FNL fic: "I can no more cross this room than Zeno's arrow"
Guess who's written her picfor1000 story already?! I love that challenge!
Title: I can no more cross this room than Zeno's arrow
Author: Signe
Fandom: Friday Night Lights
Characters: Jason, Tim, Lyla (some Jason/Lyla, Tim/Lyla)
Rating: R
Word count: 2,566 words
Notes: Written for rachel_wilder as a very last minute (eeek) yuletide pinch hit. Many thanks to callmesandy and musesfool for stepping in for some super-fast betas! The title is from 'Depression' by Wendy Cope. My writing soundtrack: Explosions in the Sky - Your Hand in Mine, Fort Minor - Remember the Name & Iron and Wine - Dead Man's Will.
I can no more cross this room than Zeno's arrow
Longhorn freshman quarterback Colt McCoy, who suffered a severe pinched nerve in his neck during the season finale against Texas A&M, has been cleared as fit to play in the Alamo Bowl, UT's Athletic Trainer for football, Kenny Boyd, said on Thursday.
His mom turns the radio off. Looks in the rearview mirror in silent apology, a helpless shrug in place of words.
"It's fine, mom," Jason says. "Turn it back on. Please."
"You sure, honey?"
"Sure, mom."
I'm excited and ready to go," McCoy said. Jason looks out the window and tunes out the rest of the news.
They pass a battered truck, as familiar as his own. Tim raises his hand uncertainly from the wheel. Jason just closes his eyes. He's tired and he wants to get back home, and he ignores the thought that for a fraction of a second he was all set to smile at Tim, to wave back.
*
It's like there's this huge ravine or something between them, the Grand frigging Canyon, him on one side, Lyla and Riggins and everything that used to make him happy on the other. And no bridge in sight.
He tries not to wallow in self-pity, and most of the time he manages, even without Herc around to kick his ass whenever he gets too maudlin. He doesn't wanna become one of those miserable bastards everyone avoids. That's not Jason's style.
But this distance thing going on, it's not gonna go away any time soon. He's been back at school ten days now, and he still can't get anywhere near them, either of them, even when they're all three in the cafeteria at the same time. It's not just because of his stupid, useless legs. It's not because he can't get up out of his chair and walk up to them, sling one arm high and easy around Lyla's waist and the other over Riggins' shoulders. He can't do any of that, but that's not the problem.
And the problem isn't hate either. No matter how much he says he doesn't care, Jason still cares, still notices when Tim's been late to practice and coach is pissed at him or when Lyla's had a bad night and has dark circles under her eyes. It's not lack of caring, and it's not hate, because being mad-crazy-angry with someone doesn't mean you hate them. Even when he lies in bed, sleepless, brooding over all the ways they've betrayed him, replaying the glorious crunch of his fist smashing into Riggins' face, he can't seem to make himself slip past anger into hate. He wishes he could - it'd make things so much easier.
A hand on his shoulder.
"You good, Six?"
"Yeah, Smash."
"'Cos Smash, he's your man if you need anything doin', you understand." He looks pointedly over in the direction of Riggins and wiggles his eyebrows.
Jason can't help smiling - Smash is like that, you either laugh with him, or you want to punch his lights out. Nothing in between. "Yeah, I get it. But I'm good."
It's a lie, but it's not one Jason's willing to explain. The only two people he might have explained it to once are the two he can't talk to.
Smash high fives him and swaggers off, just pausing long enough to wink at a group of sophomore girls watching him. They giggle. Lyla's quiet and alone at the next table, and the contrast is black and white.
He can't feel sorry for her though.
*
Trouble with Lyla, she's never known the meaning of no. Oh, she's smart enough, always gotten better grades than Jason even before he got to be starting QB his junior year, so he's sure she could raise her hand in class and give a perfect definition.
But she doesn't really get it. She doesn't get that it's meant to be final, that no is the last word and there's nothing else after it except maybe a final goodbye if you're lucky. No other words, no touches, no messages or phone calls or visits. None of that shit.
Seems like the whole world understands the meaning of no better than Miss Lyla Garrity. Even Smash Williams, and that's saying something.
