Fic: Try a Little Tenderness
Summary: Tim Riggins, plus freedom, some TLC, and warm cookies. Guess this will be a serial! Spoilers: after season 4. Note: These characters are not mine.
Tim heard a tentative knock on the door as he put a neatly folded grey t-shirt into the second drawer of his small dresser and gently slid it shut.
The shirt, which he’d just taken off, was one of the meager belongings he was allowed to keep at the halfway house where he was serving the remainder of his shortened term.
Six months in jail, then six months at The Nest, about ten miles outside Dillon.
“Who the...,” he muttered.
He cracked open the door just wide enough to peer out with one eye.
Becky.
“Hey,” he said, opening it wider and putting his hands on his hips. He was wearing sweatpants that sat low on his hips.
“Hi Tim!,” Becky chirped, looking him up and down slowly and reaching to peck him on the cheek.
“Your favorite.” She handed him a plate of chocolate chip cookies, still warm.
“Sweet, thanks,” he said, breaking off a bit and eating it.
“Whoa.” She pointed to his hair, which had grown out to a short traditional guy’s cut.
He shrugged, grinned. “Hurt when they cut it off, but I actually kinda like it short. Doesn’t fall in my eyes.”
“Looks hot, actually.” And can’t hide behind it, Becky thought.
“Heard you got out a little early on good behavior. At first I didn’t believe that, what with your reputation and all, but…”
Tim smirked, which made Becky happy.
Before he’d gone to serve his sentence, he’d stopped by her house to drop off a snowglobe his mom had given him.
That night, he looked a decade older than his real age, his face drawn and haunted.
Worst of all, not one patented Riggins smirk that whole conversation.
“Yeah, I minded my own business, read half the library, and…”
“…worked out.” She grinned and squeezed his bicep. “These are bigger. Not that they were small before…”
Tim smirked, then went and got out the t-shirt he’d just stowed and slipped it on.
Becky could feel her pulse increase. Tim was absurdly muscular before, but now he was more defined. With his hair cut, he even resembled a soldier.
During the six months Tim was in prison, she’d managed to quash down the huge crush on him that had consumed her ever since he’d moved into the Airstream.
But now she could feel it swelling, enveloping her heart and squeezing it like an octopus.
He pulled out the one wooden chair from the desk, swung it around next to his cot, gestured for her to sit. He plopped down on the narrow bed, which squeaked with his weight.
“How’d you get here?,” Tim asked. “You finally get your license since I wasn’t around to play chauffeur?” Another smirk. The octopus clenched tighter.
“Believe it or not, yeah. My mom bought me a beater, a 95 Camry. Though c’mon, admit it, you miss haulin’ me around in your truck.”
“Know what? I actually did miss it. That first month, man, that was hard. I was like, hell, gonna be easy -- sleep, three meals of slop a day, work out, read a ton, work in the laundry room some. Well, the days were fine, but at night…”
He trailed off, looked out the small window to the church next door. “Just me and my thoughts. That was harder.” He furrowed his brow as darknes passed over his face.
“Brought you somethin’ else,” she said, touching his leg. He looked at her hand on his knee. It looked so delicate compared to all the men he’d been around for so long.
Some guys had tried to hit on Tim, but they backed off once they found out what a badass he could be. In fact, he’d made a couple of friends, workout buddies.
She dug around in her big bag and pulled out the snowglobe.
Tim’s face lit up.
“Kept it safe for you. Is now the right time to give it back?”
He turned it over, watching the snowflakes settle, and turned it over a few more times.
“Gotta clear this with my PO, but it’s hardly a weapon or somethin’ I might off myself with,” he said in his low voice. “No belts or letter openers around here.” This time, no smirk.
“PO…?” Becky asked.
“Parole officer. Checks in twice a week. But he always knows where I am.” Tim pulled up the left leg of his sweatpants, revealing an ankle bracelet. “Damn thing hurts, although a little less every day.”
