FNL Fic: we were never good at walking straight
we were never good at walking straight
five things lyla wished tim never said
for operatingroom. fnl. lyla. tim/lyla. spoilers to bad ideas. 1771 words. r.
i.
They’ve been walking for about an hour, Jason too flustered to admit that he’s gotten them lost, somewhere and without a car.
But they’re fourteen, Lyla the youngest in the transition; she feels kind of special, kind of wide-eyed at the fact that Jason’s been watching her, “sorta got a crush on you,” and that the girls, all those girls who say forever friends, are already planning the happily ever after with white fences and pretty, little kids.
“Are we there yet, Street?” Tim’s hanging back because she’s tired of keeping up and hasn’t said a word to her really.
There’s a snort up ahead, a raise of Jason’s hand as he flashes the finger back at Tim with a blush and mutters “I’m usually not like this” loud enough for her to hear.
She grins a little, watching him and walking slowly next to Tim, a little intimidated but that’s alright, she’s just hoping for some sort of approval from the best friend. The best friend, this is too cyclical already, but Lyla’s legs hurt too much, for thinking, from the first day at cheering camp with the occasional crunch of her knee. Feels too good, Daddy’s little girl on her way to becoming a Panther the only way she can.
“You, him, and me, huh?”
Tim’s been watching her, off and on, and it’s kind of strange, the sudden swirl that lodges in her throat. Her fingers curl against her hips and Jason’s off ahead, standing and peaking curiously - something about a lake, something about spending the day together. She can’t remember, but she agreed.
“You, him, and me,” she tries softly, awkward and curious.
He gives a nod; she’ll remember this.
ii.
“He’s not a bad guy,” it’s about the placating and Tim cuts her off at the supermarket, over at the cereal as Billy’s looking back and Mom’s off trying not cry again, for the sake of her younger siblings.
But Lyla doesn’t want to talk to Jason and really isn’t sure it’s good enough to hold back the mess of everything else, the stuff that came after, that’s catching up to her sense of self right about now.
Her fingers curl around a box. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says quietly, away as she reaches for another - Fruit Loops, to piss Mom off, there’s something, already about a new guy in her life. She’s not that great at sneaking around and it’s not that big of a secret as both her sister and brother asked her this morning, whispering in her room.
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe.”
She looks up, her eyes dark and she’s just so fucking angry at the world, her world and everything in between. There’s too much to handle, the core of values and foundations rising as some big line of bullshit. Yeah, that’s right - bullshit.
Tim’s a little too curious though, too much for her liking, and he’s got no sense of space as he comes forward, tipping his height over hers. She sighs, it’s kind of shaky, and bites back a swallow of vulnerability.
But as always, she’s sort of doomed to a self-imposed chaos that’s rising and falling, the core of her summer right about now. So she snaps too easily, staring at him with wide eyes and a firm mouth.
“Don’t,” she spits out, “Don’t. Don’t tell me he misses me. Don’t tell me that he needs me. Do not push that line of conversation - I can’t.”
She’s sure it doesn’t sound like it should sound, dropping the cereal with a crash. So of it spills, there’s a hole, and she tries not to just stare. Her hands are trembling in factors and she rubs them against her jeans, kneeling so that she doesn’t have to look at him because she can’t.
“Hey.”
He’s kneeling too and she’s thinking oh, please Tim don’t because she’s got no control of what she has to say to people so it’s just better if she keeps her mouth nailed shut. Her fingers curl but his hands are over hers, soft and unsure, oil skinning his nails.
“He’s not a bad guy,” he says again, tries, but it sounds too forced, “Street.”
So why, she wonders, and all she wants to say is that it’s not going to go back anymore, not when things are changing and she doesn’t understand herself as well as she used to. She wants to tell him that she’s not that girl anymore, that her priorities are as fake as ever but she’s good at puttin’ faces on because, hell, she’s Buddy Garrity’s little girl.
“I know,” she mutters and burns her throat.
iii.
Incidental, that’s what she’ll call it, when they get drunk for Jesus and Lyla’s really just so tired of prayer groups and bracelets or basket weaving or really, whatever it is.
Her lips are sticking to his, her thighs warm as he gives her a tug and she ends up, forward and into his lap. He laughs, she doesn’t because she’s a light-weight and, by default, that makes her the bigger idiot.