It's not even that she's spoiled or anything. Sure, she's her daddy's precious little girl, and Jason knows Mr. Garrity would do most anything for her. Yet she's never gotten spoiled.
It's one of the things he's always loved about her, and isn't that just ironic.
She's a scrapper, is Lyla Garrity, even though not many people get to see through to that part of her. She'll fight on, no matter what the odds. Like last year, competing in the interstate semi-finals, and not letting Miss Derr know until afterwards that she'd twisted her knee in a dismount in practice. She'd shrugged it off like it was no big deal, but the next night, when they'd gotten the house to themselves for a few hours and Lyla had been in her bra and panties on his bed, she'd winced when he'd pushed a leg between hers, and when he'd run a hand down her leg in gentle question, her knee had been red-swollen and hot to the touch, and she'd scrunched her face up in pain just from him touching it.
Even then, it hadn't stopped her getting what she'd wanted - what Jason wanted too, which was almost always the same back then - his fingers pushing her white cotton panties to one side and sliding into her, until she'd whimpered and clenched around his fingers and gone all soft underneath him.
So now Lyla's standing in front of him yet again, begging for a yes or at least a maybe from him, and he can't give it to her, even though he knows she'll keep coming back, keep trying, that she still doesn't understand. She doesn't understand that loving her just isn't enough any more.
"No," he says, and turns away.
*
Everyone's all about normal life again. Getting back into routine. Pretending, mostly.
His mom talks to him in a high uncomfortable voice that she's never used with him in her life before. Last time he'd heard her talk like that was at great-aunt Betty's funeral, when she had to go be nice to all the other great-aunts and grandma and grandpa and pretend like she'd loved great-aunt Betty even though she was a mean old spinster and no one liked her. Only other time he remembers hearing it was when she'd lied through her teeth to the Sheriff after she'd run a red light. Jason had been late for practice - his truck wouldn't start - and it was the second red light she'd run that morning. No, sir, I didn't see it. I just don't know how it could have happened. My, I'm so sorry. Same voice then - a bit too high, a bit too sugary. She doesn't like lying, says God hates liars, but she'll lie when she thinks she has to. She'll lie for Jason, and she'll even lie to Jason now, and she doesn't seem to realize that he sees right through it.
Jason hates it. He loves his mom, but he hates the fake voice. Hates that he understands that it means his mom's lying when she's says it's no trouble getting the utility closet converted, and she's just happy he's home again, back where he belongs. When she insists his dad isn't too tired from working extra shifts to pay for everything. He can't work out if she still believes he's going to walk, still expects him to play again, to be the big star they'd always expected him to be. Or if she's given up hope, and is just smiling to cover up the hurt. Either way is just as bad. Makes him feel like a disappointment, a burden.
He'd always thought he'd support them in their old age. Buy them a nice house, somewhere on the south side of town, maybe near Rolling Meadows or out on the road towards Belton Lake. And, mock as much as he might, Riggins' big ole hunting ranch plan had its appeal too, though he'd only ever imagined the one lady in it, just him and Lyla, and Rigs around close by, making sure the beer never ran low.
Now he just hopes he can afford his own place some day.
*
He thinks about them too much. He thinks about sex too much as well, far too much for a guy who's been told it's not safe for him to ejaculate. Some nights he thinks that was more cruel than being told he's not going to walk again. It's bad enough being a cripple. Not being a man, not having the chance-Jason grinds his knuckles into his eyes. He refuses to cry - just because he's got the privacy to get away with it now, doesn't mean he's going to give in.
He thinks about them and he thinks about sex, and he thinks about them having sex too. Imagines it. Tim fucking Lyla, and her loving it, loving the feel of everything Jason can't give her any more. He even has the soundtrack to go with it. He knows all the little moans Lyla makes, the way she tilts her head when she's about to come and makes this tiny little sound like she can't help herself. The contented sound she used to make when he came, like she was proud of herself for making him feel that good. He'd bet she makes the same sound with Riggins inside her. And he's heard Tim too, late at night in the changing rooms with Tyra, when he didn't know Jason was still around. Jason had stood guard on the door, just in case, and left as soon as it was over. It wasn't a big deal back then, and Tim had laughed when he'd told him the next day, but now he wishes he didn't know what Tim sounds like when he comes, like he's run the length of the field ten times over, the way his voice drops and fades to husky-faint afterwards.
