Burden of Tomorrow [Friday Night Lights]
Title: Burden of Tomorrow
Characters/Pairings: Luke, Luke/Becky, peripheral Tim
Rating: R
Warning: Sex, and the high school aged kids having it. Minor language.
Summary: Lessons on saying the right thing at the right time. Major S4 spoilers.
A/N: Wish Meme fic for stainofmylove. Original prompt here.
Burden of Tomorrow
Luke sometimes can’t for the life of him say the right thing at the right time, no matter how much he wants to. Now, that doesn’t mean he can’t think of the right things at the right times. Just means sometimes the words don’t come out quite like he hopes.
He places complete blame for this on the fact that his best friend until age six was a cow.
He’s been at practice all afternoon, busting his ass and playing better than anyone on this sorry piece of dusty grass they call a football field over here at East Dillon, and the only person paying attention to him is Tim Riggins. And, no disrespect to Tim, but he ain’t the coach.
It’s still nice to hear him say he played well, though. He always seemed like a cool guy, and was a hell of a fullback. Luke hopes one day someone will say that about him, too. Just, replace fullback with running back, and skip the paste tense.
“Who’s that?” Luke asks after this really pretty girl yells out for Tim as they’re walking off the field.
“I’m just rentin’ a room from her momma,” Tim explains like he's tired of the question.
There are probably a hundred things that could come out of Luke’s mouth right now. Something like “That’s great, hey, do you think you could introduce us?” or “Okay,” or maybe just nothing at all.
Instead he makes some lame joke about wanting to be rentin’ a room from her momma, too, and now Tim’s got this look on his face like he’s warning him, like he’s telling him there’s a right and a wrong way to talk about a girl if you like ‘em, and that’s sure as hell not it.
Yeah, nothing at all would have been best.
**
J.D. McCoy is an asshole.
That’s pretty much the only thing going through Luke's head as he drives away, the sound of paintball shots rattling against his car.
Everyone kept telling him that him and J.D. were gonna be the next Tim Riggins and Jason Street, but that’s not true; probably never could have been true. Tim and Jason were friends, and he tried to be friends with J.D., but it’s just not working anymore.
Besides, J.D. is no Jason Street, no matter how much he wants to be. And Luke sure as hell ain’t no Tim Riggins. Probably never will be, now. Not at East.
On his way back home he realizes he really needs to take a leak, so he pulls into the last gas station before the he gets on the lonely road back to his house. The attendant gives him this big hubcap with a key attached to it, and it takes him a minute just to get the stupid thing unlocked.
Tonight sucks, he thinks as he pumps for soap with little success. But when he walks to up the counter, it suddenly starts to suck less.
Becky is there (he’d begged Tim for her name one day at conditioning), getting hassled for ID by the guy at the counter, so he takes the initiative to be the knight in shining armor. Pays for her stuff, and flirts a little with her when she asks about his paintball wound.
Then she’s walking away, which is not something he wants her to do right now, so he yells out and asks her the only thing he can think of that sounds casual. Asks her to go to a car wash with him, which, on a scale of awesome to not-awesome in terms of ways to get girls to hang out with you, is somewhere around really, really lame.
But the funny thing is, it works.
He takes her to probably the oldest car wash in Dillon; no fancy automated system, just a couple trigger gun power washers on hoses and long handled sponges sitting in days old soapy water. But, being the oldest, it’s also the cheapest. It’s not like this thing needs a wax.
The car rattles to a stop and he throws it in park, says to her, “You can just stay in here if you want.” Her eyebrows raise, and she rolls the plastic of her opened candy bar between her fingers. “Or you could help me scrub paint.”
She looks like she’s thinking real hard about something. “So I’m just here as manual labor?”
Don’t panic. “I said you could just sit in here.”
Her response is a laugh and a reassuring “Relax,” as she pops the rest of the candy bar in her mouth and shoves the creaky door open. He can’t help but stare a little. “Well don’t just sit there.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he answers belatedly, getting out of the car himself. He grabs the power washer and sprays the back and sides, and she takes the soapy wand and decides to concentrate on one spot in particular, right over his passenger side back wheel. He gets a little distracted watching her; likes she way she pushes and scrubs the wand against the side of his car.
When she asks, he tells her a bunch of West Dillon jerks did this, and points to his own chest and says he was a casualty as well. He hisses when she puts her fingers on the welt and presses lightly, asking him if it hurts. It does, so he tells her that, and she just winks and tells him to stop being a baby. Says, “Don’t you get worse than that every Friday night?”
Yeah, he guesses she’s right, but he likes getting those bruises. They mean something. This one’s different.
Afterwards they get back in the car, and he says he’ll just take her home, but halfway there he realizes he still doesn’t want her to leave. So he looks over at her and asks, “You wanna go somewhere and share that beer I bought for you?”
“Oh, so it’s your beer now?” she says dryly, and throws her feet on the dash.
