Expectations

by simba317

ONESHOT. Expectations. Lyla Garrity had them of Tim Riggins. Tim breaks down Lyla's walls. A bit of a follow through on Tormented.

Disclaimer: Dear Jason Katims, since I don't own Tim Riggins and Tyla…can you give them to me for Christmas?

Author's Notes: I guess you can say this is the companion piece to Tormented and really takes the background of Tim and Lyla into consideration, the fieldtrip stuff is canon. I didn't expect to handle Tim's history in the middle there, but I just sort of explored an organic thread and got lead there. This fic deals with the events after and around Leave No One Behind and May the Best Man Win. And technically this has been sitting on my laptop since October. I'm sorry for that! But I didn't do my last edit…and I wanted to keep writing…because the ending didn't feel right when I first wrote it…but now it does lol.

&

Expectations. Lyla Garrity had them of him.

And it's the reason he finds himself hauling Matt Saracen out of the bar to go to football practice, even if he knows that Seven is in no shape to do so. Not every man can play two shits to the wind like he can and Garrity never found that impressive anyway.

Damn you, Garrity, for thinking more of me…

He doesn't know why he's doing this. He knows he's already made a fool of himself going up to their table and it wouldn't matter to Chris or to him if he stayed and continued cutting class. But then it would prove Garrity right and there was still the whole damned thing with her expectations to take into account.

Plus, he really couldn't afford to miss practice.

He sees her watching practice and he makes sure to hit that much harder. She tells him drinking is disgusting and gross and the next thing you know, he's quit drinking cold turkey. He's out running and working out and the next game, he gets the most touchdowns, singlehandedly winning the game and thus the game ball.

Of course, she asks him to help Santiago with Football and he declined, Garrity Crusade FAIL…until he actually helps the kid get onto the team…

Sometimes he wonders who he really is, Tim Riggins douchebag, as Tyra likes to call him, or Tim Riggins douchebag go getter. How the hell did Lyla attach 'go getter' to the end of there anyway?

He doesn't even know why he makes the effort. It's not like purging himself of self destruction would win her. Not anymore. Chris makes her 'happy'. Or so she says…He just doesn't get it.

Chris takes her to do lame mini golfing, that kitschy 50s ice cream parlour, the daily lunch at their little establishment, meeting his big haired, bible thumping, self righteous family at their freaking ranch. It's all too much, so cutesy and here's your two-point-five kids, nice car, big house, dog and the white picket fence. And then there's little Johnny star quarterback, gonna get a Notre Dame Football scholarship! Our Katie girl, isn't she gonna be a wonderful little homemaker? Gosh, that Annie, such a brilliant mind.

He rolls his eyes at it all.

Oh yeah, that's right, he knows where precious Christenson lives. That one town over from Dillon in a housing monstrosity of a home. He graduated from high school last year and is going to some lame local Jesuit college in order to submerse himself in his church community work, so he can go on a mission before hitting university and spread the word of that man that never dies, Jesus Christ.

He could so take that little bitch down. That yuppie hair? Done.

Matt utters what he's been thinking for weeks with a drunken slur and psychotic smile, barely able to stand.

Stalking really is pathetic. Damn, quoting the Saracen.

And just what were those candles anyway?

Besides, Lyla would be all up in arms if he and Christenson settled things old school, mano a mano.

Whoever thought they'd see Saracen acting like mini-Riggs? He smiles. It's kinda pathetic, but he's been there, he gets it and at least Seven's got a drinking buddy, right?

He swears Coach is glaring at him all practice.

Soon enough, it's another Monday morning, week of the last regular season game before Playoffs and another shot at State and another ring to stuff in his drawer. One more game without Smash and it probably won't be a Pass-to-Landry, the second stringer's-shoelace-gets-a-touchdown game.

"She's got a smile, that it seems to me…reminds me of childhood memories, where everything was a fresh as the bring blue sky…"

Thank you, Axl screechin' Rose!

Tim groans, peeking out from the sheets.

"Now and then, when I see her face, she takes me away to that special place…and if I stared too long, I'd probably break down and cry…

His hand darts out and a fist pounds that alarm clock off.

And goodbye Axl Rose.

