Title: "A Pillar of Salt"
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing:Lyla, Tim
Spoiler: "May the Best Man Win"
Length: one-shot
Summary: Lyla learns God did create sin so she might know his mercy.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs
Author's Note:This is the first FNL fic I've written in over a year so please be gentle. Work and life have all come together to create a clusterfuck of writer's block, and I think I finally passed over the hurdle. This fic takes place somewhere down the line when Lyla is forced to finally open her eyes. Title courtesy of The Thermals. Quote courtesy of Arcade Fire.
"The headlights look like diamonds
The taillights burn like coal
Tell me how this story ends
Before the fires go cold"
There's a passage in Lyla's Bible, earmarked and faded, torn at the edges from the long afternoons and nights and lunch periods she's spent thumbing through it, searching for a salvation she can't find in life.
Her church gives her peace, serenity, and some days, when she lets it, atonement for the sins she's committed in her waking life. She bows her head, brow pressed hard and tight against the cool oak, and begs God to bear the weight for her, erase the feel of Tim's fingers on her hip and his breath catching in her hair and the look in his eyes that time she sank around him and he looked as if he'd died and gone to heaven.
She wants to know heaven some day; she wants to be forgiven; she wants Jason to look at her without a hint of disgust, regret, pain staring back at her through the blue of his eyes.
She lets the sermon fill her, Chris' voice ringing loud and clear through her ears, and smiles at the promises of salvation slipping from his lips.
She prays harder, longer, sleeps with her Bible pressed tight against her heart. She hopes that some day, she can forgive herself the way her God has already forgiven her.
--
Tim shows up at her church, old ladies clinging to his arm and young girls hanging onto his every word, and it no longer feels safe or secure; it no longer feels like escape.
She tries to ignore him, focus on what's good in her life (her family, her boyfriend, her god), but she can't quite ignore the way his long fingers creep across the worn spine of his Bible, or help herself from remembering the way those fingers cradled her face in his kitchen and helped her escape.
The next Sunday, she volunteers for the choir and wears a long black robe like the other twenty-three singers. She likes how she blends in, how the black polyester unites all the sinners and saints sharing the stage. At church, she's just a girl trying to find a bit of peace; she isn't the girl who slept with her paralyzed boyfriend's best friend. She likes the anonymity, she likes how she's like everyone else.
There's a guest-preacher today and he's talking about temptation and sin and Eve's fall from grace. She closes her eyes and her ears and blots it all out, because she knows too well what it's like to take one bite and lose everything.
When it's her time to shine, she lets the songs flow from her heart, and keeps her chin tilted towards the sky, towards heaven.
She won't look at Tim; she doesn't need to see him to be reminded of her own fall.
--
When it's her turn to lead study group during lunch the following week, she goes back to the beginning, to Genesis where it all started. She feels a kinship with Lot's wife, a woman who so desperately wanted to be saved but couldn't resist one last look at what used to be.
Her voice is steady, calm as it glides over the words, her studymates' heads bobbing in time to the even rhythm of her speech, and over Andrea March's head she sees Tim standing in back, Matt and that Lance kid flocking behind him.
He isn't looking at her but she can't tear her eyes away from him, can't seem to stop tracing the long line of his back through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, or the way his hair (too long, it's always too long) scrapes his frayed collar, or the way his muscles bunch as he shifts his backpack over his shoulder.
She forces her eyes back to her reading, regains her flow, vows to be the girl she wants to be.
She keeps reading, fingers gripping the flags poking through the edges of her Bible, but she can't resist looking up one more time.
He's gone.
She trips on her words and loses her place, and it's only because Andrea's a better girl than she is that the study session continues without missing a beat.
Andrea picks up the reading, and Lyla thinks of Lot's wife, frozen in place for eternity. Her own eyes remain fixed on the spot where Tim used to be.
She knows what's it's like to regret.
--
Jason gets a random girl pregnant and his life continues as if he never lost his ability to walk.
His eyes light up when he talks about the baby, about his plans for the future and the life he wants to carve out with Erin (she tries to hate the girl but she can't after she first meets her and sees how terrified she is), and she tries to be supportive. She tries to be a better friend than she was a girlfriend, and most of the time she succeeds. She helps him paint the apartment and helps Erin move in her stuff and dances around the elephant in the room when Tim shows up to move furniture and she's so close to him that they're breathing the same air.
One night she sits with Jason on the balcony and they drink beer and he takes her hand in his, like old times, like they're slumped in lawn chairs in Bradley's backyard and Tim is preaching about "Texas Forever" and the night is young and full of promise and she felt like nothing could hold them back from the dream they'd shared ten years strong.
"I'm happy, Lyla" he tells her, thumb stroking a steady pattern across the back of her hand. "I'm really happy. This isn't how I planned things to go, but if I learned anything from being in this chair, it's that life rarely goes as planned."
She tries to smile, tries to agree, but all she can see is Tim assembling the crib and Tim putting together the changing table and she's at Jason's apartment, talking about Jason's life, and Tim still fills every nook and cranny of hers. "Then I'm happy for you," she manages to say and she thinks she means it, even if she's jealous that she can't have it for herself. After all that's happened, she only wants him to find some peace in his life, even if she can't find any in hers.
"I want you to be happy too," he says and his hand stills around hers, and his fingers turn to grips hers tight. "I forgive you, Lyla. You know that, right?"
She turns away because she can't bear the look in this blue eyes, open and honest and full of forgiveness. Truth is, she knows he forgave her a long time ago, even before he tried to make her his wife, even before Mexico, even before he went into the water and emerged someone new (even though she went into the water and emerged the same). Truth is, she just can't forgive herself.