“I had a plan,” she breathes. “I -”
His mouth is warm and he covers hers with a low laugh, his fingers twisting in her hair. She grunts forward, her hands pressing against his shoulders. They curl, they slide under his shirt and there’s a tear, another laugh, and she’s kissing him furiously again.
Her teeth skip across his lip and he’s slipping his hands under her t-shirt, against the arch of her back and pressing marks into her skin. She likes that, you know, she likes the inclinations and the notions, the sense of push and pull that always seems to twist. Oh, Lyla’s the romantic at heart, that admission always seeming to cost.
She slides Tim against his throat and the smell of Jack is kind of bittersweet, if she lies to herself, kind of easier to forget because she’s got an excuse, he’s got an excuse, and it’s all well-rounded and edged properly.
Her mouth kind of burns too and she’s more than just addicted as he growls a moan, pushing his hips into her. Bad idea sings in her head, bad idea, bad idea, bad idea. But she’s tried of it.
“I had a plan,” she keeps trying.
His mouth turns, her lips are bruised, and she’s whimpering as he pulls back. He’s holding her gaze, sensible and she’s not sure if he’s - he has to be, he needs to be drunk because it’s the only way this will work.
He’s quiet. “Still lo -”
And yeah, he’s still drunk and he can’t be and she’s crushing her mouth to his so that he can just shut up.
Not today.
iv.
Daddy’s gone and gotten married again to a regular, ol’ pageant queen from Tennessee or some fucking place because she’s new and not from around here - there are whispers and snickers because Buddy Garrity’s finally lost it and it’s free fun for everyone. It’s a bit of insult to injury too, thrown along her Mom’s way but Mom’s gone and challenged it, a sea of boxes for the east as Lyla’s peering curiously over college applications far and away from the mess of things.
“Take a year off, if you want” Mom pushes; it’s the what I didn’t get to do tone, “but only to travel. Seek things out for yourself - I want the best for you, sweetie.”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
And she’s sorta disgruntled about the whole thing, about the boyfriends and the midlife crisis, shared and divorce papers. But Lyla’s old enough to know that even smilin’ real pretty still gets you a pass go card with your parents with slow and selective usage, of course.
The early morning run is the one habit that she can’t untangle herself from, moments of time, private moments - we all have the same sort of cravings, she guess, and it’s easier to lace her running shoes instead saying, hey or I need to talk.
She does hear the truck, on the sidewalk, one foot in front of the other. It’s quiet in the morning and she stops, turning because she’s been watching Oprah reruns again and who the hell knows who’s really in Dillon. She spins too quickly, nearly trips, and Tim’s there, passing as he slows the truck down to watch her.
“Billy’s helping Parker with the roof,” he says, amused.
It’s some sort of greeting that she’s supposed to acknowledge. But she doesn’t and tries to pass. Instead, she cocks her head to the side, her neck a little wet with sweat; she brushes her fingers along her skin, watching him curiously.
“And you’re helping?”
He shrugs. “Guess.”
Her mouth turns and it’s the whole concept of small conversation, something she’s not good at and something she’s never cared to have. Oh, sure - she’ll flash a smile, a little wave, and a good morning or how are you? if she can. But it’s not what she does anymore, not anymore.
“Okay,” she murmurs, “Well, see ya -”
She tries to ignore the edge of curiosity sliding into his gaze, the way he sorta just watches her without asking, as if he should ask. Lyla’s thoughts are never together around Tim anymore, and she can admit that, the safety of places and names and attachments no longer a part of her and well, she’s trying say more than she’s got it together.
He rolls his shoulders, slighting away. She hears the rumble of the truck, the open mouth of the back - something’s sliding from side to side and he’s tapping his fingers against the wheel. It’s awkward and imposing, the way he keeps watching her though, like he knows something and she’s missed it.
But she waits and stays waiting; she feels like she’s always waiting for some answer, something more than she gets.
He smirks instead, pulling away, and says nothing else at all.
v.
The next day -
“Want some help?”
She whips around in surprise, almost dropping the bags of new linens and shirts for Daddy; she thinks about the grocery story, but Tim’s standing in front of her, waiting for her keys and with an outstretched hand.
Her cheeks are warm, her mouth sliding open with no answer, no edge to refuse anything. Her throat starts to tighten and Daddy’s still sleeping off the breakdown, mumbling her Mom’s name like it still means something.
“No,” she says quietly. “I got it.”