He snuggles further into the cocoon of blankets.

Monday…oh wonderful Monday. Day of the two a days. Joy.

It's fucking dark out. By force of will, Tim stumbles out of bed and drags his feet to the bathroom where he does his business, rinses the sleep out of his eyes and haphazardly brushes his teeth. He doesn't bother with a shower.

As he makes it into the kitchen, the clock on the microwave flashes 6:07 in bright glowing red numbers. It makes his eyes hurt in the absence of light in the room. He flicks on the light and scratches his chest, before making that morning jolt of caffeine to his system. He definitely needs it today, but he's gonna start off with that Gatorade. One needs the electrolytes. He needs them badly. Pulling the bright blue concoction out of the fridge, he chugs it down, wincing at the rancid aftertaste due to the toothpaste from brushing his teeth.

He notices Billy's set out the bread and plugged in the toaster for him. It causes him to smirk and shake his head. His brother can be such a mother hen.

After he scarfs down a huge helping of toast and tries not to burn himself with the coffee, he pulls quickly throws on a pair of jeans, an old black tee shirt and a navy coloured sweatshirt from Panther Athletics, pulls on his cowboy boots, picks up his gym bag and he's out the door at 6:30 in his beat up black truck with the radio blaring Back in the Saddle by Aerosmith.

He vaguely recalls an uncle telling him about the first Texxas Jam. Of course, this was when the Riggins family was messed up, but still able to visit relatives. Those visits usually ended with a lot of yelling, slammed doors and trucks backing over garden gnomes, if they'd had them anyway. He did have Billy's old bike though.

He had to stop riding over to Jay's that summer. It wasn't like they did much anyway, except watch the varsity team start practices through the hole in the chain link fence…well, they did mischievous things and normal kid things too…and dream about being those guys who were twice their height and four times their weight it seemed.

Even then, Six was getting the praise and the attention and he was just that kid no one wanted to deal with and got into a higher level of football because the kids his age were too scared and pussyshit to play with him. So the coaches bumped him up and he bumped Jay into the dirt and Jay decided he didn't like that and threw one at him, so he threw one back and then they were arms, legs and fisticuffs. And after that they were doing suicides until their lungs burst. When they collapsed on the yellowish grass, Six told him he was Jason Street and he said he was Tim Riggins and that was that.

Two summers of riding bikes into all sorts of trouble, but mostly football, later, it's a summer where he's stuck at home serving midday drinks to his absentee mother, because the stupid bike is now ready made art, it looks like a giraffe. If you stand about 10 feet away, tilt your head and squint, anyway. Dad's probably drinking his way through shift and Billy's off turning the unclaimed female populace of Dillon High School into proper full service Rally Girls.

It's a shitty summer. Mom and dad had that fight with smashed bottles and extra punches. Mom hid out in her room for a few hours sucking down bourbon before emerging looking her best, dressed head to toe in ravishing red. She had looked gorgeous. Her long brown hair, the colour of Billy's had been immaculately curled, her full lips were blood red, but her hazel green eyes like Tim's had held a malice and vengeance.

Tim would always remember how she last looked. It was an image burned into his memory, particularly the look in her eyes. The woman who had once read him stories about Huckle Cat really was long dead. It was the moment she had truly died for Tim.

Throwing that empty bottle at dad's head, she gave him a nice head wound. After his insults about her being a slut, she's out the door and her car's gone. Officer Clarke finds the car on that bridge over the cliff like ravine that's cut by the fast running river. After a week, they pull her body out of the river.

Suicide. She leaves no note, nothing's left behind, but the coroner's office calls it a suicide, because no one sees her at any bar or such establishment that night, her wedding ring was left in the cup holder of the car and she had taken all of dad's money out of his bank accounts, taking it into the river with her body. Spite. The crowning glory was the revolver in her hand that blew a hole into the back of her head through her moth. She left a nice looking corpse.

It's the suicide everyone and no one talked about.

Lyla formally met Jay that summer when they snuck over to see how he was doing. They ended up finding a small lake in the wilds past Tim's house. It's the first night he gets drunk.