He takes that as a yes. She doesn’t correct him.
**
There’s this place Luke knows that’s pretty much in the middle of nowhere (right by a little pond and enveloped by trees, but it’s real dark so you can still see all the stars poking out between them). He drives for about 15 minutes, telling her to be patient ‘cause she’s gonna love it, and when they get there she totally does.
He tells her to grab the beer and jump out of the car, and while she’s doing that he reaches behind the seat and pulls out an old comforter he keeps in here (his mom made him keep it, said that if his truck broke down somewhere cold, he’d be glad he had it). They sit in the bed of his truck, pointing out the constellations they know (not many), throwing back a couple of beers, and just kind of talking. It’s surprisingly easy to talk to her, given that his heart is beating about a mile a minute.
He finally gets a little buzz; not much, but enough to give him some liquid courage, and he turns to Becky and says, “I just want you to know that I think you’re really pretty.” Nothing fancy. He’s too scared of saying something stupid or insulting to try for fancy right now. It’s a long car ride back.
But the way she looks at him, like she’s been waiting to hear something like that all night, is a little intense. He just wanted to see if she’d kiss him.
She doesn’t respond verbally, so he tries to be more direct. “And I’d like to kiss you, if that’s alright.”
It is.
Luke’s kissed girls before. A few, actually, and he likes to think he’s pretty good at it. She’s pretty good at it herself, her soft, timid kisses quickly turning into something hungry and deep and almost desperate. Well whatever she’s desperate for, he’s happy to provide.
“You really think I’m pretty?” she asks him as she pulls her shirt over her head, her annoyingly bra-clad breasts basically eye level, and he’s really not sure why she needs him to reassure her. She’s on his lap now; surely she can feel that he does.
Resting his hands on her hips, he runs them up her now bare sides. “I think you’re beautiful,” he says, and if he sounds like he’s in awe, it’s ‘cause he is.
She sighs in what sounds like relief, and settles against him so they’re skin against skin. “Irresistible, right?” she says in a playful voice, but he can also hear in her voice that she needs to hear the answer.
“Well, I can’t see anyone sane sayin’ no to you,” he says somewhat absentmindedly. One of his hands slides down her stomach and to the fly of her jeans, and he pops the button open, waiting for her response. She doesn’t stop him. “If that’s what you’re askin’.”
She nods, says, “Yeah,” then reaches around her back and unclasps her bra, and it falls from her shoulders into the space between them. His breath catches. She’s so, so beautiful. “That’s what I’m askin’.”
The ’93 Dallas Cowboys is the first team Luke decides to name off one by one as Becky lets her hands trail down lower, her hand skimming against him before pulling him out of his boxers (they’d long ago forgone their jeans, tossed unceremoniously in a pile behind them), and in between offensive linemen he starts praying for forgiveness because he knows there’s no turning back for him at this point.
She’s down to just her underwear too, a pretty white and pink number with lace on the top, and he can feel her heat against him as she touches him tentatively. She whispers, “I don’t really know what to do-”
“Anything,” he blurts, swallowing hard. “Anything’s fine. That- that’s fine.”
A nervous smile tweaks at the edge of her lips and she whispers, “Okay,” her hand still uncertainly exploring and driving him crazy. When she shifts a little toward him he can feel steel digging into his back, and his head alternates between being flush against the cab window and buried in her neck.
He’s got one hand on her breast and another pressed against her back when she asks him shyly, “Do you maybe wanna touch me?”
Confused, he says, “I am touching you,” but immediately realizes what she means after it comes out of his mouth. “Oh.”
Like her, he’s not sure what he’s doing, but she gives him a little guidance when he asks, tells him to move his hand there, and maybe push against there, and lets out these little whimpers and gasps that are so hot that he tells her to stop touching him, just for a little bit.
The more she gets into it though, the more she starts to look around like someone is going to see them, like she’s feeling exposed. The comforter is pretty big, so he stalls his hand against her for just a second so he can grab it and throw it over her shoulders, covering them.
“See, now, no one will ever figure out what’s goin’ on,” he says with a smile, and she replies with one right back, punctuated by a little sigh when he starts moving his hand again.
A few minutes pass and then she gets this look in her eyes, like she’s both frustrated and intent all at once, and in one movement she pushes her underwear to the side and positions herself right over him, a heady, determined look in her eyes.
He’s already halfway through the ’84 Miami Dolphins when she finishes lowering herself on him, but by the time she presses her forehead against his and apologizes, ‘cause she’s gonna have to go real slow, he’s pretty sure he’s forgotten the names of every defensive position anyway.
For a while she just sits there silently, her arms wrapped around his neck so tightly he could have sworn she thought she might fall off. Her breathing is deep and even, and he gets a little worried when he feels her cheek wet against his neck. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she answers quickly, and like him saying that turned on a switch, she starts to move slowly against him. At first he feels a slow burn, something deep and smoldering, but when she gets her rhythm a little, hits little parts that must feel good to her and lets out strangled noises to punctuate, he knows it’s only a matter of time.