Now Jason hears them: Lyla sweet and sexy and always wanting to please, and Tim so effortless, so much better at sex than at speaking. He might as well be in the room with them for all the difference it would make. Doesn't even matter that it's all past. Doesn't matter that Riggins is probably sleeping off too much booze, sprawled uncomfortably on his too-small sofa so he'll wake up aching the next day and it'll take the first ten minutes of practice to ease the kinks out of his shoulders. Doesn't matter that Lyla's no doubt lying sleepless and thinking of Jason. The truth doesn't trump imagination, not in the middle of the night.
Times like this, Jason wishes he had no imagination, or that he just had the sense to give in and take his sleeping pills.
*
She keeps coming back. Standing outside his house and waiting for him, even if it's hours before he comes out. He wishes she'd give up. Just give up on him, on them. At least, he thinks that's what he wants, but it's so hard to be sure these days.
"What you asking for, Lyla? Last year back again? Because that sure as hell ain't gonna happen, and no wishing and praying is gonna make it."
"Mercy." Lyla looks down at him, and Jason still can't get used to that, his girl-Lyla, everyone, looking down at him all the time. If she cries, tears are going to fall on him, leave dark marks on his sweatpants. She doesn't cry though, not this time, just repeats the same word. "Mercy, Jason, that's what I'm asking for."
"Think I'm all out of that right now." There's a lump in his throat that hurts when he swallows, and he thinks it's Lyla's fault it's there.
Damn thing is, when she reaches out and touches his hand, slips her slim fingers between his clumsy ones, he squeezes on to them as best he can. Like his hands are betraying his mind and his heart, because they're both telling him that he can't forgive and he's never going to forget, and mercy is not an option, because if God wanted him to show mercy He should have shown Jason some.
When he lets go and knocks at her hand, a semblance of a push, she nods her head, eyes too bright and wide, and walks away.
He takes a drink, but it doesn't ease the lump in his throat any. He's not sure what will.
*
He thinks about lots of things that night. He thinks about mercy, and about God, and his mom and dad and Coach Taylor, and how he's let people down. And he thinks about friendship. He thinks about Riggins sneaking him out of the Center, the only person who knew him well enough to know how much he needed it right then. He thinks of all the things he once thought he'd do. He thinks maybe God has his own mysterious brand of mercy, and maybe He'll let Jason borrow some of it. Because if he tries to think of a world without his two best friends, it's not a world he wants to live in.
He looks across the room. If he can make it to the other side without any help, then he can do anything. He can find a way across the divide between him and Lyla, between him and Tim. He can do anything at all.
Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose.
He won't use the chair - that'd be cheating, too easy. He drags himself to the edge of the bed, pulls his legs right to the side, and lets his body relax. He rolls off, and he's going to have a bruise on his arm tomorrow, but that'll be kinda like old days. He lifts his head and chest up, and drags himself along with clenched fists. The carpet is rough on his knuckles, and his legs trail helpless behind him. He doesn't time himself, but it feels like forever before he's at the furthest wall. But he's made it, and he'll take it as a sign.
Seems like God took it as a sign too. Either that, or He likes meddling in things, or good coincidences really do happen. Whichever it is, Jason's just wondering how the frigging hell he's ever going to get back into bed without waking his parents up and upsetting them, when he hears a rattle on the window.
"J, fuck, what are you doing?" And it's Tim climbing in, reaching out and picking him up.
"Thought I'd go for a walk, and kinda forgot, you know," Jason says when he's back on his bed.
"Man, you're an idiot," Tim says. Affectionate.
"Hey, I'm not the one still taking sophomore classes."
Tim smiles down at his feet. They never were big on conversation, but the silences never seemed too long or awkward. Jason lies back and closes his eyes.
"So, see you. At the game tomorrow, right?" Riggins is outside now, rattling the window loose from its catch ready to close it.
"Wouldn't miss it." And Jason means it.