Lyla held his hand while the priest read the rites for his mother, even if it was a suicide. He supposes it's out of pity. Everyone has pity for the Riggins family, no one does anything. Jay sends him nervous looks every time the priest pauses in his rites.

He doesn't know how the two of them crept out here for the funeral, but he's grateful, even if he doesn't say anything.

Billy crossed his arms, his eyes red and shoots Dad looks of anger and rage. Dad's just numb to everything and keeps fingering his hipflask.

Billy spends the rest of that summer off somewhere; he streaked out of Dillon, completely splitting. The first postcard says he's golfing in some tournament in Georgia. Dad doesn't really come home either. Mostly, he spent the summer just watching TV and leaving the house dark and festering.

Jay and Lyla come by everyday and dragged him out of the house. He lets them talk around him and just letting his thoughts ruminate. Their voices become a nice distraction when they walk two paces ahead of him and he follows with his head down, hair flapping into his eyes, hands bunched into his pockets and they look back, nervously, every two seconds to make sure he's still there, their conversations chokingly cheerful and false in front of his dark cloud.

By that Fall, the two of them are close. Close from trying to fix Tim Riggins. He's sort of numb to everything and doesn't remember much about that year. He starts to feel a bit like the third wheel, but he doesn't do anything because he just doesn't care and she's better off with Jay instead of Damaged Goods Tim who just doesn't talk anymore. He's happy to just let it happen.

It's like there's a prison that surrounds his world and no one can get in. He stops talking to Lyla. He knows it hurts her. They've talked all their lives, even if no one got it. Even in preschool, if you wanted Tim to do something, you had to get Lyla to ask him to do it. In turn, Tim listened as Lyla talked. He knew her dreams, her fears, her problems, her life, her family. He knew Lyla.

Lyla talked to him because he was just Tim and he listened and had no expectations of her to be anything but Lyla. She didn't have to be the super big sister that looked after her younger siblings. She didn't have to be the perfect daughter. She didn't have to be the top student of her class like her mom. She didn't have to be the star cheerleader to make her dad proud. The perfect girlfriend and perfect Christian came later.

After awhile dad stops coming home and somewhere along the line, Tim realizes it's been two months since he last saw him and Billy finally comes home that year to find him crashing at Jay's because Mrs. Street begins to see him buying groceries no 12 year old has business buying.

Mrs. Street eventually found out, in confidence, from Jason that Tim hasn't come to school with lunch for weeks and that's why he asked her for more food, not because he was a growing boy. Apparently, Lyla had been sneaking him food as well.

She's so relieved when Billy comes back, frantic at her door, having searched the entire town for his baby brother, upon coming home to an empty unlived house. They need each other and Billy's always tried to look out for him.

What Billy finds is a brother who's gotten extremely insular and quiet and it unsettles him and he doesn't know how to fix it, because he can't bring mom and dad back and he isn't sure that they were better off with them around. He's holding it in and Billy can only do his best.

Tim starts to put people into the ground instead, on and off the field.

It's the summer after he's left alone with Billy that he joins Jay, playing for the junior high team with Coach Taylor coaching and he finally starts being the Riggs that's mischievous and jokes around again. Still, behind the layer of fun loving and naughtiness, something dark resides within him and never leaves.

In November two years later, he catches a beautiful butterfly that survived the autumn chill, in a creek he visited long ago with her. Somehow he takes it home, fluttering in his hands and places it into a clear jar. He leaves it on the Garrity's front porch the next morning, with instructions telling her to let it go. Then, he speeds past the house on the bike Jason gave him because his dad got him a new ten speed.

He comes back that night to find the note gone, but the butterfly still encased.

Two nights later, the jar is empty.

When he goes up to collect that jar, he notices drops on the wooden panel closest to the jar and it's a dry cold night.

Two years later, Jason breaks his spine and he starts sleeping with his paralyzed best friend's girlfriend that he's always loved. He realizes that later on, of course. Tyra tells him. It's probably the only time, he made her absolutely speechless.

One morning, before she ends whatever they have for good, when she thinks he's sleeping in the pale morning light, she swept the bangs from his forehead, kisses his cheek and whispers, with the sunlight as the only witness, "I still miss you." It's so quiet, he almost thinks he didn't hear it.

