Fic: That Fragile Kind of Forever
Title: That Fragile Kind of Forever
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Friday Night Lights
Beta: alfadorcat, who gives encouragement and criticism in rainbow colors!
Summary: The first time they give him Tim, Billy wants to give him back.
And when they give him Tim, Billy wants to give him back. This isn’t the sweet, quiet kid he’d teased growing up. This kid is sullen, greasy, angry, and won’t look him in the eyes. This kid has bruises all the way up and back down the right side of his face, sick-yellow on the edges and still blue-black in the middle. And so okay maybe that’s not new.
The social worker, Mr. Reeve, takes Billy into his office and explains things Billy’s known his whole life. Like he hasn’t figured out Billy grew up in the same abusive, neglectful household that spat up Tim and left him at Billy’s door, such as it is. Billy kind of wants to remind him, but also wants to forget, so mostly he just nods.
“You said Dad’s been gone two months?”
Mr. Reeve leans back and his squeaky chair practically screams with strain. “Yes.”
“Then where’d Tim get those bruises? And why in hell did nobody notice he was on his own before now?”
“Your brother’s a capable young man. If his friend hadn’t spoken up, he might have lasted even longer. Children who grow up under these circumstances are extremely self reliant. Afraid to reach out and ask for help.” Billy wants to laugh, ‘cause, hell--they were his circumstances too, and self-reliant’s not one of the many things his exes have accused him of being. “As to the bruises-we don’t know. He won’t tell us anything.”
The paperwork takes, no joke, two and a half hours. The whole time he can see the top of Tim’s greasy head outside the office, not moving. Billy figures he's probably sleeping. “How long do I have to keep him for?”
“It’s a temporary guardianship, Mr. Riggins. We’re still hoping to contact one of his-your-parents, and help them assume a responsible parenting role again.”
“Sure. But what do I do with him until then?”
“Feed him. Make sure he sleeps. Try and get him to bathe. This isn’t-is this going to be a problem?” For a minute, Billy thinks about saying no. Leaving this huge stack of papers, leaving this tiny office, leaving Dillon and Tim, but--he’s got nowhere else to go. Golf tour’s canceled, apartment’s been turned out by now, and he’s left no girl behind he’d remember three beers into a Friday night. Also, he figures, maybe he owes Tim a little. For leaving. For not checking in. He shakes his head, says it’s fine, and Reeve smiles. “He’s your brother. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
Tim's awake but doesn’t look up when Billy walks back into the hallway, proud new owner of one Timothy Riggins. “Wanna go home?” he asks, putting a friendly hand on his brother’s shoulder. Kid’s only a few inches shorter than he is. Coaches must love him.
“No,” Tim says.
Billy sighs. “Me either.” He looks around the hallway, then scratches the back of his neck. “You old enough to drink yet?”
Tim glares through his bangs. “I’m thirteen.”
“Huh. I'll get you a soda. The Landing Strip still open?" By the end of the night Tim's had two beers, which Billy ain't too proud of, but he's also smiled. Billy figures he's broke about even.
*
The first time Billy meets Jason Street, he's a bit taken aback, to say the least. The pint-sized little squirt walks into his house, plants himself square in front of Billy--who ain't quite dressed for company--and sticks out his hand. Tim's behind him, scuffing his bare feet in the carpet and not lookin' anywhere in particular.
Billy shakes the kid's hand, and Jay takes a deep breath. "My name's Jason Street. Tim's a grade behind me and we're on the same team. I play quarterback. Tim's a fullback and he's really good. And he eats dinner at my house every Tuesday and Fridays and we drive him to games and practices 'cause of--we just do. And I come over a lot and so does he. And if you hurt him I'm calling the cops again."
"Yeah," Billy says, nodding. "Okay." Jason glares up at him and somehow manages not to look completely ridiculous, in his ironed shirt and clean shoes. "I'm glad Tim's got you lookin' out for him."
"We're best friends," Jason says, defiantly. Tim, still staring out the windows at something--seems to deflate somehow. His shoulders go down and his head falls and it almost looks like he's gonna fall over. But no, Billy realizes when the kid picks his head back up. There's a smile on his face. He's happy, Billy realizes.
If he was a religious kinda man, he'd of prayed, then. For all three of them. He think Jason Street, maybe he can hold Tim together.