When he comes it’s without warning, like a shotgun blast behind his eyes, and she lets out a gasp at the sensation. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into her neck, on account of the fact that he’s pretty sure the same didn’t happen to her. Can feel her legs shaking, and holds her closer to him so her chest is pressed against his. He adds, out of breath, “You’re amazing.”
The sound of the dark night around them is white noise against the sound of him kissing her neck and shoulders and mouth and pretty much anywhere he can. She’s slid off of him now but is still on his lap, and despite the occasional lean into his kisses, she’s pretty still.
“You think you could fall in love with someone like me?” she asks, her voice sounding suffocated and defensive, and she leans back a little, assumedly so she can look at him sweat this one.
He starts to feel his heart rate increase even more, and his mind starts to whirr. “Well, I,” he begins, looking at her with pleading eyes; pleading for her to not be asking him this question. “Yeah, of course, I’m sure I could,” he finally answers, because it’s not like it’s out of the realm of possibility, it’s just that-
“Sorry, I dunno why I asked that, I think I’m just tired,” she stumbles, and wipes her eyes with her arm. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he leans forward and kisses her cheek; tastes salt, but feels her smile.
Soon she leans back, looks at him square on, and asks, “Can you take me home?”
He sighs in relief, but not because he wants her to leave. It’s just nice to get a question he knows the right answer to.
**
His coaches like to say that Luke’s got a real eye for the game. That he can figure out anything that the opposing team throws at him. That nothing can catch him off guard.
But this thing with Becky? It’s not football. And he has no idea what to do.
The next day he doesn’t see her, and struggles with whether he should contact her right away or not. He’s never done anything like that with a girl before, not gone all the way, so he’s not sure of the protocol. He was pretty sure she hadn’t done anything like that either, but he hadn’t actually asked. Knows he probably should have asked, but it’s just, he didn’t want to offend her. Asking means he thought she might not be, and she might have gotten insulted or something, right?
In the end he doesn’t end up getting in touch with her, mostly because he doesn’t know her phone number. But he knows he’ll see her at school on Monday, which brings another wave of apprehension. Should he get her something?
He settles on candy. She likes candy, and he remembers that, and if he brings her candy, she’ll see that he remembers that. Can’t go wrong.
Except that it does. Go wrong.
The thing that bothers him most, though, is the way that she looks at him after he tells her that no, he didn’t tell anyone about them, and yeah, he genuinely likes her and wants to see her again. Like she kind of realizes she was being a bitch, but is too proud to admit it. Because she was being a bitch.
Despite having a lot of things he wants to say to her, he just walks away with some of his dignity intact. Later that night he takes it out on the fence he’s been building for his dad, punches it so hard his knuckles split, and when his mom asks what happened, he blames football. Blames something he can understand.
What they did, it meant something to him. He doesn’t understand how it meant nothing to her.
**
Luke likes to think he was raised right. His dad always told him to take responsibility for his actions. Mom always told him to make sure to do the right thing, even if it’s hard. And it’s not like the conversation ever explicitly came up, but he’s pretty sure that his dad would tell him, if he ever got a girl pregnant, that he would need to step up and be a man. That even if he were a disappointment now, he could try and make it up.
When Becky tells him, all he can think to say to everything she throws at him is “Okay.” Throws in a “Yes,” once to make sure she understand that he understands. He yells out to her as she walks away, but can’t think of anything except her name. It’s not that the words are there and he just can’t say them. They’re just not there at all.
After school one day he sees her walking, and says her name to get her attention. She jumps. “Can I give you a ride home?” he asks, and he almost sounds like he’s begging.
Studying him like she’s not sure whether she can trust him, she finally agrees to go. His radio isn't picking up any good signal so he keeps it off, and most of the ride is spent in silence as she stares out the window and away from him, twisting a curl between her fingers.
Halfway back he stops the car and pulls over to the side of the road. Shuts off the ignition and tells her that they’ve gotta talk, that he can’t not talk to her any more about this or he’s gonna explode, and she just sighs like he’s a huge inconvenience.
She sits on the hood of his car and he tries to plead his case, although he’s not sure exactly what his case is. It’s hard for him to explain that he doesn’t want to make her decision for her, just wants her to know how he feels. But he’s starting to get the feeling that the more she knows how he feels, the more she resents him.
He takes her home when she asks, the car ride just as quiet as before; well, except for the fact that he can hear her crying and he doesn’t know a damn thing that he's willing to say that will make this better.
So when he pulls up to her house, he throws the car in park and pulls out his wallet; has had this hundred and fifty dollars in there since the day after she told him. “Here,” he says, and hands her the cash. She takes it mutely.