Dillon is barely stirring. He drives with the windows open stirring a stagnant breeze into the cab. The town still asleep, it's almost crypt like. Dillon's claimed its fair share of souls, damning them to the unchanging soil, desperate land and dead grass. Beyond that, it's the faint shells of buildings that line the cracked streets. You could get buried here. The ghosts creep around the corners and haunt every action of the living.

He's compelled to stop. He finds himself at a 24 hour convenience store. The florescent glow of the lights seem to mock him. Undaunted, but self conscious, he pulls the keys out of the ignition and steps out of the vehicle, lumbering inside the store.

The clerk at the front is a pale zombie who barely looks at him when he walks by, much more interested in some magazine. He's one of those ghostly vestiges that Dillon leaves behind, a failure it tries to brush under the rug, with long hair, tattoos and piercings that are fit for Landry's dream band.

He's doing it again, he realizes. Flower aisle. Margie always stocked the freshest flowers here. They're her pride and joy. Her granddaughter went after him junior year and that's how he found out. It's the best kept secret in Dillon. Of course, he's always known, but he's never felt the compulsion to find out if that were really true on any girl he's ever been with, except her.

He's only ever bought flowers for Garrity.

It's because she's the only one that's really mattered. Somehow, she's always been the one he compared all the other girls he'd ever been with. She was the standard, even before they suddenly became intimate. Of course, after that, every girl just became 'not Lyla' and things became a lot more difficult.

It didn't matter how much he could drink their faces away and become numb, he always knew it wasn't Lyla and his heart was eaten way a little each time. He couldn't forget her.

He wonders if she forgets him.

She told him that she'd never go to his home again, but she doesn't know that she's probably the only thing that's ever made him feel like home was real and not just some fake construct. She doesn't know that when he ran away from Billy and Jackie that he'd just drive to her house and sit under her window for hours. He felt pathetic, but he also felt comforted by her presence.

He also did it before Billy and Jackie happened, but he's come by more now and doesn't break his rules anymore. His misread and failed kiss taught him that lesson.

He's a glutton for punishment.

No one ever expected Tim Riggins to be so caught up over one girl. It's probably karma. What's that saying? Right. Karma's a bitch. A total bitch.

Is this even real? Neanderthal Riggins is actually getting flowers. He'll probably blunder this. Is it any wonder?

He sighs and picks them up anyway. White lilies with delicate purple spots on the centres of the petals, like stars, she once said. Her favourite.

They had first found some in a house on the edges of a slow, shallow river, years ago during a long lazy summer, exploring the crevasses and hidden secrets of Dillon. Lyla thought they were beautiful the moment she laid eyes on them. They were the earthly representation of the stars she wanted to grasp so badly. He had a faint scar on his hand from where the fence had caught it. It was a slight misadventure. He'd plucked one of the blooms in the garden, after gallantly climbing over the fence, only to be chased by a large, over protective Doberman pinscher with a sharp, intimidating set of teeth. In the pursuit, he ended up scraping his hand at the top of the fence, forever scarring it.

However, the lily had remained safe. He tucked it into her hair while she fussed over his injury.

Fingering the faded mark, he thinks about how she absolutely entwines everything in his world. God, it's a curse, or God's just a sick bastard. Still, he wouldn't take things differently. He's masochistic like that. A masochist or a fool.

The cashier barely bats an eye at him. So much for his musings.

When he finally arrives at Dillon High School, the sky is just starting to lighten ever so slightly. All there is to be seen is about 45 kids starting to file into the quiet, dead school and the flare of headlights against the walls of the old school.

It's always strange to be in the school so early. None of the lights are on, there's no one milling about, no janitorial staff, no noise, no life, just quiet and darkness. Dillon High School becomes a sort of grave, entombing memories and achievements of those long gone. He kind of likes it that way though. The establishment becomes peaceful and pressureless.

His body casts a long scraggly shadow across the walls as he stalks down the deserted corridor with the pearlescent lilies in hand. He's taking a different route today and there are no other football players here to greet tiredly.