*
It's not easy. Most days, it's not impossible.
Tim's big enough now to wrestle on the school team and he sure practices enough at home to get pretty good. He's the kind of kid, he'll fight at the drop of a hat, and most days doesn't need the hat.
It's a Monday in March and Billy ain't had a job in longer than Tim knows about, and they're arguin' funds for some dumb field trip thing. Tim's red in the face and throwing himself at Billy with everything he's worth while Billy just bats him away 'cause kid's not that big yet. Tim picks up a half-full bottle of Bud and throws it at a window. It shatters. Comically slow but not the least bit funny and Billy slams Tim into the ground while the last loose pieces chime onto the cement outside.
He pushes Tim’s face into the carpet, kneeling on top of him, and he thinks Tim might maybe deserve some rug burn on the face. They’re gonna have to put a plastic bag over that window for a good long while, he thinks, and then realizes Tim’s not breathing. His eyes are big and his lips are a bit parted but he’s not pushing he’s not struggling, Jesus, god, he’s not breathing.
He’s off and he’s got Tim turned over, is about to start CPR-he’s seen it enough on the TV to give it a shot-when Tim’s fingers scrabble around his wrists and he holds on. “Sorry,” and Tim’s breathing, “don’t leave me,” Billy thinks he hears.
And you know one thing Billy really hates? Thing is, is sometimes, after games or over breakfast, Tim looks at him like he just can’t believe Billy’s there. He hates it more than when Tim ignores him or pushes at him or even when he screams, when he yells, you’re not my dad. And no. No, he ain’t perfect, ain’t even on the upside of mediocre. But he’s never hurt Tim. Never seriously, never for real.
See, thing is, is Billy? He's glad Walt's gone. Even though now he's got Tim, and a mortgage, and is stuck in fuckin' Dillon. Because Tim's on the ground underneath him, trying to breathe, trying not to cry, trying to pretend he's never had a serious thought in his head and all that's coming out of his mouth is hiccups.
Whenever Tim says, you're not my dad, Billy just says, thank god for small mercies. Tim always looks like he doesn't understand and Billy, who knows why Tim flinches, doesn't say a thing.
*
Next August the new Family Services lady does a surprise home visit. She literally curls her lip with disgust when she sees the kitchen, won’t even look in the bathroom, and scans Tim’s room-almost with pity. Which is fucking ridiculous because Tim wanted it to look like that. They’d bought the rope lights full price but gotten the steer’s head for five bucks at auction. She leaves without saying I’ll be back or you’re in trouble or nothing at all.
Billy grabs a beer from the fridge she’d glared at and smiles just to spite her. “We’re not doin’ too bad, huh, Timmy? What does that bitch know anyway.” We’re gonna be fine falters on his lips when he turns and sees Tim’s slid down the wall, sitting with his knees pressed tight into his chest. Blank. Doll-still. Death-still.
“Tim? Tim? Look at me, man. I’m not kidding." He tosses a bottle cap at him. "Tim. The fuck are you playin' at? This ain’t funny, man. Seriously-Tim!”
He slaps him, twice, smart and hard and Tim gasps and looks up at him and shit. Really, Tim’s practically grown now. He’s got no right to still look like he’s five and been left after school and no one’s coming to pick him up. ‘Cause Billy hadn’t forgotten to get him that many days, and really, it was practically walking distance back to the house anyway. Billy always found him on the same swing set, sitting still, staring the wrong way down the road.
And now here he is. Holding his little brother’s face in his hands and wishing he knew how to make it all, everything, okay. “Tim? You with me?” Tim closes his eyes which, Billy’s pretty sure, means yes. “You fainting on me again?”
“You want me to leave?” Tim asks. Billy lets go of Tim’s face with a sigh and then settles down beside him against the wall, their knees knocking together, probably getting new stains on his jeans from the carpet that’s not been cleaned in yeah, maybe too long.
“That bitch ain’t taking you nowhere. One call to coach, and he’ll get the boosters all over that shit.” And he knows it’s not actually an answer, but he was hoping Tim would let it go. Let him off the hook.
“You had a good time, huh? On the circuit?” Billy can feel Tim breathing next to him when he stops talking and, since it seems like he can’t take that for granted anymore, tries to feel grateful instead of just overwhelmed. “You coulda been something, maybe.