It’s not that he’s changed his mind. It’s just he can’t bear to see her cry anymore
The next couple of days he feels like he’s sitting on an anthill. He can’t sit still, can’t eat, can’t really focus at practice, and the fact that Tim Riggins can’t stop staring at him like he knows something doesn’t really help, either.
That evening Luke sits on his porch with a phone cradled in his hands, his hands sweating from nerves. Then he dials, and hears Becky’s timid voice pick up the phone. Launches into this huge speech about how he’ll do the right thing, how he’ll be there for her, because he’s not sure he’s ever really said that to her and he wants her to know.
She’s got something she wants him to know too, and she cuts him off to tell him. Thanks him for calling, but lets him know she doesn’t need him anymore. That she took care of it on her own. Stumbling over the rug pulled out from under his feet, he tries to think of something to say, but he doesn’t know what. So he doesn’t really say anything at all.
Yeah, this time, something would have been better. Anything.
**
Luke’s beginning to understand that sometimes, things just suck. And then they just as fast, they don’t. It’s all about perspective.
The Monday after the game with the Panthers he’s still a little high from the win, even though football season is over and he’s not entirely sure if he’ll even be here next year. But that’s neither here nor there right now. He’s just happy he got to play.
He feels someone tap him on the shoulder as he’s about to get in his truck, and when he spins around he sees Becky there. She’s got her books pressed against her chest and her arm wrapped around them, and when they finally come face to face she backs away just slightly, pushing her hair behind her ear nervously. “Hi Luke.”
“Oh, hey Becky.” His voice is a little too high and a little too excited, because he wasn’t expecting to see her and now she’s here and- “Do you need a ride?”
“No, it’s fine-”
“’Cause I can give you a ride,” he finishes. He knows Tim used to give her rides to school but, well, obviously not anymore. He wonders how she feels about that, since they were pretty good friends and all. Probably shouldn’t bring it up. “It’s not a problem or anything.”
“You don’t have to,” she insists, but he ends up convincing her. It’s not exactly a short walk to her house.
Once again they take a long ride where the only one talking is his creaking, whirring car, and they get to her house about ten minutes later.
Silence, and then, “Thanks for the ride, Luke.”
Nodding, he replies, “Yeah, anytime.” Sensing that she’s got something she wants to say, on account of the fact that she's not getting out of the car, he pries. “You alright?”
“You know,” she starts, avoiding his question, and her hands are shaking a little as she says it, “My mom’s working late tonight and, I’ll probably be alone for the rest of the day so if you,” a hitch in her voice, “if you want to like, hang out and watch TV or somethin'…” she trails off, and it doesn’t sound suggestive or anything like that; it sounds sad, and lonely.
“Uh, sure,” he answers, a little thrown off but not exactly unhappy about it. “Yeah.”
There’s nothing really on TV right now, being that it’s nearing Christmas and it seems like every show is showing re-runs, but there’s also about a hundred old Christmas movies on so they end up choosing one of those. They sit with one entire section of the couch between them, Becky has at least 3 pillows on and around her, like she’s built a fort around herself, and she seems a little uncomfortable. He’s not quite sure why. But he tries not to let it bother him.
The movie’s halfway through, and during one of the quiet scenes she turns to him, tears in her eyes, and out of nowhere pleads to him in a choked voice, “Please don’t hate me.”
The soft din of the scene playing behind them is welcome in the silence growing between them. Luke’s biting his tongue, because he knows one wrong move here will really ruin everything. “Becky, I don’t hate you.”
She gives him that look again, the one she gave him in the bed of his truck when he told her she was beautiful, but this one seems different. Relieved. “You don’t?”
“No, why would I?”
“You know why,” she mumbles. Then adds, “And I know your parents do.”
“I’m not my parents,” he clarifies harshly. Moves a little closer to her. “And when I said I’d be there for you, I meant it. I mean it.”
She sniffs a little, wipes her eyes on her sleeve, and pulls one of the pillows to her chest. “You know you don’t owe me that anymore. We can just go back to Becky and Luke, pre-everything,” she laughs nervously, and he smiles too out of solidarity. She adds quietly, “You don’t have to do anything for me anymore.”
He feels his chest grow tight. “I don’t have to,” he asks, and he knows he sounds mad but it’s really just frustration gnawing at the frayed edges. “Or you don’t want me to?” Because he wants to. Never really stopped wanting to.
Her eyes fall to the floor and she chews her lip, her breath coming in ragged and slow. “You don’t have to.”
Nodding, he replies with a quiet, “Okay,” and then he does the only thing that seems natural; moves close to her then leans forward, his lips touching hers and his hands coming up to cradle her face. Her lips are a little bit salty, and a little bit rough, but it’s pretty much the best thing he’s tasted and felt in a long time.
Then she starts kissing back, and he thinks, finally. He’s figured out the right thing to say.
“I wanna take you to dinner,” he says almost involuntarily when they part, like it’s a reflex, a natural order of things. “Please don’t say no.”