Finding the nondescript locker easily, he tucks the blooms lightly into the crook of his arm as he spins the dial on the combination lock with practiced ease. He'd stolen her locker combination from the Athletic Department a few weeks ago and memorized it. It was easy enough to break into Coach Taylor's office while he was off on one of his rounds as Athletic Coordinator and sift through the binder with all the combinations for the locks in the school. One of the things the Athletic Department handled throughout the school was lockers. All you had to do was match the serial numbers on the bottom of the locks. Easy as pie.

Tim smirks at his success as he pulls down on the lock that opens with a loud snap in the quiet hallway. The inside of that locker? Very Garrity. Stickers, both cute and quirky with animals and snappy sayings, a mini-calendar, mirror, white board, magnets, a small poster of The Nightmare Before Christmas, a few pictures, attached themselves to the wall.

Pictures…some girlfriends, her family, mom, dad, younger siblings…and a picture Billy took of the three of them, Jason, Lyla and Tim, ages 15 and 13, the summer after Laurel Riggins took her life, getting into trouble on a barge on their river. Things were simple then. Not like now. Or maybe it never was…

Snapping out of his thoughts, he arranges the flowers onto the top shelf at eye level. It'll be the first thing she sees.

He smirks.

This will be FUN. She'll never expect this.

Practice is a blur, it's run on adrenalin, lack of sleep and no coffee. It's difficult too, trying to pay attention to Coach at 7:00am in the AV room, going over plays, problems and the other teams before suiting up for a gruelling hour and a half practice, stretching, running around, taking hits, doing drills, running through plays and having Coach yell constantly. He enjoys it though; it's a thrill and half, the precipice, the edge and the fall. Then, it's first period, which the football team typically took for weight training and then showers, before having to go through another regular day at school.

With his hair still damp, he rounds the corner, seeing Garrity entering the school for the first time that day. He accessed her schedule from the Coach's computer too. She had first periods free on Mondays.

He hides himself behind the row of lockers as she greets some of her friends and makes a few plans. She looks beautiful and radiant as always. Chocolate hair bouncing on her shoulders, cute tee shirt with a gathered bodice and empire waist, a pair of worn jeans, her favourite cowboy boots, an air of confidence and easy smile…well, maybe not so easy to hold, but still easy on the eyes.

She leisurely opens up her locker, while humming a tune. Upon, propping open the door, she lets out an excited gasp, a wide smile lighting up her face. She picks up the flowers and brings them up to her face to inhale the sweet scent. Looking around, she scans the hallway for anyone who may have gifted her with the gorgeous blossoms.

Tim just smiles. Phase One complete.

He leaves his hiding spot and approaches a euphoric Lyla. Upon seeing his approach, she becomes guarded. He hates that.

"Nice flowers, Garrity. Got a secret admirer?" he teases.

"No…they're from…" she starts, keeping her expired smile on her face, and checking for a card of some sort, "…Strange…yeah….umm…They're from Chris."

"Sure about that?" he presses, raising an eyebrow.

"Mmhmm. Positive," she intones, her voice sharp, with a stiff nod.

"How is Christenson?" he asks with semi-polite interest.

"I've gotta go to Chem…" she says and upon quickly locking up her flowers and the rest of her things, she leaves him standing by her locker, while she hurries to her class.

She spares him a nervous glance from her shoulder at the end of the corridor.

He gives her a shit eating grin and waves.

She rolls her eyes.

His smile widens.

Later that afternoon in the fast waning light, he leans against a worn picnic table, near the back quad by the parking lot. Watching the teenagers file out of the school like a flood never fails to amuse him. It's a rush of hello goodbye. People exchange quick words and exit, done for the day. The entrance to the car park is plugged by the heavy contingent of cars trying to flee. Traffic slows to a crawl. Busses attempt to pull out of their stops to long waits, as selfish drivers fail to yield. Some of the teens hop rides, overstuffed vehicles aren't uncommon. Bikes recklessly dart out onto traffic, along with a few daredevils on motorcycles. Very few can be seen walking to their homes nearby Dillon High School.

At long last, he sees her walking along the long roofed pathway that serves as an exit to the school. Her heavy book bag is slung on one shoulder, while the flowers are clutched closely to her chest in the other hand. He can tell that she cherishes them. When she spots Chris of the Great Hair, a smile lights her face.

