Disclaimer: For the love of Tim Riggins, none of it is mine.

Summary: They're sitting side by side on the sofa both wearing identical grins and backwards caps.

Notes: My initial foray into the land of FNL fic. Be gentle, please. Also please forgive the fluff. It'll never happen again.

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01. Curse Your Fate

They're sitting side by side on the sofa both wearing identical grins and backwards caps, enthralled by the television. Tim's watching football and Michael is all ears, pointing at the TV, mimicking his daddy.

You're sitting in the kitchen thumbing through Cosmo, watching your boys, almost thankful of Tim's recent injury. By no means are you happy that he's hurt. No. Of course you're not. But he's home with you and Michael where he should be.

Tim scoffs at the TV yelling at a bad call. "Dammit, Ref, pull your head out of your ass and pay attention to the fucking game." He pauses, muttering breathlessly, "Moron."

"Tim," you warn. Michael is just learning to talk and the last thing you need (or want) is for him to start mimicking his father's potty mouth. It'd be a waste on a brand new generation of Riggins.

He glances over at you, eyebrows raised. "Like you don't curse around him."

"But when I do, I remember to cover his ears," you quickly remind him, sticking your tongue out tauntingly.

Tim frowns at you then spins around back to the television. You hear him muttering along with the sports announcers but you're too busy reading to pay attention to whatever he's bitching about.

A few moments later as you turn the page, you listen intently to Tim and what he's saying and realize that Tim's not talking to the TV, but to Michael. Every few seconds Michael adds his two cents (albeit in gibberish) and you only wish you knew what he was saying. Tim balks, "I hear ya buddy," like he knows what the munchkin is saying. And maybe he does.

You leave the boys to their bonding and turn the page to… Ooh! Makeup coupons! Score!

"SCORE!" Tim jumps up with glee as Michael stands up and begins jumping on the sofa. He catches your glare and scoops Michael into his arms, telling him, "You're not supposed to jump on the sofa when Mama's home, Mikey."

After he's settled back on the sofa, Tim looks at you, a smirk playing on his lips. It was that damn smirk that had won you over more times than you could count. You laugh when Michael stands up and flashes you that very same smirk. Ah like father, like son. It's a little heartbreaking.

Tim hears the whistle and the commotion going on onscreen and nearly gives himself whiplash as he turns back to see what's happened. And it's bad. So bad. You count the seconds until the word leaves Tim's mouth: "Fuck!"

And just like you knew he would, Michael tries to repeat and what comes out is, "Puck!"

You glare at Tim, shaking your head as he sighs. "I guess I should've covered his ears, huh?"