She doesn’t.
Characters/Pairings: Luke, Luke/Becky, peripheral Tim
Rating: R
Warning: Sex, and the high school aged kids having it. Minor language.
Summary: Lessons on saying the right thing at the right time. Major S4 spoilers.
A/N: Wish Meme fic for stainofmylove. Original prompt here.
Burden of Tomorrow
Luke sometimes can’t for the life of him say the right thing at the right time, no matter how much he wants to. Now, that doesn’t mean he can’t think of the right things at the right times. Just means sometimes the words don’t come out quite like he hopes.
He places complete blame for this on the fact that his best friend until age six was a cow.
He’s been at practice all afternoon, busting his ass and playing better than anyone on this sorry piece of dusty grass they call a football field over here at East Dillon, and the only person paying attention to him is Tim Riggins. And, no disrespect to Tim, but he ain’t the coach.
It’s still nice to hear him say he played well, though. He always seemed like a cool guy, and was a hell of a fullback. Luke hopes one day someone will say that about him, too. Just, replace fullback with running back, and skip the paste tense.
“Who’s that?” Luke asks after this really pretty girl yells out for Tim as they’re walking off the field.
“I’m just rentin’ a room from her momma,” Tim explains like he's tired of the question.
There are probably a hundred things that could come out of Luke’s mouth right now. Something like “That’s great, hey, do you think you could introduce us?” or “Okay,” or maybe just nothing at all.
Instead he makes some lame joke about wanting to be rentin’ a room from her momma, too, and now Tim’s got this look on his face like he’s warning him, like he’s telling him there’s a right and a wrong way to talk about a girl if you like ‘em, and that’s sure as hell not it.
Yeah, nothing at all would have been best.
**
J.D. McCoy is an asshole.
That’s pretty much the only thing going through Luke's head as he drives away, the sound of paintball shots rattling against his car.
Everyone kept telling him that him and J.D. were gonna be the next Tim Riggins and Jason Street, but that’s not true; probably never could have been true. Tim and Jason were friends, and he tried to be friends with J.D., but it’s just not working anymore.
Besides, J.D. is no Jason Street, no matter how much he wants to be. And Luke sure as hell ain’t no Tim Riggins. Probably never will be, now. Not at East.
On his way back home he realizes he really needs to take a leak, so he pulls into the last gas station before the he gets on the lonely road back to his house. The attendant gives him this big hubcap with a key attached to it, and it takes him a minute just to get the stupid thing unlocked.
Tonight sucks, he thinks as he pumps for soap with little success. But when he walks to up the counter, it suddenly starts to suck less.
Becky is there (he’d begged Tim for her name one day at conditioning), getting hassled for ID by the guy at the counter, so he takes the initiative to be the knight in shining armor. Pays for her stuff, and flirts a little with her when she asks about his paintball wound.
Then she’s walking away, which is not something he wants her to do right now, so he yells out and asks her the only thing he can think of that sounds casual. Asks her to go to a car wash with him, which, on a scale of awesome to not-awesome in terms of ways to get girls to hang out with you, is somewhere around really, really lame.
But the funny thing is, it works.
He takes her to probably the oldest car wash in Dillon; no fancy automated system, just a couple trigger gun power washers on hoses and long handled sponges sitting in days old soapy water. But, being the oldest, it’s also the cheapest. It’s not like this thing needs a wax.
The car rattles to a stop and he throws it in park, says to her, “You can just stay in here if you want.” Her eyebrows raise, and she rolls the plastic of her opened candy bar between her fingers. “Or you could help me scrub paint.”
She looks like she’s thinking real hard about something. “So I’m just here as manual labor?”
Don’t panic. “I said you could just sit in here.”
Her response is a laugh and a reassuring “Relax,” as she pops the rest of the candy bar in her mouth and shoves the creaky door open. He can’t help but stare a little. “Well don’t just sit there.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he answers belatedly, getting out of the car himself. He grabs the power washer and sprays the back and sides, and she takes the soapy wand and decides to concentrate on one spot in particular, right over his passenger side back wheel. He gets a little distracted watching her; likes she way she pushes and scrubs the wand against the side of his car.
When she asks, he tells her a bunch of West Dillon jerks did this, and points to his own chest and says he was a casualty as well. He hisses when she puts her fingers on the welt and presses lightly, asking him if it hurts. It does, so he tells her that, and she just winks and tells him to stop being a baby. Says, “Don’t you get worse than that every Friday night?”
Yeah, he guesses she’s right, but he likes getting those bruises. They mean something. This one’s different.
Afterwards they get back in the car, and he says he’ll just take her home, but halfway there he realizes he still doesn’t want her to leave. So he looks over at her and asks, “You wanna go somewhere and share that beer I bought for you?”
“Oh, so it’s your beer now?” she says dryly, and throws her feet on the dash.
He takes that as a yes. She doesn’t correct him.