“I think I’m gonna be in Dillon my whole life,” Tim says, and it’s quiet and honest and Billy thinks about it and, probably, yeah. “I didn’t mean to bring you back here. I know you left for a reason.”
It was Dad, Billy wants to say. Not Dillon or you or even really Mom or the Panthers or the same fuckin’ strip club night after night and waking up hungover every, every morning. But it is.
“Tim. They ain’t gonna take you.”
“You gonna leave?”
There’s this particular silence in Dillon. It’s a dry silence. Harsh sun, burnt or drowned fields, echoes where the oil refineries used to hum.
“I’m trying my best, buddy. I’m trying.” He doesn’t know if he’s talking about staying or leaving and Tim’s breathing warm and steady against his side.
Thing is, is Dad was right. It’s real easy leaving Dillon. Most people never do it but when you’ve got nothing but the world waiting for you-well. Dillon’s home, but it’s a shithole, and Tim is family but he says yes by closing his eyes and really, he not hard to leave. The whole rest of the Riggins family seemed to manage it okay. Some of them more than once.
He’s a good kid. Not that bright but not all that mean, loyal, he listens. And he’s got charm to spare and a pair of hurt puppy dog eyes that’ll make you want to tuck him up in bed with a nice soup or maybe a rally girl-but most of the time Tim’s just quiet. Looking up the road in the wrong direction.
Tim sighs and closes his eyes and Billy listens. They’re both still breathing, silence of Dillon around them.
*
After Jason Street, whose name has turned into an event, Tim goes out to a bar and gets the shit kicked out of him. Billy wastes a lot of time hollering and carrying on and Tyra’s gone by the time he shuts up and eases Tim into the shower, washes the worst of the gravel out of his palms and knees. Tim’s ruined another pair of jeans. It’s easier to be angry about that because, yeah. He saw. Saw Tim smiling when he was getting punched hard enough to crack a cheekbone but then, when Billy’d been half-carrying him to the truck, he’d given Billy that look again. That one he hated. Like he was asking, why are you here?
Tim hadn’t known anyone was gonna be chasing him down. If it hadn’t been for Tyra and the Colette waitress network, he’d have probably spent the night bleeding in some fucking ditch, worse fucked up than he is.
“Dad’s gone,” Tim says.
“Uh huh. Shit. This bit’s in deep.” The water’s running a light pink down Tim’s wrists.
“I kicked him out, Billy. I don’t think he’s comin’ back.” Times like this Billy wishes he was a better big brother instead of a replacement parent. Because Tim sounds confused and sad and strong and lonely and Billy does, too.
“I hope he dies in Corpus,” Billy says. He examines a cut on Tim’s forehead and maybe if he actually knew anything about first-aid he’d have been able to tell more than that it looked like it hurt. He's got bags of peas and aspirin but the bruises Tim brings home lately? That pull him down and make him drink more than Billy ever did? Billy's got no fucking idea what to do about those.
He gets Tim bundled up and into bed and then stands outside his closed bedroom. He can hear it. Kid cries like he’s choking. Loud and for longer than Billy thought he had the energy for and then he’s just trying to breathe and Billy can hear him gasping and desperate and in pain. He thinks, I should go in there. Then he realizes he’s crying, too, and his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles ache and he feels useless, and like he’s not supposed to be there, and Tim doesn’t expect him to be anyway.
*
First time they give him Tim, Billy wants to give him back. He's small and squishy and not cleaned off great, and Mom's looking at them both like she's about to cry, and Billy kinda wishes Dad would take the baby back to make her stop. "That's your little brother," she smiles real sweet and reaches out towards them. Billy takes a step back, but the painkillers make her mellow, and she just lies back down.
Tim, he doesn't wake up or cry or smile or anything like that when Billy moves. "Is he okay?" Billy asks. "He ain't moving."
Walt looks over at Tim and rests a heavy hand on Billy's shoulder. "He's fine. You're gonna be a great big brother. Gonna take real good care of him." Billy looks down at the tiny, helpless thing in his arms and thinks no, I'm not. That's your job. He sits down in one of the uncomfortable orange chairs and holds Tim a bit tighter.