He always picks her up from school on Mondays so they can do their Cult of Christianity thing and be all nice and great and good and...Christian. It was all very holier than thou. He smirks at that notion and the play on words. It was almost too cutesy the two of them, almost unreal.

He's excited for what he's about to see. Bring on the popcorn.

When they meet at the end of the roofed pathway, they start to talk. He can't make out what they're saying, but it's almost too predictable. Seriously, he rolls his eyes and begins his commentary on the two of them.

"Oh Lyla, you look radiant!"

"Thanks, Chris! It's so great to see you and your wonderful hair!"

"You too. I've missed you since we were last making out this morning in the radio booth!"

"Aww, Chris…How was your day? Were you being all great and Christian?"

"Of course! I was soo good I practically parted the Red Sea! How Christian is that?"

"Oh my God. Are you…are you mocking them?" asked a voice to his left.

And there stood Landry Clark, with an amused smile and a quizzical expression on his face.

"What does it look like I'm doin', Eight Five?" he groused.

"Now that's just mean," he said shaking his head, a slight smile on his lips.

Tim sent him a deadpan look.

Landry raised his arms in a meaning no harm gesture, "Of course you are Tim Riggins…"

"No shit, Clark," he said, turning his attention back to Chris and Lyla.

Landry's head whipped to focus on what Tim was watching with close interest.

"You know…this here," Landry made a hand gesture towards Tim, "that's just pathetic…and sad. So very sad."

"So I've been told," he replied testily.

"Oh wow! He got her flowers, now that's just very Christian!" he teased.

"No," replied Tim.

Landry put his arm around Tim's shoulder. Tim glared, but Landry continued, unfazed, "Tim, since you were dropped on the head as a small child, let me enlighten you on one of the key proponents of Christianity. It's called charity. Wait…you don't know that word. It's called being nice. By giving her flowers, Chris essentially-"

"Shut up, Clark," said Tim, escaping Landry's grasp.

"I don't mean that…Christenson didn't get Lyla the flowers,"

"Dear God, are you in denial?" said Landry spastically. Tim rolled his eyes.

"You're in denial! I would've expected you, of all people, to understand this. When a boy likes a girl, boy gives girl flowers and since girl is displaying the flowers to boy, boy got them for her and she's thanking him…"

Lyla's smile had suddenly disappeared, replaced with a frown, her brow furrowed. She looked confused. Chris looks apologetic. Tim grins.

Then, the confusion disappears to be replaced by a look of cold fury.

"…Unless they're bad flowers. Daffodils. I guess she's got a cat, they kill cats," Landry rambles.

Lyla's wrathful eyes begin to scan the quad.

"They're not daffodils," drawls Tim lazily.

Upon spotting Tim's face, Lyla's eyes narrow. He smirks, tilts his head slightly, acknowledging her glare.

Poor Christenson now looks confused, as Lyla says something to him.

And then she's storming towards him, a force of nature. He loves the passion and vibrancy in her eyes at that moment. It's so alive and real. A spark.

When she's three feet away from him, she hurls the lilies at his feet. They land with a sharp swack. She spares him a furious glance. Quickly, she spins on her feet, going back to Chris.

"Whoa…" murmurs Landry.

"They're perfectly good flowers, Garrity!" he calls after her.

Her face snaps back at him, livid, "I don't want them!"

Reaching Chris, she swiftly ushers him to his car, avoiding his questions.

Landry laughs, "Now that really is just mean."

Matt joins them, words languidly rolling off his tongue, "What's going on?" He's confused.

"My afternoon entertainment. Thank you so much, Tim, that was pretty classic," Landry laughs.

Matt shakes his head, still confuzzled.

"You gonna pick…those…up…" Matt trails off.

His attention has been diverted to one Julie Taylor as she escapes the campus with her hair flying behind her like a banner of gold.

Tim rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

Picking up the lilies, he throws them into Saracen's hands, "You need these more than I do."

He then stalks off to the locker room. Practice is about to start.

He hears Landry saying, "Those are very nice…"

And Seven responding, "What am I gonna do with these?"