He can't get on his knees before her any longer, but he can still cradle her face between his fingers and kiss her, just a brief brush his lips over hers that feels familiar and strange all at the same time. "It's over, Lyla," he says. "It's time to let go."
That night she dreams of Mexico, but the story has a different ending. She's the one to jump, to sink, to climb from the waves someone fresh and clean and new.
--
She applies to UCLA and USC and gets into both. She chooses UCLA because it costs less and is closer to the beach and because no one from Dillon will ever trade in Texas' dusty plains for California's sand.
--
Graduation happens and Dillon is (almost) no longer her home. Her mother buys her a necklace and her brother and sister chip in for a gift certificate to Bed, Bath, & Beyond, and her father gives her a framed poem. He's taken to coming to church with her and he stands during the sermons, hands raised and fingers grasping towards the sky (heaven) praying for the same forgiveness she awaits with bated breath.
He tells her it's a token of his gratitude for standing by him (she doesn't remind him that they had to stick together, the two Garritysthat fell from grace), and hopes it will give her comfort when she's away from home and needs a lifeline to cling to.
She reads "Footprints in the Sand" and it makes her think, ponder, her own relationship with her god. Her mind wanders over the most difficult moments of her life, the times she had nothing and no one, and she remembers that day when she was her lowest and Tim appeared on her doorstep, water clinging to his (too long) hair, and she remembers all the times he picked her up and put her back together again.
She knows what she has to do.
--
When she goes to church that Sunday, Chris smiles at her from the dais but his words slip in one ear and out the other. They've cycled back to Genesis, where it all began, and she's barely listening as the pastor drones on about Noah and the flood and the world starting over again.
She leaves early, before the choir sings, before the pastor even finishes the sermon. She hasn't given up, but she doesn't need this anymore. God forgave her long ago; she thinks she's ready to forgive herself.
--
When she knocks on his door Billy is the one to open it, bleary-eyed and scratching the stubble on his cheeks, and looking pissed off that someone (even Lyla Garrity) has interrupted his one morning to sleep in.
"Is Tim here?" she asks, her voice higher and thinner than usual, and feels the heat rise in her cheeks as Billy meets her question with a knowing smirk.
"Yeah, he's here," Billy answers and hollers at his brother to get off his lazy ass and greet his guest.
Tim pads to the door in pair of sweatpants that hang low (too low) on his hips, and a UCLA t-shirt that's too bright and stiff to be anything but brand new. They stare at each other in awkward silence before she goes first, because she has to go first, because she's the one who landed on his doorstep with all the questions that only he can answer.
"Nice shirt," she says and it breaks the silence enough to force one of those slow smiles across his beautiful face.
He shrugs, muscles bunching under the thin cotton of the t-shirt. "I figured it was time for a change." She nods, and the silence creeps in between them, forcing them apart. "Why aren't you at church, Lyla?" he finally asks and she's grateful he's the one asking the questions now because she wants to answer him.
Her words catch in her throat when she tries to explain, so she chooses to show him instead. She takes a breath, a deep breath to gather her courage, and closes her eyes as her fingers curl around the hem of her sundress and drag up the line of her body to pull it over her head. Tim's eyes widen as the dress falls to pool in a gauzy puddle at their feet, and she's standing before him nothing more than a fragile bra and panties.
His own breathing is hard, labored, and she knows he's as nervous as she feels. It gives her courage, courage those long months of bowing her head and praying for salvation never gave her. "I think…" she starts, fingers trembling on the clasp of her bra. "I think, today, I want to worship your god," she whispers and the bra falls to the floor beside her dress. "Can you show me how?"
He doesn't say a word, just takes her by the hand and leads her down the hall to his bedroom. It's cramped and tiny, but it's clean and for the first time she's seen it, and there isn't a trail of beer cans leading from the door to his bed. There isn't a container of booze in sight. She pauses in the doorway, eyes locking on the messy bed with the covers thrown back to the foot, and her fingers grip the doorjamb for support. He presses a hand to the small of her back, just to hold her up, and she shudders against his skin touching hers.
He looks scared as he turns her to face him, an inch of space separating them. "We don't have to do this, Lyla," he says and his breath blows strands of dark hair off her face. "You turn can still turn around and go on to church and we'll pretend none of this ever happened."
She doesn't want to say the wrong thing, ruin this moment that's all wrong but never felt more right. Instead, she leans against him so he can feel hot, bare skin through the thin cotton of his t-shirt (her t-shirt), and presses a slow kiss to his jaw. "I want this," she whispers and turns to face him, so she's looking right into his eyes, so he sees everything she's putting on the table. "This is what I want," she says and tangles her fingers through his hair to draw his mouth down to hers. "This is all I want," she breathes against his mouth and he parts his lips.
She opens up and lets him in.
--
She goes back to church, because she's Lyla Garrity and she's not a quitter (thanks to Tim Riggins), but she doesn't need Chris or a visiting preacher or even the Bible to tell her she's forgiven.
Tim holds Jason's son as the pastor dribbles a few drops of water across his brow, and she grins at the happy parents from her seat in the congregation. Erin even smiles back.
She doesn't tilt her chin towards the sky during the closing hymn; she already knows there's a spot waiting for her.
--
Tim offers to drive her up to UCLA and she agrees. He helps her pack her things, talks about how much he likes the beach, tells her he thinks he'll take up surfing.
She says nothing because she doesn't have to; she could be gone four years, a decade, a lifetime, and she knows he'll still be waiting for her.
It takes his truck a few tries to start, and it lumbers down her driveway, weighed down with eighteen years of memories as she drives away from everything she's ever known.
She smiles as the truck turns onto the highway and the signs light up big and green before her. Tears slide down her cheeks, salt freezing on her skin, and Tim takes her hand in his and holds on tight.
She doesn't look back.
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