He put down the snowglobe next to a framed picture of Billy, Mindy, and Stevie, dressed in a reindeer sweater. He was already big enough to be sitting upright for their Christmas picture.
“So Becks, how’re you doin’? Your mom okay?” Tim smirked again, remembering how Becky’s mom had managed to hit on him and cuss him out in the span of a day.
“Me? I’m alright. Dated another football player a couple of times, but that fizzled out. And Mom, yeah, she’s fine,” she said, fluttering her hands. “She was worried sick about you after you got sent away, then she was kinda mad at you for whatever you did, and now she’s dying to see you.”
She gave him that faintly sick expression that she wore when her mom flirted with Tim.
“Duly warned,” Tim laughed.
Becky got up and sat next to Tim on the cot. It squeaked again. She took his hand, laced their fingers, and placed the back of his hand against her cheek.
“Becks,” Tim whispered, half-heartedly.
“What,” she answered, and then kissed him softly, but lingeringly.
When she moved to kiss him again, he smothered her mouth with his, pulling her in with both arms.
He knew he shouldn’t, but acts of grace were few and far between. And after six months to ponder his life, he found himself thinking about Becky far more than he’d expected, or even wanted.
He knew he couldn’t have any sort of real relationship with her, that returning her affections would simply be leading her on.
And yet kissing her felt so good. And the warm cookies and the snowglobe all conspired to soften his will enough to give in to a little TLC.
They lay down on the cot, rolling toward one another at the center since the springs were worn that way. It felt unspeakably good to press his body against a girl’s. As for Becky, she’d dreamt of this moment for a year. For a lifetime.
- | - | - | -
After Becky left, Tim shook the snowglobe, and as the flakes settled, thought of Montana, where his mom had thought of moving with him all those years ago.
He decided to call her. He’d memorized her number from the matchbook where she’d scrawled it in haste that time he’d run into her at the sporting good store, just two towns away from Dillon.
He walked down the hall to the communal phone, put in two quarters, and dialed the number. A man’s voice answered, and Tim paused.
Couldn’t be. “Dad! Dad…?” he stammered.
Tim heard a tentative knock on the door as he put a neatly folded grey t-shirt into the second drawer of his small dresser and gently slid it shut.
The shirt, which he’d just taken off, was one of the meager belongings he was allowed to keep at the halfway house where he was serving the remainder of his shortened term.
Six months in jail, then six months at The Nest, about ten miles outside Dillon.
“Who the...,” he muttered.
He cracked open the door just wide enough to peer out with one eye.
Becky.
“Hey,” he said, opening it wider and putting his hands on his hips. He was wearing sweatpants that sat low on his hips.
“Hi Tim!,” Becky chirped, looking him up and down slowly and reaching to peck him on the cheek.
“Your favorite.” She handed him a plate of chocolate chip cookies, still warm.
“Sweet, thanks,” he said, breaking off a bit and eating it.
“Whoa.” She pointed to his hair, which had grown out to a short traditional guy’s cut.
He shrugged, grinned. “Hurt when they cut it off, but I actually kinda like it short. Doesn’t fall in my eyes.”
“Looks hot, actually.” And can’t hide behind it, Becky thought.
“Heard you got out a little early on good behavior. At first I didn’t believe that, what with your reputation and all, but…”
Tim smirked, which made Becky happy.
Before he’d gone to serve his sentence, he’d stopped by her house to drop off a snowglobe his mom had given him.
That night, he looked a decade older than his real age, his face drawn and haunted.
Worst of all, not one patented Riggins smirk that whole conversation.
“Yeah, I minded my own business, read half the library, and…”
“…worked out.” She grinned and squeezed his bicep. “These are bigger. Not that they were small before…”
Tim smirked, then went and got out the t-shirt he’d just stowed and slipped it on.
Becky could feel her pulse increase. Tim was absurdly muscular before, but now he was more defined. With his hair cut, he even resembled a soldier.
