Turn In [Friday Night Lights]
Title: Turn In
Characters/Pairings: Becky/Luke
Rating: PG
Warning: Language.
Prompt: Drabble Meme. "Oh, you're gonna be wounded. Oh, you're gonna be my wound." (Spring Awakening)
Summary: She doesn't want to want it.
A/N: For stainofmylove. Original post here.
Turn In
On a whim, Becky invites Luke over to watch TV with her, having run into him at the store earlier that day. She hadn’t really wanted him to come over, but at the same time she did. Doesn’t want to give him the wrong idea, but at the same time is unsure what the right idea is exactly anyway.
Plus she’s had trouble sleeping lately, and with her mom never here and Tim…well, Tim gone, it just gets so lonely around here sometimes, you know?
Conversation is stilted. “How’s your hip?” she asks for lack of anything better.
He reaches over and touches the bruise like he’s forgotten it’s there. “Good, yeah, it’s pretty much healed up,” he answers, nodding and looking at her dead on like he doesn’t know how to look at her any other way. It makes her uncomfortable.
They watch the screen mutely, and she pulls her knees to her chest when, after he gets up to use the bathroom, he comes back and sits way closer to her than he was before. Like, practically touching her.
When he does finally touch her, just a graze of his fingers against hers, she feels a flutter in her chest and a lump in her throat that pair nicely with the hot blush spreading across her cheeks. She dreams about this a lot, and every time she does she wakes up feeling so much shame it’s like there’s a weight on her chest.
She shouldn’t want that. Not after everything that happened.
So when she breathes in deep and pushes her hand close to his, grabs a couple of his fingers and runs her thumb over them, she can’t help but wonder what the hell is wrong with her.
His hand grabs hers back and he pulls her closer, and she’s about an inch from him so she closes the gap, slamming her lips into his a little more aggressively than she wants. Panic sets in when he slowly pushes against her to lie down on top of her, a latent anxiety waking up in her gut, so she readjusts so she’s straddling his lap instead. She does it to be more in control, but finds it just makes her feel like she’s being too eager and insistent, and wonders what he thinks of her.
But instead of just moving on, he puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her away from him. “You know you don’t have to,” he stammers, swallows hard, “we don’t have to. Anything.”
She knows he’s just being nice, ‘cause that’s all he ever is, but it doesn’t make her feel any better. Just makes her feel even more self-conscious than she already does.
So she hits him, slams her fist against his chest. Probably not that hard, considering what he’s used to, but in the end it’s not really about hurting him.
“Why can’t you just treat me like trash like everyone else does?” she practically pleads. It would just make everything so much easier if he would.
His stare is hopelessly lost. “Because you’re not,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Yes I am,” she sobs, chokes on her breath trying to hold it in. “All I wanna do is,” a pause and a sigh. “I mean, look at me. Look at us, what we’re doing. It’s like I haven’t learned anything. What kind of person does that make me?”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares like he got called on in class and doesn’t know the answer, and an unexpected laugh bursts from her lips. Because he just doesn’t understand. How could he?
“I’ll tell you what it makes me,” she starts, her voice hard. “It makes me a slut, just like my mom and just like everyone expects of me.”
“No,” he says immediately, shaking his head, and he looks so insistent and honest it startles her a little. His eyebrows come together and he repeats, “No,” like its ridiculous that she even thought that of herself in the first place.
Somehow, it makes her feel a little better. Strange.
She calms down a little, breath slowing and tears drying, and he starts to rub his hands up and down her arms and asks her if she wants to finish watching the movie. She nods that yes, she does, and he twists and moves her around until they’re both laying down on the couch, his arm slung over her to hold her against him.
He’s nice, so nice. Problem is she just doesn’t really know how to react to nice.
She turns around to face him, laying her head against his chest. Listens to him breathe as he runs his hand up and down her back. Falls asleep and doesn’t dream about anything at all.
Characters/Pairings: Becky/Luke
Rating: PG
Warning: Language.
Prompt: Drabble Meme. "Oh, you're gonna be wounded. Oh, you're gonna be my wound." (Spring Awakening)
Summary: She doesn't want to want it.
A/N: For stainofmylove. Original post here.
Turn In
On a whim, Becky invites Luke over to watch TV with her, having run into him at the store earlier that day. She hadn’t really wanted him to come over, but at the same time she did. Doesn’t want to give him the wrong idea, but at the same time is unsure what the right idea is exactly anyway.
Plus she’s had trouble sleeping lately, and with her mom never here and Tim…well, Tim gone, it just gets so lonely around here sometimes, you know?
Conversation is stilted. “How’s your hip?” she asks for lack of anything better.
He reaches over and touches the bruise like he’s forgotten it’s there. “Good, yeah, it’s pretty much healed up,” he answers, nodding and looking at her dead on like he doesn’t know how to look at her any other way. It makes her uncomfortable.
They watch the screen mutely, and she pulls her knees to her chest when, after he gets up to use the bathroom, he comes back and sits way closer to her than he was before. Like, practically touching her.
When he does finally touch her, just a graze of his fingers against hers, she feels a flutter in her chest and a lump in her throat that pair nicely with the hot blush spreading across her cheeks. She dreams about this a lot, and every time she does she wakes up feeling so much shame it’s like there’s a weight on her chest.
She shouldn’t want that. Not after everything that happened.
So when she breathes in deep and pushes her hand close to his, grabs a couple of his fingers and runs her thumb over them, she can’t help but wonder what the hell is wrong with her.
His hand grabs hers back and he pulls her closer, and she’s about an inch from him so she closes the gap, slamming her lips into his a little more aggressively than she wants. Panic sets in when he slowly pushes against her to lie down on top of her, a latent anxiety waking up in her gut, so she readjusts so she’s straddling his lap instead. She does it to be more in control, but finds it just makes her feel like she’s being too eager and insistent, and wonders what he thinks of her.
But instead of just moving on, he puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her away from him. “You know you don’t have to,” he stammers, swallows hard, “we don’t have to. Anything.”
She knows he’s just being nice, ‘cause that’s all he ever is, but it doesn’t make her feel any better. Just makes her feel even more self-conscious than she already does.
So she hits him, slams her fist against his chest. Probably not that hard, considering what he’s used to, but in the end it’s not really about hurting him.
“Why can’t you just treat me like trash like everyone else does?” she practically pleads. It would just make everything so much easier if he would.
His stare is hopelessly lost. “Because you’re not,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Yes I am,” she sobs, chokes on her breath trying to hold it in. “All I wanna do is,” a pause and a sigh. “I mean, look at me. Look at us, what we’re doing. It’s like I haven’t learned anything. What kind of person does that make me?”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares like he got called on in class and doesn’t know the answer, and an unexpected laugh bursts from her lips. Because he just doesn’t understand. How could he?
“I’ll tell you what it makes me,” she starts, her voice hard. “It makes me a slut, just like my mom and just like everyone expects of me.”
“No,” he says immediately, shaking his head, and he looks so insistent and honest it startles her a little. His eyebrows come together and he repeats, “No,” like its ridiculous that she even thought that of herself in the first place.
Somehow, it makes her feel a little better. Strange.
She calms down a little, breath slowing and tears drying, and he starts to rub his hands up and down her arms and asks her if she wants to finish watching the movie. She nods that yes, she does, and he twists and moves her around until they’re both laying down on the couch, his arm slung over her to hold her against him.
He’s nice, so nice. Problem is she just doesn’t really know how to react to nice.
She turns around to face him, laying her head against his chest. Listens to him breathe as he runs his hand up and down her back. Falls asleep and doesn’t dream about anything at all.