forehead, backs away and to the other end of the car to leave her with the blush. They glance at each other through the glass, her fingers curling around the handle. He’s watching her and she has to look away.
“In the car, idiot.”
She snorts even with pink cheeks, but nods. “Jerk.”
Is it here yet?
-
for falseeeyelashes. friday night lights. lyla. buddy. tim/lyla. bad ideas. 1219 words. pg.
There’s this pronounced affinity for the small town mindset, a exhausted hate, but she’s not that kind of girl, the kind that moves forward with a push because she’s got to go.
Will you terrorize this
With your perfect lips
I watch you eat and feed this mess
To the running wind
But I know you from before and after until then
Do you have your answer?
(cat power) living proof
Jesus ain’t that great of a Holy Savior on that night, Daddy spitting and spilling as she and Tim try to drag him up and away.
She remembers it now again, a different day, the call from the bar as she spent that one weekend, quietly telling those who just knew - Daddy’s a mess, please call me instead of home.
She’s been sitting with her fists a lot, her gaze to the windows in classes. She’s not really leading anymore, muttering to herself about another start, something fresh, even though she’s promised herself, quite a bit, a fresh sticking start. She thinks she deserves that at least, if things are gonna go around this way.
But round two or seven or eight, if she doesn’t lie, Daddy’s not making it out of the door and she’s flushing Jack and Sam down the sink of his tiny little room, watching the spooning color be swallowed into the drawn. She sighs, brushing a thumb against the bottle’s mouth.
“Why do you keep doin’ this?” Mama’s been asking, she’s sure there’s a message on the phone; you’re better atthis, at blinking away the guilt, she wants to shoot back but snide little comments only slip in folds.
Lyla’s mouth presses tightly, because she loves him, and she moves back into the living room. Daddy’s on the couch, on his back and snoring to Leno. There’s a stain painted across the collar of his shirt and now down the buttons too. She’s got to roll him to his side before she goes, the town a-whispering Buddy’s lettin’ himself go and all she wants, all she really wants is for this to stop.
“Can’t keep doin’ this,” she mutters, her fingers brushing over his forehead. From mother, filtered to daughter, “Daddy, you just can’t keep doing this.”
She’s never wanted the answers this badly, not just one, or maybe, it’s all going to be linked to one; she wants that sense of forward, the momentum to the movement. She thinks about groups, about people still laughing with their mouths. There’s a sense of synchronicity, in being there and maybe even linked to the greater good, of having the water cast across her skin. She’s romanticizing like before; the white fence, the statistical kids, education and the happy wife.
Buddy grunts when he turns himself. Lyla just sighs and turns and moves to keep the television low. It’s something about familiarity, keeping the small room in context. But just in case, she pulls the keys out from his jacket and hides them, deep under the cushion of the lazy chair and away, at least for an hour or two.
She’s hesitant at the door, each arm in her jacket, and her hair coming loose. She frowns and the band snaps, only when she tries to fix it. She sighs softly, rubbing her eyes and just leaving, for the sake of leaving now.
The hall’s kind of quiet and she wonders what’s happen to the other place, the place that Daddy’s been talking about really buying, for the sake of buying for the rest of them. There’s this pronounced affinity for the small town mindset, a exhausted hate, but she’s not that kind of girl, the kind that moves forward with a push because she’s got to go.
And maybe that’s it, maybe it’s her turn to spin out of her self-induced rut, like Mama’s been pushing her too. But it’s not that easy, it’s never that easy, and she’s got the scars to prove all of it, the nervous adjustment that opened up to her.
Her feet shuffle against the carpet, her hands into her pocket, and she’ll just take the truck, she decides, but can’t because she hid the keys in Daddy’s room. She doesn’t feel like calling the Vegan either, to see Mama smug with the you see because she really doesn’t like the guy and it’s a double-edge sword, Mama’s happy and what can she do?
“Hey.”
She turns, blinking. “Hi.”
Tim’s against the wall, almost so she can’t see him, a shoulder pressed into the side as he watches her. The exit! sign blinking over him and she looks back, shaking her head as she sees how well her attention is going anyway. She was going the wrong way, left instead of right, and so there goes her adjustment.
“What - why are you here?” She asks softly, her teeth sliding over her lip. She adds, for the sake of adding a filler, “It’s late.”
His mouth turns and he shrugs, pushing off and swinging his keys. His hair’s over his eyes and she itches, seriously itches, for the motion of courage. But as per usual, it doesn’t come, like everything else, it doesn’t come. She amounts the frustration to something she’s done because, in the end, it’s going to always be her. That’s how it works, it seems.
“How’s Jesus?”
Her eyes roll. “He’s fine - you should try asking him, you know.”
Tim’s forward again, his grin amused as he pushes over her height as if to prove a point. But she’s higher, she’d like to think , for the other sense, the strive of courage misplaced in the moment, she tilts her chin up and dares him quietly.
She can take it. She can take it. She can take it.
“Saw your mom who then saw me -,” he says quietly, his feet shuffling. It’s almost too awkward to occur. “Come on, she’s doin’ that spazzing thing with her eye - at least, when I saw her earlier.”
Her lips curl and she shakes her head, a quick glance down and away, to the door of Daddy’s room. The reluctance is quiet, when she comes and when she goes, and maybe, it’s only this. This is it. This is what she’s got to offer.
But she never decides on that thought.
“Gonna kiss me again?”
He laughs thickly, his fingers brushing against her palm. He doesn’t answer and she’s left, really, with that half-yes, half-no feeling and ignores the bating for the I hope in her head. Instead, she relents to being close to him and holds the door open as he makes comment about being very Christian to mock her.
“And get rubbed with that crazy shit of yours,” he smirks, “no thanks, Garrity - I am what I am and pretty fuckin’ happy about it.”
She bites a laugh and shakes her head and not up for the argument of context, turning to press her back against the truck. They watch each other, she turns away, and his hand is pressed against the glass next to her head. She’s breathing softly, it’s getting cooler again, and she’s got a History test she really should be thinking about.
Her lips purse. “You don’t have to do this,” she’s shy, opening herself to an answer. It could be something she wants, it could be nothing. “Really. You don’t have to.”
He kisses her forehead, backs away and to the other end of the car to leave her with the blush. They glance at each other through the glass, her fingers curling around the handle. He’s watching her and she has to look away.
“In the car, idiot.”
She snorts even with pink cheeks, but nods. “Jerk.”
Is it here yet?
-