"Hand them to a girl, obviously! Do you need explaining too? I thought you weren't dropped on the head like Tim Riggins…"

The November nights encroach much quicker on Dillon, so by the time he's standing on the Garrity's front lawn it's dark. Grass sinks beneath his feet, a little too long, he supposes it's got something to do with the hippie Lyla's mother is marrying and Buddy no longer able to keep it pristine, there's not really any male presence here.

The afternoon sun had set quickly as he was driving home for a bite to eat and a change of clothes. A faint smell of cologne hung in the air indicating that Billy had left to see some girl. The Riggins men never had trouble in finding a woman, it was getting the ones that stuck they had issues with. Second practice had been more gruelling and painful than the first. They were tests in endurance. Maybe he was morbid, but he always loved it. It was feeling like you were alive.

Even though the grass is less than ideal, the flowers Pam had carefully planted and nurtured were still in pristine condition, fighting off the frost. He could smell their heady sent, heavy in the air, beckoning him. Without further hesitation, he slung his school bag over his shoulder and scaled the wall of the Garrity home with the ease of years long ago. Her bedroom had always been easy enough to get into.

When he was younger, when Billy wasn't home, either out celebrating a win with the Panthers, with a girl or just plain out, he'd sneak off to Lyla's in the dead of night, because there'd be no one to protect him from his parents. His mother raving, ordering, shattering glasses, screaming at him, criticizing, hurting or his father drunk and murderous, abusing his wife, or sometimes he became the target. He couldn't hide in the house or the yard and he didn't like to freeze either, so he snuck to Lyla's.

She always left it open, even in the coldest days of winter. She always put a sleeping bag out, right below the window, each night. Lyla was his friend first, before Jason. He didn't think she ever told Jay about some parts of their childhood together. They were too special, too fragile, too close to your heart to share. He had stopped coming to her around the time when his mother passed him over for good, so he was surprised when years later, after their first night together, he climbed up her house to find that window still open and that same sleeping bag still underneath the window.

Only that night he wasn't in the sleeping bag and he hadn't been in it since before his mother.

He finds it still again when he goes to tell her how he felt in that church with her, but he'd gone through the front door that time. It didn't feel right to climb through her window like a thief when talking about God and Jesus. Besides, Buddy Jr. was a man of commerce like his dad.

The trail up to her room is completed swiftly and soundlessly, her window opens smoothly and he squeezes through it with ease. His foot comes into contact with the sleeping bag on the way down and he can't help but smile. She had always held her end of their friendship open even when he closed his. It's those little things, the little reminders.

Closing the window silently, he takes up residence at her desk, turning on her lamp. He makes himself comfortable. He knows her well. The family should be finishing up supper right now. Pam always ran on a meticulous schedule. Sure enough, he could hear the sounds of the dispersement of the family. The faint sounds of dishes being cleared and the water running to either rinse or wash the dirtier plates, could be heard, preparing those dishes for the dishwasher. Why someone did that was beyond him. It's such a waste of time. Of course, his and Billy's dishes didn't shine quite like Pam's. No one's really.

Shit. He hears feet shuffling across the carpet. They're too clumsy to be Lyla's and too heavy to be her sister. Dammit.

"Lyla?" he hears curiosity in the voice of Buddy Jr and then a louder, "Lyla?" to call downstairs.

A "Yeah," responds.

"You left your light on!" he shouts down.

A pause. He can almost see her brow furrow in curiosity.

"Could ya turn it off please?" she calls back.

"Okay…" replies Buddy Jr. reluctantly.

The door flings open and a look of shock crosses Buddy Jr's face.

To his credit, he doesn't yell.

"What're you doin' up here?" he hisses.

"Lyla said she'd help me study Math," he said nonchalantly as if talking about the weather in passing.

"Right and you decided to play Spider-man?" he asked with preteen attitude, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

"How's your PSP fund?" asks Tim raising an eyebrow, unthreatened.

"What's it to you?" he asks trying to be casual.

Tim smiles wide, digging into his jeans and fetching a wrinkled 20 from its depths before tossing it at Buddy Jr. Unready for the catch, the bill bounces off his chest and onto the floor. Hurriedly, the boy retrieves the bill and without a backwards glance, closes the door behind him.