Feedback and constructive criticism are valued and welcomed!
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Friday Night Lights
Beta: alfadorcat, who gives encouragement and criticism in rainbow colors!
Summary: The first time they give him Tim, Billy wants to give him back.
And when they give him Tim, Billy wants to give him back. This isn’t the sweet, quiet kid he’d teased growing up. This kid is sullen, greasy, angry, and won’t look him in the eyes. This kid has bruises all the way up and back down the right side of his face, sick-yellow on the edges and still blue-black in the middle. And so okay maybe that’s not new.
The social worker, Mr. Reeve, takes Billy into his office and explains things Billy’s known his whole life. Like he hasn’t figured out Billy grew up in the same abusive, neglectful household that spat up Tim and left him at Billy’s door, such as it is. Billy kind of wants to remind him, but also wants to forget, so mostly he just nods.
“You said Dad’s been gone two months?”
Mr. Reeve leans back and his squeaky chair practically screams with strain. “Yes.”
“Then where’d Tim get those bruises? And why in hell did nobody notice he was on his own before now?”
“Your brother’s a capable young man. If his friend hadn’t spoken up, he might have lasted even longer. Children who grow up under these circumstances are extremely self reliant. Afraid to reach out and ask for help.” Billy wants to laugh, ‘cause, hell--they were his circumstances too, and self-reliant’s not one of the many things his exes have accused him of being. “As to the bruises-we don’t know. He won’t tell us anything.”
The paperwork takes, no joke, two and a half hours. The whole time he can see the top of Tim’s greasy head outside the office, not moving. Billy figures he's probably sleeping. “How long do I have to keep him for?”
“It’s a temporary guardianship, Mr. Riggins. We’re still hoping to contact one of his-your-parents, and help them assume a responsible parenting role again.”
“Sure. But what do I do with him until then?”
“Feed him. Make sure he sleeps. Try and get him to bathe. This isn’t-is this going to be a problem?” For a minute, Billy thinks about saying no. Leaving this huge stack of papers, leaving this tiny office, leaving Dillon and Tim, but--he’s got nowhere else to go. Golf tour’s canceled, apartment’s been turned out by now, and he’s left no girl behind he’d remember three beers into a Friday night. Also, he figures, maybe he owes Tim a little. For leaving. For not checking in. He shakes his head, says it’s fine, and Reeve smiles. “He’s your brother. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
Tim's awake but doesn’t look up when Billy walks back into the hallway, proud new owner of one Timothy Riggins. “Wanna go home?” he asks, putting a friendly hand on his brother’s shoulder. Kid’s only a few inches shorter than he is. Coaches must love him.
“No,” Tim says.
Billy sighs. “Me either.” He looks around the hallway, then scratches the back of his neck. “You old enough to drink yet?”
Tim glares through his bangs. “I’m thirteen.”
“Huh. I'll get you a soda. The Landing Strip still open?" By the end of the night Tim's had two beers, which Billy ain't too proud of, but he's also smiled. Billy figures he's broke about even.
*
The first time Billy meets Jason Street, he's a bit taken aback, to say the least. The pint-sized little squirt walks into his house, plants himself square in front of Billy--who ain't quite dressed for company--and sticks out his hand. Tim's behind him, scuffing his bare feet in the carpet and not lookin' anywhere in particular.
Billy shakes the kid's hand, and Jay takes a deep breath. "My name's Jason Street. Tim's a grade behind me and we're on the same team. I play quarterback. Tim's a fullback and he's really good. And he eats dinner at my house every Tuesday and Fridays and we drive him to games and practices 'cause of--we just do. And I come over a lot and so does he. And if you hurt him I'm calling the cops again."
"Yeah," Billy says, nodding. "Okay." Jason glares up at him and somehow manages not to look completely ridiculous, in his ironed shirt and clean shoes. "I'm glad Tim's got you lookin' out for him."
"We're best friends," Jason says, defiantly. Tim, still staring out the windows at something--seems to deflate somehow. His shoulders go down and his head falls and it almost looks like he's gonna fall over. But no, Billy realizes when the kid picks his head back up. There's a smile on his face. He's happy, Billy realizes.
If he was a religious kinda man, he'd of prayed, then. For all three of them. He think Jason Street, maybe he can hold Tim together.