**
There’s this place Luke knows that’s pretty much in the middle of nowhere (right by a little pond and enveloped by trees, but it’s real dark so you can still see all the stars poking out between them). He drives for about 15 minutes, telling her to be patient ‘cause she’s gonna love it, and when they get there she totally does.
He tells her to grab the beer and jump out of the car, and while she’s doing that he reaches behind the seat and pulls out an old comforter he keeps in here (his mom made him keep it, said that if his truck broke down somewhere cold, he’d be glad he had it). They sit in the bed of his truck, pointing out the constellations they know (not many), throwing back a couple of beers, and just kind of talking. It’s surprisingly easy to talk to her, given that his heart is beating about a mile a minute.
He finally gets a little buzz; not much, but enough to give him some liquid courage, and he turns to Becky and says, “I just want you to know that I think you’re really pretty.” Nothing fancy. He’s too scared of saying something stupid or insulting to try for fancy right now. It’s a long car ride back.
But the way she looks at him, like she’s been waiting to hear something like that all night, is a little intense. He just wanted to see if she’d kiss him.
She doesn’t respond verbally, so he tries to be more direct. “And I’d like to kiss you, if that’s alright.”
It is.
Luke’s kissed girls before. A few, actually, and he likes to think he’s pretty good at it. She’s pretty good at it herself, her soft, timid kisses quickly turning into something hungry and deep and almost desperate. Well whatever she’s desperate for, he’s happy to provide.
“You really think I’m pretty?” she asks him as she pulls her shirt over her head, her annoyingly bra-clad breasts basically eye level, and he’s really not sure why she needs him to reassure her. She’s on his lap now; surely she can feel that he does.
Resting his hands on her hips, he runs them up her now bare sides. “I think you’re beautiful,” he says, and if he sounds like he’s in awe, it’s ‘cause he is.
She sighs in what sounds like relief, and settles against him so they’re skin against skin. “Irresistible, right?” she says in a playful voice, but he can also hear in her voice that she needs to hear the answer.
“Well, I can’t see anyone sane sayin’ no to you,” he says somewhat absentmindedly. One of his hands slides down her stomach and to the fly of her jeans, and he pops the button open, waiting for her response. She doesn’t stop him. “If that’s what you’re askin’.”
She nods, says, “Yeah,” then reaches around her back and unclasps her bra, and it falls from her shoulders into the space between them. His breath catches. She’s so, so beautiful. “That’s what I’m askin’.”
The ’93 Dallas Cowboys is the first team Luke decides to name off one by one as Becky lets her hands trail down lower, her hand skimming against him before pulling him out of his boxers (they’d long ago forgone their jeans, tossed unceremoniously in a pile behind them), and in between offensive linemen he starts praying for forgiveness because he knows there’s no turning back for him at this point.
She’s down to just her underwear too, a pretty white and pink number with lace on the top, and he can feel her heat against him as she touches him tentatively. She whispers, “I don’t really know what to do-”
“Anything,” he blurts, swallowing hard. “Anything’s fine. That- that’s fine.”
A nervous smile tweaks at the edge of her lips and she whispers, “Okay,” her hand still uncertainly exploring and driving him crazy. When she shifts a little toward him he can feel steel digging into his back, and his head alternates between being flush against the cab window and buried in her neck.
He’s got one hand on her breast and another pressed against her back when she asks him shyly, “Do you maybe wanna touch me?”
Confused, he says, “I am touching you,” but immediately realizes what she means after it comes out of his mouth. “Oh.”
Like her, he’s not sure what he’s doing, but she gives him a little guidance when he asks, tells him to move his hand there, and maybe push against there, and lets out these little whimpers and gasps that are so hot that he tells her to stop touching him, just for a little bit.
The more she gets into it though, the more she starts to look around like someone is going to see them, like she’s feeling exposed. The comforter is pretty big, so he stalls his hand against her for just a second so he can grab it and throw it over her shoulders, covering them.
“See, now, no one will ever figure out what’s goin’ on,” he says with a smile, and she replies with one right back, punctuated by a little sigh when he starts moving his hand again.
A few minutes pass and then she gets this look in her eyes, like she’s both frustrated and intent all at once, and in one movement she pushes her underwear to the side and positions herself right over him, a heady, determined look in her eyes.
He’s already halfway through the ’84 Miami Dolphins when she finishes lowering herself on him, but by the time she presses her forehead against his and apologizes, ‘cause she’s gonna have to go real slow, he’s pretty sure he’s forgotten the names of every defensive position anyway.
For a while she just sits there silently, her arms wrapped around his neck so tightly he could have sworn she thought she might fall off. Her breathing is deep and even, and he gets a little worried when he feels her cheek wet against his neck. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she answers quickly, and like him saying that turned on a switch, she starts to move slowly against him. At first he feels a slow burn, something deep and smoldering, but when she gets her rhythm a little, hits little parts that must feel good to her and lets out strangled noises to punctuate, he knows it’s only a matter of time.