Jason has still got the lump in his throat, but it doesn't hurt like it did.
Title: I can no more cross this room than Zeno's arrow
Author: Signe
Fandom: Friday Night Lights
Characters: Jason, Tim, Lyla (some Jason/Lyla, Tim/Lyla)
Rating: R
Word count: 2,566 words
Notes: Written for rachel_wilder as a very last minute (eeek) yuletide pinch hit. Many thanks to callmesandy and musesfool for stepping in for some super-fast betas! The title is from 'Depression' by Wendy Cope. My writing soundtrack: Explosions in the Sky - Your Hand in Mine, Fort Minor - Remember the Name & Iron and Wine - Dead Man's Will.
I can no more cross this room than Zeno's arrow
Longhorn freshman quarterback Colt McCoy, who suffered a severe pinched nerve in his neck during the season finale against Texas A&M, has been cleared as fit to play in the Alamo Bowl, UT's Athletic Trainer for football, Kenny Boyd, said on Thursday.
His mom turns the radio off. Looks in the rearview mirror in silent apology, a helpless shrug in place of words.
"It's fine, mom," Jason says. "Turn it back on. Please."
"You sure, honey?"
"Sure, mom."
I'm excited and ready to go," McCoy said. Jason looks out the window and tunes out the rest of the news.
They pass a battered truck, as familiar as his own. Tim raises his hand uncertainly from the wheel. Jason just closes his eyes. He's tired and he wants to get back home, and he ignores the thought that for a fraction of a second he was all set to smile at Tim, to wave back.
*
It's like there's this huge ravine or something between them, the Grand frigging Canyon, him on one side, Lyla and Riggins and everything that used to make him happy on the other. And no bridge in sight.
He tries not to wallow in self-pity, and most of the time he manages, even without Herc around to kick his ass whenever he gets too maudlin. He doesn't wanna become one of those miserable bastards everyone avoids. That's not Jason's style.
But this distance thing going on, it's not gonna go away any time soon. He's been back at school ten days now, and he still can't get anywhere near them, either of them, even when they're all three in the cafeteria at the same time. It's not just because of his stupid, useless legs. It's not because he can't get up out of his chair and walk up to them, sling one arm high and easy around Lyla's waist and the other over Riggins' shoulders. He can't do any of that, but that's not the problem.
And the problem isn't hate either. No matter how much he says he doesn't care, Jason still cares, still notices when Tim's been late to practice and coach is pissed at him or when Lyla's had a bad night and has dark circles under her eyes. It's not lack of caring, and it's not hate, because being mad-crazy-angry with someone doesn't mean you hate them. Even when he lies in bed, sleepless, brooding over all the ways they've betrayed him, replaying the glorious crunch of his fist smashing into Riggins' face, he can't seem to make himself slip past anger into hate. He wishes he could - it'd make things so much easier.
A hand on his shoulder.
"You good, Six?"
"Yeah, Smash."
"'Cos Smash, he's your man if you need anything doin', you understand." He looks pointedly over in the direction of Riggins and wiggles his eyebrows.
Jason can't help smiling - Smash is like that, you either laugh with him, or you want to punch his lights out. Nothing in between. "Yeah, I get it. But I'm good."
It's a lie, but it's not one Jason's willing to explain. The only two people he might have explained it to once are the two he can't talk to.
Smash high fives him and swaggers off, just pausing long enough to wink at a group of sophomore girls watching him. They giggle. Lyla's quiet and alone at the next table, and the contrast is black and white.
He can't feel sorry for her though.
*
Trouble with Lyla, she's never known the meaning of no. Oh, she's smart enough, always gotten better grades than Jason even before he got to be starting QB his junior year, so he's sure she could raise her hand in class and give a perfect definition.
But she doesn't really get it. She doesn't get that it's meant to be final, that no is the last word and there's nothing else after it except maybe a final goodbye if you're lucky. No other words, no touches, no messages or phone calls or visits. None of that shit.
Seems like the whole world understands the meaning of no better than Miss Lyla Garrity. Even Smash Williams, and that's saying something.