During the six months Tim was in prison, she’d managed to quash down the huge crush on him that had consumed her ever since he’d moved into the Airstream.
But now she could feel it swelling, enveloping her heart and squeezing it like an octopus.
He pulled out the one wooden chair from the desk, swung it around next to his cot, gestured for her to sit. He plopped down on the narrow bed, which squeaked with his weight.
“How’d you get here?,” Tim asked. “You finally get your license since I wasn’t around to play chauffeur?” Another smirk. The octopus clenched tighter.
“Believe it or not, yeah. My mom bought me a beater, a 95 Camry. Though c’mon, admit it, you miss haulin’ me around in your truck.”
“Know what? I actually did miss it. That first month, man, that was hard. I was like, hell, gonna be easy -- sleep, three meals of slop a day, work out, read a ton, work in the laundry room some. Well, the days were fine, but at night…”
He trailed off, looked out the small window to the church next door. “Just me and my thoughts. That was harder.” He furrowed his brow as darknes passed over his face.
“Brought you somethin’ else,” she said, touching his leg. He looked at her hand on his knee. It looked so delicate compared to all the men he’d been around for so long.
Some guys had tried to hit on Tim, but they backed off once they found out what a badass he could be. In fact, he’d made a couple of friends, workout buddies.
She dug around in her big bag and pulled out the snowglobe.
Tim’s face lit up.
“Kept it safe for you. Is now the right time to give it back?”
He turned it over, watching the snowflakes settle, and turned it over a few more times.
“Gotta clear this with my PO, but it’s hardly a weapon or somethin’ I might off myself with,” he said in his low voice. “No belts or letter openers around here.” This time, no smirk.
“PO…?” Becky asked.
“Parole officer. Checks in twice a week. But he always knows where I am.” Tim pulled up the left leg of his sweatpants, revealing an ankle bracelet. “Damn thing hurts, although a little less every day.”
He put down the snowglobe next to a framed picture of Billy, Mindy, and Stevie, dressed in a reindeer sweater. He was already big enough to be sitting upright for their Christmas picture.
“So Becks, how’re you doin’? Your mom okay?” Tim smirked again, remembering how Becky’s mom had managed to hit on him and cuss him out in the span of a day.
“Me? I’m alright. Dated another football player a couple of times, but that fizzled out. And Mom, yeah, she’s fine,” she said, fluttering her hands. “She was worried sick about you after you got sent away, then she was kinda mad at you for whatever you did, and now she’s dying to see you.”
She gave him that faintly sick expression that she wore when her mom flirted with Tim.
“Duly warned,” Tim laughed.
Becky got up and sat next to Tim on the cot. It squeaked again. She took his hand, laced their fingers, and placed the back of his hand against her cheek.
“Becks,” Tim whispered, half-heartedly.
“What,” she answered, and then kissed him softly, but lingeringly.
When she moved to kiss him again, he smothered her mouth with his, pulling her in with both arms.
He knew he shouldn’t, but acts of grace were few and far between. And after six months to ponder his life, he found himself thinking about Becky far more than he’d expected, or even wanted.
He knew he couldn’t have any sort of real relationship with her, that returning her affections would simply be leading her on.
And yet kissing her felt so good. And the warm cookies and the snowglobe all conspired to soften his will enough to give in to a little TLC.
They lay down on the cot, rolling toward one another at the center since the springs were worn that way. It felt unspeakably good to press his body against a girl’s. As for Becky, she’d dreamt of this moment for a year. For a lifetime.
- | - | - | -
After Becky left, Tim shook the snowglobe, and as the flakes settled, thought of Montana, where his mom had thought of moving with him all those years ago.
He decided to call her. He’d memorized her number from the matchbook where she’d scrawled it in haste that time he’d run into her at the sporting good store, just two towns away from Dillon.
He walked down the hall to the communal phone, put in two quarters, and dialed the number. A man’s voice answered, and Tim paused.
Couldn’t be. “Dad! Dad…?” he stammered.