Not five minutes later, he hears her graceful footfalls pad across the hall to her room. She yells at her brother accusingly for having failed to turn off the lamp, annoyed. He responds with a 'whatever'.

He smiles as the door flings open once more and shock, disbelief and apprehension flash on her eyes. He doesn't move from his position, seated in her chair with his feet crossed over her desk table.

Her shock fades quickly, changing to a flash of anger, "What are you doing here?" she asks through gritted teeth. Her eyes only leave him for a minute to secure the door.

"Got a math final on Thursday, figured you could help me. No pass, no play and Smash got himself suspended. So Lyla, for the good of Dillon, please teach me this math," he said, still smiling.

He could see the anger build in her face, "We both know sure as hell that's not the reason you're here."

"'Hell', Garrity? What would Christensen say?" he teased.

"Shut up. Why are you here?" she bit out the words.

The smile fades from his face and he stands, closing in on her personal space, staring her deep in her eyes, "You know why."

She breaks his gaze, her face, tortured, "Tim…please…I care about you, but you can't…"

Using his hand, he gently brings her gaze back to him, "Just stop lying to me, please…This isn't you."

She shakes her head, breaking from his grasp and it pains him that she makes the distance between them as wide as she can.

Tears begin to mark her cheeks, "Why are you doing this to me?"

He swallows, and then in a harsh whisper, dares her with his eyes, "Because I will never feel this way about anyone else. Because there's nobody else to move on to. Because every moment without you has fucking sucked."

"I can't do this anymore, Tim…I can't. I can't give you what you want." She shakes her head, her body starting to quake.

He can't stand their distance, so he corners her and clasps her arms with his hands, making her face him.

"I love you, Lyla…and it's not gonna go away just because it's inconvenient for you." He's defensive and fighting for this. For them.

"Tim…" She's exasperated. Defeated.

She sees it in her eyes, it's tearing her apart. He searches for the spark, wants to know that it's still there, something, anything. He desperately needs to find it there. Anything, no matter how small. He needs it.

She doesn't reveal it to him tonight.

He feels cold. He lets her go.

"I'll see myself out."

He grabs his things quickly and storms out her door, plodding down the stairs, quickly. He just wants out. He feels breathless.

Downstairs, she can hear the shocked cry of her mother as she sees him and Tim utter a 'Hi, Mrs. Garrity,' before the sounds of the outside are heard as he opens the front door, exiting her house.

"Lyla!" she hears her mother call. She goes and locks her door. She can't deal with this right now.

When he's out her door and on that lawn in front of which he parked his truck, he looks up to her window and sees her watching him, ever the unreachable princess in her tower. He sees the way the tears coat her cheeks, her brow furrowed, the downturn of her mouth. She's anything but happy.

In his heart of hearts, that's all he wants. Her happiness.

He's caught though. Trapped and she's always unattainable.

She's not happy with Christenson and she's not happy with his relentless pursuit either.

He thinks, he dares to hope, that he loves him back. He wonders if he can expect it.

Sometimes he thinks it's stupid, Lyla just cares about people. He's reading into things too much. When she said she still missed him that one morning, it could have been misheard, even if his heart was so sure. He wants it to be real too much. But then she holds his hand, linking his heart to hers and embraces him and he thinks she feels it too. He hopes she does, more than anything.

So what's a man to do?

He doesn't think he could bare to let her go again. He's selfish.

Still, he loves her.

He doesn't want to stop trying, but maybe, if he's lucky, those little connections meant something and she'll come back to him.

He supposes he's got expectations of Lyla Garrity too.

Maybe one day they'll come to fruition.

&

So…that butterfly part made me cry when I was writing it because it was probably the most painful part of that interlude into the past. I'm taking an Anthropology class and basically in Chinese culture, if a woman was unhappy with her marriage way back in Ancient China, she'd dress in red, the colour of marriage from head to toe and go to commit suicide in order to become a ghost to spite her husband. It was the ultimate trump card, since she would be a stronger ghost by committing suicide. I don't know why I decided that Tim's mom committed suicide…but I guess it makes his abandonment issues that much more ingrained. His mom didn't just leave, she totally and completely abandoned him by committing suicide and chose to spite her husband over her child.

Oh and I had no clue this would end up being this long lol.