It's not even that she's spoiled or anything. Sure, she's her daddy's precious little girl, and Jason knows Mr. Garrity would do most anything for her. Yet she's never gotten spoiled.
It's one of the things he's always loved about her, and isn't that just ironic.
She's a scrapper, is Lyla Garrity, even though not many people get to see through to that part of her. She'll fight on, no matter what the odds. Like last year, competing in the interstate semi-finals, and not letting Miss Derr know until afterwards that she'd twisted her knee in a dismount in practice. She'd shrugged it off like it was no big deal, but the next night, when they'd gotten the house to themselves for a few hours and Lyla had been in her bra and panties on his bed, she'd winced when he'd pushed a leg between hers, and when he'd run a hand down her leg in gentle question, her knee had been red-swollen and hot to the touch, and she'd scrunched her face up in pain just from him touching it.
Even then, it hadn't stopped her getting what she'd wanted - what Jason wanted too, which was almost always the same back then - his fingers pushing her white cotton panties to one side and sliding into her, until she'd whimpered and clenched around his fingers and gone all soft underneath him.
So now Lyla's standing in front of him yet again, begging for a yes or at least a maybe from him, and he can't give it to her, even though he knows she'll keep coming back, keep trying, that she still doesn't understand. She doesn't understand that loving her just isn't enough any more.
"No," he says, and turns away.
*
Everyone's all about normal life again. Getting back into routine. Pretending, mostly.
His mom talks to him in a high uncomfortable voice that she's never used with him in her life before. Last time he'd heard her talk like that was at great-aunt Betty's funeral, when she had to go be nice to all the other great-aunts and grandma and grandpa and pretend like she'd loved great-aunt Betty even though she was a mean old spinster and no one liked her. Only other time he remembers hearing it was when she'd lied through her teeth to the Sheriff after she'd run a red light. Jason had been late for practice - his truck wouldn't start - and it was the second red light she'd run that morning. No, sir, I didn't see it. I just don't know how it could have happened. My, I'm so sorry. Same voice then - a bit too high, a bit too sugary. She doesn't like lying, says God hates liars, but she'll lie when she thinks she has to. She'll lie for Jason, and she'll even lie to Jason now, and she doesn't seem to realize that he sees right through it.
Jason hates it. He loves his mom, but he hates the fake voice. Hates that he understands that it means his mom's lying when she's says it's no trouble getting the utility closet converted, and she's just happy he's home again, back where he belongs. When she insists his dad isn't too tired from working extra shifts to pay for everything. He can't work out if she still believes he's going to walk, still expects him to play again, to be the big star they'd always expected him to be. Or if she's given up hope, and is just smiling to cover up the hurt. Either way is just as bad. Makes him feel like a disappointment, a burden.
He'd always thought he'd support them in their old age. Buy them a nice house, somewhere on the south side of town, maybe near Rolling Meadows or out on the road towards Belton Lake. And, mock as much as he might, Riggins' big ole hunting ranch plan had its appeal too, though he'd only ever imagined the one lady in it, just him and Lyla, and Rigs around close by, making sure the beer never ran low.
Now he just hopes he can afford his own place some day.
*
He thinks about them too much. He thinks about sex too much as well, far too much for a guy who's been told it's not safe for him to ejaculate. Some nights he thinks that was more cruel than being told he's not going to walk again. It's bad enough being a cripple. Not being a man, not having the chance-Jason grinds his knuckles into his eyes. He refuses to cry - just because he's got the privacy to get away with it now, doesn't mean he's going to give in.
He thinks about them and he thinks about sex, and he thinks about them having sex too. Imagines it. Tim fucking Lyla, and her loving it, loving the feel of everything Jason can't give her any more. He even has the soundtrack to go with it. He knows all the little moans Lyla makes, the way she tilts her head when she's about to come and makes this tiny little sound like she can't help herself. The contented sound she used to make when he came, like she was proud of herself for making him feel that good. He'd bet she makes the same sound with Riggins inside her. And he's heard Tim too, late at night in the changing rooms with Tyra, when he didn't know Jason was still around. Jason had stood guard on the door, just in case, and left as soon as it was over. It wasn't a big deal back then, and Tim had laughed when he'd told him the next day, but now he wishes he didn't know what Tim sounds like when he comes, like he's run the length of the field ten times over, the way his voice drops and fades to husky-faint afterwards.