When he comes it’s without warning, like a shotgun blast behind his eyes, and she lets out a gasp at the sensation. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into her neck, on account of the fact that he’s pretty sure the same didn’t happen to her. Can feel her legs shaking, and holds her closer to him so her chest is pressed against his. He adds, out of breath, “You’re amazing.”
The sound of the dark night around them is white noise against the sound of him kissing her neck and shoulders and mouth and pretty much anywhere he can. She’s slid off of him now but is still on his lap, and despite the occasional lean into his kisses, she’s pretty still.
“You think you could fall in love with someone like me?” she asks, her voice sounding suffocated and defensive, and she leans back a little, assumedly so she can look at him sweat this one.
He starts to feel his heart rate increase even more, and his mind starts to whirr. “Well, I,” he begins, looking at her with pleading eyes; pleading for her to not be asking him this question. “Yeah, of course, I’m sure I could,” he finally answers, because it’s not like it’s out of the realm of possibility, it’s just that-
“Sorry, I dunno why I asked that, I think I’m just tired,” she stumbles, and wipes her eyes with her arm. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he leans forward and kisses her cheek; tastes salt, but feels her smile.
Soon she leans back, looks at him square on, and asks, “Can you take me home?”
He sighs in relief, but not because he wants her to leave. It’s just nice to get a question he knows the right answer to.
**
His coaches like to say that Luke’s got a real eye for the game. That he can figure out anything that the opposing team throws at him. That nothing can catch him off guard.
But this thing with Becky? It’s not football. And he has no idea what to do.
The next day he doesn’t see her, and struggles with whether he should contact her right away or not. He’s never done anything like that with a girl before, not gone all the way, so he’s not sure of the protocol. He was pretty sure she hadn’t done anything like that either, but he hadn’t actually asked. Knows he probably should have asked, but it’s just, he didn’t want to offend her. Asking means he thought she might not be, and she might have gotten insulted or something, right?
In the end he doesn’t end up getting in touch with her, mostly because he doesn’t know her phone number. But he knows he’ll see her at school on Monday, which brings another wave of apprehension. Should he get her something?
He settles on candy. She likes candy, and he remembers that, and if he brings her candy, she’ll see that he remembers that. Can’t go wrong.
Except that it does. Go wrong.
The thing that bothers him most, though, is the way that she looks at him after he tells her that no, he didn’t tell anyone about them, and yeah, he genuinely likes her and wants to see her again. Like she kind of realizes she was being a bitch, but is too proud to admit it. Because she was being a bitch.
Despite having a lot of things he wants to say to her, he just walks away with some of his dignity intact. Later that night he takes it out on the fence he’s been building for his dad, punches it so hard his knuckles split, and when his mom asks what happened, he blames football. Blames something he can understand.
What they did, it meant something to him. He doesn’t understand how it meant nothing to her.
**
Luke likes to think he was raised right. His dad always told him to take responsibility for his actions. Mom always told him to make sure to do the right thing, even if it’s hard. And it’s not like the conversation ever explicitly came up, but he’s pretty sure that his dad would tell him, if he ever got a girl pregnant, that he would need to step up and be a man. That even if he were a disappointment now, he could try and make it up.
When Becky tells him, all he can think to say to everything she throws at him is “Okay.” Throws in a “Yes,” once to make sure she understand that he understands. He yells out to her as she walks away, but can’t think of anything except her name. It’s not that the words are there and he just can’t say them. They’re just not there at all.
After school one day he sees her walking, and says her name to get her attention. She jumps. “Can I give you a ride home?” he asks, and he almost sounds like he’s begging.
Studying him like she’s not sure whether she can trust him, she finally agrees to go. His radio isn't picking up any good signal so he keeps it off, and most of the ride is spent in silence as she stares out the window and away from him, twisting a curl between her fingers.
Halfway back he stops the car and pulls over to the side of the road. Shuts off the ignition and tells her that they’ve gotta talk, that he can’t not talk to her any more about this or he’s gonna explode, and she just sighs like he’s a huge inconvenience.
She sits on the hood of his car and he tries to plead his case, although he’s not sure exactly what his case is. It’s hard for him to explain that he doesn’t want to make her decision for her, just wants her to know how he feels. But he’s starting to get the feeling that the more she knows how he feels, the more she resents him.
He takes her home when she asks, the car ride just as quiet as before; well, except for the fact that he can hear her crying and he doesn’t know a damn thing that he's willing to say that will make this better.
So when he pulls up to her house, he throws the car in park and pulls out his wallet; has had this hundred and fifty dollars in there since the day after she told him. “Here,” he says, and hands her the cash. She takes it mutely.