Her fingers tighten around her keys as she looks away.
-
five things lyla wished tim never said
for operatingroom. fnl. lyla. tim/lyla. spoilers to bad ideas. 1771 words. r.
i.
They’ve been walking for about an hour, Jason too flustered to admit that he’s gotten them lost, somewhere and without a car.
But they’re fourteen, Lyla the youngest in the transition; she feels kind of special, kind of wide-eyed at the fact that Jason’s been watching her, “sorta got a crush on you,” and that the girls, all those girls who say forever friends, are already planning the happily ever after with white fences and pretty, little kids.
“Are we there yet, Street?” Tim’s hanging back because she’s tired of keeping up and hasn’t said a word to her really.
There’s a snort up ahead, a raise of Jason’s hand as he flashes the finger back at Tim with a blush and mutters “I’m usually not like this” loud enough for her to hear.
She grins a little, watching him and walking slowly next to Tim, a little intimidated but that’s alright, she’s just hoping for some sort of approval from the best friend. The best friend, this is too cyclical already, but Lyla’s legs hurt too much, for thinking, from the first day at cheering camp with the occasional crunch of her knee. Feels too good, Daddy’s little girl on her way to becoming a Panther the only way she can.
“You, him, and me, huh?”
Tim’s been watching her, off and on, and it’s kind of strange, the sudden swirl that lodges in her throat. Her fingers curl against her hips and Jason’s off ahead, standing and peaking curiously - something about a lake, something about spending the day together. She can’t remember, but she agreed.
“You, him, and me,” she tries softly, awkward and curious.
He gives a nod; she’ll remember this.
ii.
“He’s not a bad guy,” it’s about the placating and Tim cuts her off at the supermarket, over at the cereal as Billy’s looking back and Mom’s off trying not cry again, for the sake of her younger siblings.
But Lyla doesn’t want to talk to Jason and really isn’t sure it’s good enough to hold back the mess of everything else, the stuff that came after, that’s catching up to her sense of self right about now.
Her fingers curl around a box. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says quietly, away as she reaches for another - Fruit Loops, to piss Mom off, there’s something, already about a new guy in her life. She’s not that great at sneaking around and it’s not that big of a secret as both her sister and brother asked her this morning, whispering in her room.
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe.”
She looks up, her eyes dark and she’s just so fucking angry at the world, her world and everything in between. There’s too much to handle, the core of values and foundations rising as some big line of bullshit. Yeah, that’s right - bullshit.
Tim’s a little too curious though, too much for her liking, and he’s got no sense of space as he comes forward, tipping his height over hers. She sighs, it’s kind of shaky, and bites back a swallow of vulnerability.
But as always, she’s sort of doomed to a self-imposed chaos that’s rising and falling, the core of her summer right about now. So she snaps too easily, staring at him with wide eyes and a firm mouth.
“Don’t,” she spits out, “Don’t. Don’t tell me he misses me. Don’t tell me that he needs me. Do not push that line of conversation - I can’t.”
She’s sure it doesn’t sound like it should sound, dropping the cereal with a crash. So of it spills, there’s a hole, and she tries not to just stare. Her hands are trembling in factors and she rubs them against her jeans, kneeling so that she doesn’t have to look at him because she can’t.
“Hey.”
He’s kneeling too and she’s thinking oh, please Tim don’t because she’s got no control of what she has to say to people so it’s just better if she keeps her mouth nailed shut. Her fingers curl but his hands are over hers, soft and unsure, oil skinning his nails.
“He’s not a bad guy,” he says again, tries, but it sounds too forced, “Street.”
So why, she wonders, and all she wants to say is that it’s not going to go back anymore, not when things are changing and she doesn’t understand herself as well as she used to. She wants to tell him that she’s not that girl anymore, that her priorities are as fake as ever but she’s good at puttin’ faces on because, hell, she’s Buddy Garrity’s little girl.
“I know,” she mutters and burns her throat.
iii.
Incidental, that’s what she’ll call it, when they get drunk for Jesus and Lyla’s really just so tired of prayer groups and bracelets or basket weaving or really, whatever it is.
Her lips are sticking to his, her thighs warm as he gives her a tug and she ends up, forward and into his lap. He laughs, she doesn’t because she’s a light-weight and, by default, that makes her the bigger idiot.