Now Jason hears them: Lyla sweet and sexy and always wanting to please, and Tim so effortless, so much better at sex than at speaking. He might as well be in the room with them for all the difference it would make. Doesn't even matter that it's all past. Doesn't matter that Riggins is probably sleeping off too much booze, sprawled uncomfortably on his too-small sofa so he'll wake up aching the next day and it'll take the first ten minutes of practice to ease the kinks out of his shoulders. Doesn't matter that Lyla's no doubt lying sleepless and thinking of Jason. The truth doesn't trump imagination, not in the middle of the night.
Times like this, Jason wishes he had no imagination, or that he just had the sense to give in and take his sleeping pills.
*
She keeps coming back. Standing outside his house and waiting for him, even if it's hours before he comes out. He wishes she'd give up. Just give up on him, on them. At least, he thinks that's what he wants, but it's so hard to be sure these days.
"What you asking for, Lyla? Last year back again? Because that sure as hell ain't gonna happen, and no wishing and praying is gonna make it."
"Mercy." Lyla looks down at him, and Jason still can't get used to that, his girl-Lyla, everyone, looking down at him all the time. If she cries, tears are going to fall on him, leave dark marks on his sweatpants. She doesn't cry though, not this time, just repeats the same word. "Mercy, Jason, that's what I'm asking for."
"Think I'm all out of that right now." There's a lump in his throat that hurts when he swallows, and he thinks it's Lyla's fault it's there.
Damn thing is, when she reaches out and touches his hand, slips her slim fingers between his clumsy ones, he squeezes on to them as best he can. Like his hands are betraying his mind and his heart, because they're both telling him that he can't forgive and he's never going to forget, and mercy is not an option, because if God wanted him to show mercy He should have shown Jason some.
When he lets go and knocks at her hand, a semblance of a push, she nods her head, eyes too bright and wide, and walks away.
He takes a drink, but it doesn't ease the lump in his throat any. He's not sure what will.
*
He thinks about lots of things that night. He thinks about mercy, and about God, and his mom and dad and Coach Taylor, and how he's let people down. And he thinks about friendship. He thinks about Riggins sneaking him out of the Center, the only person who knew him well enough to know how much he needed it right then. He thinks of all the things he once thought he'd do. He thinks maybe God has his own mysterious brand of mercy, and maybe He'll let Jason borrow some of it. Because if he tries to think of a world without his two best friends, it's not a world he wants to live in.
He looks across the room. If he can make it to the other side without any help, then he can do anything. He can find a way across the divide between him and Lyla, between him and Tim. He can do anything at all.
Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose.
He won't use the chair - that'd be cheating, too easy. He drags himself to the edge of the bed, pulls his legs right to the side, and lets his body relax. He rolls off, and he's going to have a bruise on his arm tomorrow, but that'll be kinda like old days. He lifts his head and chest up, and drags himself along with clenched fists. The carpet is rough on his knuckles, and his legs trail helpless behind him. He doesn't time himself, but it feels like forever before he's at the furthest wall. But he's made it, and he'll take it as a sign.
Seems like God took it as a sign too. Either that, or He likes meddling in things, or good coincidences really do happen. Whichever it is, Jason's just wondering how the frigging hell he's ever going to get back into bed without waking his parents up and upsetting them, when he hears a rattle on the window.
"J, fuck, what are you doing?" And it's Tim climbing in, reaching out and picking him up.
"Thought I'd go for a walk, and kinda forgot, you know," Jason says when he's back on his bed.
"Man, you're an idiot," Tim says. Affectionate.
"Hey, I'm not the one still taking sophomore classes."
Tim smiles down at his feet. They never were big on conversation, but the silences never seemed too long or awkward. Jason lies back and closes his eyes.
"So, see you. At the game tomorrow, right?" Riggins is outside now, rattling the window loose from its catch ready to close it.
"Wouldn't miss it." And Jason means it.
Jason has still got the lump in his throat, but it doesn't hurt like it did.