It’s not that he’s changed his mind. It’s just he can’t bear to see her cry anymore
The next couple of days he feels like he’s sitting on an anthill. He can’t sit still, can’t eat, can’t really focus at practice, and the fact that Tim Riggins can’t stop staring at him like he knows something doesn’t really help, either.
That evening Luke sits on his porch with a phone cradled in his hands, his hands sweating from nerves. Then he dials, and hears Becky’s timid voice pick up the phone. Launches into this huge speech about how he’ll do the right thing, how he’ll be there for her, because he’s not sure he’s ever really said that to her and he wants her to know.
She’s got something she wants him to know too, and she cuts him off to tell him. Thanks him for calling, but lets him know she doesn’t need him anymore. That she took care of it on her own. Stumbling over the rug pulled out from under his feet, he tries to think of something to say, but he doesn’t know what. So he doesn’t really say anything at all.
Yeah, this time, something would have been better. Anything.
**
Luke’s beginning to understand that sometimes, things just suck. And then they just as fast, they don’t. It’s all about perspective.
The Monday after the game with the Panthers he’s still a little high from the win, even though football season is over and he’s not entirely sure if he’ll even be here next year. But that’s neither here nor there right now. He’s just happy he got to play.
He feels someone tap him on the shoulder as he’s about to get in his truck, and when he spins around he sees Becky there. She’s got her books pressed against her chest and her arm wrapped around them, and when they finally come face to face she backs away just slightly, pushing her hair behind her ear nervously. “Hi Luke.”
“Oh, hey Becky.” His voice is a little too high and a little too excited, because he wasn’t expecting to see her and now she’s here and- “Do you need a ride?”
“No, it’s fine-”
“’Cause I can give you a ride,” he finishes. He knows Tim used to give her rides to school but, well, obviously not anymore. He wonders how she feels about that, since they were pretty good friends and all. Probably shouldn’t bring it up. “It’s not a problem or anything.”
“You don’t have to,” she insists, but he ends up convincing her. It’s not exactly a short walk to her house.
Once again they take a long ride where the only one talking is his creaking, whirring car, and they get to her house about ten minutes later.
Silence, and then, “Thanks for the ride, Luke.”
Nodding, he replies, “Yeah, anytime.” Sensing that she’s got something she wants to say, on account of the fact that she's not getting out of the car, he pries. “You alright?”
“You know,” she starts, avoiding his question, and her hands are shaking a little as she says it, “My mom’s working late tonight and, I’ll probably be alone for the rest of the day so if you,” a hitch in her voice, “if you want to like, hang out and watch TV or somethin'…” she trails off, and it doesn’t sound suggestive or anything like that; it sounds sad, and lonely.
“Uh, sure,” he answers, a little thrown off but not exactly unhappy about it. “Yeah.”
There’s nothing really on TV right now, being that it’s nearing Christmas and it seems like every show is showing re-runs, but there’s also about a hundred old Christmas movies on so they end up choosing one of those. They sit with one entire section of the couch between them, Becky has at least 3 pillows on and around her, like she’s built a fort around herself, and she seems a little uncomfortable. He’s not quite sure why. But he tries not to let it bother him.
The movie’s halfway through, and during one of the quiet scenes she turns to him, tears in her eyes, and out of nowhere pleads to him in a choked voice, “Please don’t hate me.”
The soft din of the scene playing behind them is welcome in the silence growing between them. Luke’s biting his tongue, because he knows one wrong move here will really ruin everything. “Becky, I don’t hate you.”
She gives him that look again, the one she gave him in the bed of his truck when he told her she was beautiful, but this one seems different. Relieved. “You don’t?”
“No, why would I?”
“You know why,” she mumbles. Then adds, “And I know your parents do.”
“I’m not my parents,” he clarifies harshly. Moves a little closer to her. “And when I said I’d be there for you, I meant it. I mean it.”
She sniffs a little, wipes her eyes on her sleeve, and pulls one of the pillows to her chest. “You know you don’t owe me that anymore. We can just go back to Becky and Luke, pre-everything,” she laughs nervously, and he smiles too out of solidarity. She adds quietly, “You don’t have to do anything for me anymore.”
He feels his chest grow tight. “I don’t have to,” he asks, and he knows he sounds mad but it’s really just frustration gnawing at the frayed edges. “Or you don’t want me to?” Because he wants to. Never really stopped wanting to.
Her eyes fall to the floor and she chews her lip, her breath coming in ragged and slow. “You don’t have to.”
Nodding, he replies with a quiet, “Okay,” and then he does the only thing that seems natural; moves close to her then leans forward, his lips touching hers and his hands coming up to cradle her face. Her lips are a little bit salty, and a little bit rough, but it’s pretty much the best thing he’s tasted and felt in a long time.
Then she starts kissing back, and he thinks, finally. He’s figured out the right thing to say.
“I wanna take you to dinner,” he says almost involuntarily when they part, like it’s a reflex, a natural order of things. “Please don’t say no.”
She doesn’t.