*
It's not easy. Most days, it's not impossible.
Tim's big enough now to wrestle on the school team and he sure practices enough at home to get pretty good. He's the kind of kid, he'll fight at the drop of a hat, and most days doesn't need the hat.
It's a Monday in March and Billy ain't had a job in longer than Tim knows about, and they're arguin' funds for some dumb field trip thing. Tim's red in the face and throwing himself at Billy with everything he's worth while Billy just bats him away 'cause kid's not that big yet. Tim picks up a half-full bottle of Bud and throws it at a window. It shatters. Comically slow but not the least bit funny and Billy slams Tim into the ground while the last loose pieces chime onto the cement outside.
He pushes Tim’s face into the carpet, kneeling on top of him, and he thinks Tim might maybe deserve some rug burn on the face. They’re gonna have to put a plastic bag over that window for a good long while, he thinks, and then realizes Tim’s not breathing. His eyes are big and his lips are a bit parted but he’s not pushing he’s not struggling, Jesus, god, he’s not breathing.
He’s off and he’s got Tim turned over, is about to start CPR-he’s seen it enough on the TV to give it a shot-when Tim’s fingers scrabble around his wrists and he holds on. “Sorry,” and Tim’s breathing, “don’t leave me,” Billy thinks he hears.
And you know one thing Billy really hates? Thing is, is sometimes, after games or over breakfast, Tim looks at him like he just can’t believe Billy’s there. He hates it more than when Tim ignores him or pushes at him or even when he screams, when he yells, you’re not my dad. And no. No, he ain’t perfect, ain’t even on the upside of mediocre. But he’s never hurt Tim. Never seriously, never for real.
See, thing is, is Billy? He's glad Walt's gone. Even though now he's got Tim, and a mortgage, and is stuck in fuckin' Dillon. Because Tim's on the ground underneath him, trying to breathe, trying not to cry, trying to pretend he's never had a serious thought in his head and all that's coming out of his mouth is hiccups.
Whenever Tim says, you're not my dad, Billy just says, thank god for small mercies. Tim always looks like he doesn't understand and Billy, who knows why Tim flinches, doesn't say a thing.
*
Next August the new Family Services lady does a surprise home visit. She literally curls her lip with disgust when she sees the kitchen, won’t even look in the bathroom, and scans Tim’s room-almost with pity. Which is fucking ridiculous because Tim wanted it to look like that. They’d bought the rope lights full price but gotten the steer’s head for five bucks at auction. She leaves without saying I’ll be back or you’re in trouble or nothing at all.
Billy grabs a beer from the fridge she’d glared at and smiles just to spite her. “We’re not doin’ too bad, huh, Timmy? What does that bitch know anyway.” We’re gonna be fine falters on his lips when he turns and sees Tim’s slid down the wall, sitting with his knees pressed tight into his chest. Blank. Doll-still. Death-still.
“Tim? Tim? Look at me, man. I’m not kidding." He tosses a bottle cap at him. "Tim. The fuck are you playin' at? This ain’t funny, man. Seriously-Tim!”
He slaps him, twice, smart and hard and Tim gasps and looks up at him and shit. Really, Tim’s practically grown now. He’s got no right to still look like he’s five and been left after school and no one’s coming to pick him up. ‘Cause Billy hadn’t forgotten to get him that many days, and really, it was practically walking distance back to the house anyway. Billy always found him on the same swing set, sitting still, staring the wrong way down the road.
And now here he is. Holding his little brother’s face in his hands and wishing he knew how to make it all, everything, okay. “Tim? You with me?” Tim closes his eyes which, Billy’s pretty sure, means yes. “You fainting on me again?”
“You want me to leave?” Tim asks. Billy lets go of Tim’s face with a sigh and then settles down beside him against the wall, their knees knocking together, probably getting new stains on his jeans from the carpet that’s not been cleaned in yeah, maybe too long.
“That bitch ain’t taking you nowhere. One call to coach, and he’ll get the boosters all over that shit.” And he knows it’s not actually an answer, but he was hoping Tim would let it go. Let him off the hook.
“You had a good time, huh? On the circuit?” Billy can feel Tim breathing next to him when he stops talking and, since it seems like he can’t take that for granted anymore, tries to feel grateful instead of just overwhelmed. “You coulda been something, maybe.