“I had a plan,” she breathes. “I -”
His mouth is warm and he covers hers with a low laugh, his fingers twisting in her hair. She grunts forward, her hands pressing against his shoulders. They curl, they slide under his shirt and there’s a tear, another laugh, and she’s kissing him furiously again.
Her teeth skip across his lip and he’s slipping his hands under her t-shirt, against the arch of her back and pressing marks into her skin. She likes that, you know, she likes the inclinations and the notions, the sense of push and pull that always seems to twist. Oh, Lyla’s the romantic at heart, that admission always seeming to cost.
She slides Tim against his throat and the smell of Jack is kind of bittersweet, if she lies to herself, kind of easier to forget because she’s got an excuse, he’s got an excuse, and it’s all well-rounded and edged properly.
Her mouth kind of burns too and she’s more than just addicted as he growls a moan, pushing his hips into her. Bad idea sings in her head, bad idea, bad idea, bad idea. But she’s tried of it.
“I had a plan,” she keeps trying.
His mouth turns, her lips are bruised, and she’s whimpering as he pulls back. He’s holding her gaze, sensible and she’s not sure if he’s - he has to be, he needs to be drunk because it’s the only way this will work.
He’s quiet. “Still lo -”
And yeah, he’s still drunk and he can’t be and she’s crushing her mouth to his so that he can just shut up.
Not today.
iv.
Daddy’s gone and gotten married again to a regular, ol’ pageant queen from Tennessee or some fucking place because she’s new and not from around here - there are whispers and snickers because Buddy Garrity’s finally lost it and it’s free fun for everyone. It’s a bit of insult to injury too, thrown along her Mom’s way but Mom’s gone and challenged it, a sea of boxes for the east as Lyla’s peering curiously over college applications far and away from the mess of things.
“Take a year off, if you want” Mom pushes; it’s the what I didn’t get to do tone, “but only to travel. Seek things out for yourself - I want the best for you, sweetie.”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
And she’s sorta disgruntled about the whole thing, about the boyfriends and the midlife crisis, shared and divorce papers. But Lyla’s old enough to know that even smilin’ real pretty still gets you a pass go card with your parents with slow and selective usage, of course.
The early morning run is the one habit that she can’t untangle herself from, moments of time, private moments - we all have the same sort of cravings, she guess, and it’s easier to lace her running shoes instead saying, hey or I need to talk.
She does hear the truck, on the sidewalk, one foot in front of the other. It’s quiet in the morning and she stops, turning because she’s been watching Oprah reruns again and who the hell knows who’s really in Dillon. She spins too quickly, nearly trips, and Tim’s there, passing as he slows the truck down to watch her.
“Billy’s helping Parker with the roof,” he says, amused.
It’s some sort of greeting that she’s supposed to acknowledge. But she doesn’t and tries to pass. Instead, she cocks her head to the side, her neck a little wet with sweat; she brushes her fingers along her skin, watching him curiously.
“And you’re helping?”
He shrugs. “Guess.”
Her mouth turns and it’s the whole concept of small conversation, something she’s not good at and something she’s never cared to have. Oh, sure - she’ll flash a smile, a little wave, and a good morning or how are you? if she can. But it’s not what she does anymore, not anymore.
“Okay,” she murmurs, “Well, see ya -”
She tries to ignore the edge of curiosity sliding into his gaze, the way he sorta just watches her without asking, as if he should ask. Lyla’s thoughts are never together around Tim anymore, and she can admit that, the safety of places and names and attachments no longer a part of her and well, she’s trying say more than she’s got it together.
He rolls his shoulders, slighting away. She hears the rumble of the truck, the open mouth of the back - something’s sliding from side to side and he’s tapping his fingers against the wheel. It’s awkward and imposing, the way he keeps watching her though, like he knows something and she’s missed it.
But she waits and stays waiting; she feels like she’s always waiting for some answer, something more than she gets.
He smirks instead, pulling away, and says nothing else at all.
v.
The next day -
“Want some help?”
She whips around in surprise, almost dropping the bags of new linens and shirts for Daddy; she thinks about the grocery story, but Tim’s standing in front of her, waiting for her keys and with an outstretched hand.
Her cheeks are warm, her mouth sliding open with no answer, no edge to refuse anything. Her throat starts to tighten and Daddy’s still sleeping off the breakdown, mumbling her Mom’s name like it still means something.
“No,” she says quietly. “I got it.”
Her fingers tighten around her keys as she looks away.
-