“I think I’m gonna be in Dillon my whole life,” Tim says, and it’s quiet and honest and Billy thinks about it and, probably, yeah. “I didn’t mean to bring you back here. I know you left for a reason.”
It was Dad, Billy wants to say. Not Dillon or you or even really Mom or the Panthers or the same fuckin’ strip club night after night and waking up hungover every, every morning. But it is.
“Tim. They ain’t gonna take you.”
“You gonna leave?”
There’s this particular silence in Dillon. It’s a dry silence. Harsh sun, burnt or drowned fields, echoes where the oil refineries used to hum.
“I’m trying my best, buddy. I’m trying.” He doesn’t know if he’s talking about staying or leaving and Tim’s breathing warm and steady against his side.
Thing is, is Dad was right. It’s real easy leaving Dillon. Most people never do it but when you’ve got nothing but the world waiting for you-well. Dillon’s home, but it’s a shithole, and Tim is family but he says yes by closing his eyes and really, he not hard to leave. The whole rest of the Riggins family seemed to manage it okay. Some of them more than once.
He’s a good kid. Not that bright but not all that mean, loyal, he listens. And he’s got charm to spare and a pair of hurt puppy dog eyes that’ll make you want to tuck him up in bed with a nice soup or maybe a rally girl-but most of the time Tim’s just quiet. Looking up the road in the wrong direction.
Tim sighs and closes his eyes and Billy listens. They’re both still breathing, silence of Dillon around them.
*
After Jason Street, whose name has turned into an event, Tim goes out to a bar and gets the shit kicked out of him. Billy wastes a lot of time hollering and carrying on and Tyra’s gone by the time he shuts up and eases Tim into the shower, washes the worst of the gravel out of his palms and knees. Tim’s ruined another pair of jeans. It’s easier to be angry about that because, yeah. He saw. Saw Tim smiling when he was getting punched hard enough to crack a cheekbone but then, when Billy’d been half-carrying him to the truck, he’d given Billy that look again. That one he hated. Like he was asking, why are you here?
Tim hadn’t known anyone was gonna be chasing him down. If it hadn’t been for Tyra and the Colette waitress network, he’d have probably spent the night bleeding in some fucking ditch, worse fucked up than he is.
“Dad’s gone,” Tim says.
“Uh huh. Shit. This bit’s in deep.” The water’s running a light pink down Tim’s wrists.
“I kicked him out, Billy. I don’t think he’s comin’ back.” Times like this Billy wishes he was a better big brother instead of a replacement parent. Because Tim sounds confused and sad and strong and lonely and Billy does, too.
“I hope he dies in Corpus,” Billy says. He examines a cut on Tim’s forehead and maybe if he actually knew anything about first-aid he’d have been able to tell more than that it looked like it hurt. He's got bags of peas and aspirin but the bruises Tim brings home lately? That pull him down and make him drink more than Billy ever did? Billy's got no fucking idea what to do about those.
He gets Tim bundled up and into bed and then stands outside his closed bedroom. He can hear it. Kid cries like he’s choking. Loud and for longer than Billy thought he had the energy for and then he’s just trying to breathe and Billy can hear him gasping and desperate and in pain. He thinks, I should go in there. Then he realizes he’s crying, too, and his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles ache and he feels useless, and like he’s not supposed to be there, and Tim doesn’t expect him to be anyway.
*
First time they give him Tim, Billy wants to give him back. He's small and squishy and not cleaned off great, and Mom's looking at them both like she's about to cry, and Billy kinda wishes Dad would take the baby back to make her stop. "That's your little brother," she smiles real sweet and reaches out towards them. Billy takes a step back, but the painkillers make her mellow, and she just lies back down.
Tim, he doesn't wake up or cry or smile or anything like that when Billy moves. "Is he okay?" Billy asks. "He ain't moving."
Walt looks over at Tim and rests a heavy hand on Billy's shoulder. "He's fine. You're gonna be a great big brother. Gonna take real good care of him." Billy looks down at the tiny, helpless thing in his arms and thinks no, I'm not. That's your job. He sits down in one of the uncomfortable orange chairs and holds Tim a bit tighter.
Feedback and constructive criticism are valued and welcomed!