Title: Traded All My Empties In (Bought Myself A Future)
Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: Drama/Family/Humor/Romance
Ship: Tim/Julie
Rating: Explicit/NC-17 (This is a scrubbed up version, since FFnet doesn't allow explicit material; to find the mature version, find me on AO3 or LJ)
Notes: This was written as a oneshot, but it became so long that I had to break it up into pieces for easier reading. It's finished and I'll be posting regularly.
Word Count: 5,478
Summary: Tim Riggins is celebrating twenty-two years of sobriety; he reflects on his life, the ups and downs, and the family he never thought he'd get.
Traded All My Empties In (Bought Myself A Future)
ii.
Tim was two months into recovery when somebody asked him if he wanted to speak. He was ready to wave it off; he wasn't much of a talker. He wasn't often accused of being a thinker, but that's just what he liked to do in these meetings. He let other people talk, share themselves, and found parts of himself in it, related his life to what they said and took what he could from what they had to share. But then he remembered the topic: fear.
So he shifted in his seat and he sat forward, his elbows on his knees, and he stared at the scuffed floor as he said, "I'm Tim. I'm a... a, uh, an alcoholic." And his lips twitched as they all replied in a chorus of, "Hi Tim."
He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back even though it only fell forward to curtain his face again. "I... I started drinkin' young..." He played with his fingers nervously and cleared his throat. "Took after my dad, my mom, my brother... Just a long line of drinkers..." He swallowed, sitting back, crossing his arms over his stomach, foot tapping anxiously. "First, it was just 'cause everybody else did it... No milk in the fridge, just beer. Whisky, bourbon, vodka; my family had it all... When I was a kid, that was normal... See my mom in the back, smoke in one hand, bourbon in the other..."
He shrugged. "Then I grew up a little, mom took off... Dad did too... All I had was my brother who— Hell, he was just a kid himself, y'know?" His jaw ticked. "He did all right, I guess. It was hard for him, pickin' up after me. And me, I... I guess I picked up where my parents left off. Played football, wasn't bad either, but... When I wasn't on that field, it was hard to find me without a drink..." He smirked sarcastically. "Even on the field, I had my fair share of showin' up drunk or hung over..." He swallowed. "Thing was, I started to figure it out... Wasn't what anybody'd call the sharpest tool in the shed, but I knew where I was headed and it wasn't anywhere nice..." He chanced a look up and saw a few people nodding at him, getting it.
"With fear... I, uh... It was weird." He blew out a sigh. "I guess I was afraid of bein' like my parents, drinkin' my life away, but... I just never stopped." He furled his hands into fists. "Think I was scared... What I'd be like if I did stop... Like maybe, I dunno, maybe screwing up when I was drunk was an excuse. If I sobered up and I was still screwing up then... That was me. Nothing to blame that on, just me bein' me... Not good enough." He reached up, scratching at his chin as his throat tightened.
"I... Fear, it..." He sighed, feeling like he wasn't saying anything right. "Wasn't too afraid of most things... Got real good at not caring about much at all, but... I— I had dreams. I had things I wanted, people I cared about... Just easier, I guess. Livin' up to that low expectation..." He inhaled deeply before finally shrugging. "But there's no goin' back now... I might screw up, might just be what I do, sober or not, but... Figure I gotta try. Gotta change somethin' and this is it." With a nod, he finished, slumping back in his seat, both relieved that he'd spoken and that he was finished.
"Okay, thank you Tim," John said, looking at him with a proud grin.
Tim was surprised by how much better he felt. Not just in sobriety, but in saying what had kept him from it in the past. He wondered what people might think, what the Panthers might've thought of big Tim Riggins getting sentimental, baring heart and soul, and then he remembered that he wasn't there anymore. He wasn't the guy lacing up for practice or a game. He wasn't the guy hooking up with rally girls or his crippled best friend's girl. He wasn't drunk off his ass just coasting by. He was working his ass off, trying to get his business going, to make ends meet, to be better than who he'd been.
His business started picking up and he started cutting back on construction jobs to meet the requirements of the shop. People started to rely on him, telling their friends and family about the good service they got at Riggins Rigs. Things were coming together and he was really starting to think he could do it. But with the shop doing better came attention; the local cops were stopping by at random to make sure he was keeping everything above board. He might not have minded much, since he was doing everything he could to stay on the straight and narrow, but he could see how skeptical they were of him, how they always expected to show up and find a chop shop in full swing. It was disappointing, but not surprising.
On top of that, there were more demands on him too. When it was just him and a few cars, he didn't have to worry too much. With more cars, he was starting to stretch himself thin. He needed an employee or three but he wasn't sure he could afford it yet. So he put out a help wanted sign and checked out his options and how much he could afford. While he couldn't hire as many as he probably needed, he did hire one reliable guy and took some of the pressure off himself. It wasn't always easy, but he was making it. He wasn't letting the low expectations and judgement of Dillon or the police keep him from doing what he knew he could.
In between work, he kept up with his meetings; not every day, but as often as he could. He asked John to be his sponsor and checked in with him often; it helped to be able to talk to someone about how stressed he was and how the idea of drinking seemed like a good idea. Some days were harder than most but he'd pick up the phone or he'd drive out to John's and he'd get some perspective. So he was proud when he got a six month's sober key tag and a clap on the back. Sometimes when he was driving, he'd look at it, hanging from his keys, and he'd feel his chest swell up with pride.
Even with that accomplishment, there were nights when he wanted nothing else but to drink until he blacked out. A few times he almost did, driving by the liquor store, contemplating. He would circle the block, over and over, or idle in the parking lot and stare at the open sign. Sometimes he'd get as close as the front door before he'd turn around and go back, call John, go to a meeting, anything to keep him from making that mistake.
There were times he went by Billy's house and they'd sit outside to catch up; he'd watch his brother as he knocked back a bottle or two. Family barbecues were the same, with Mindy and Billy not at all uncomfortable with their beers, although they always asked him if he was all right with it. A little voice in his head would tell him one beer couldn't hurt; that one shot, one half-sack, wouldn't put him back too much. He could always start over or pace himself or learn some damn restraint. But instead, he'd remind himself that he couldn't; that he just didn't have it in him to stop, to not keep drinking. Tim stuck to his sobriety, even when it hurt, when it pissed him off how hard he had to try, how nothing every came easy to him.
He was seven months in when he heard through the grapevine that Lyla was getting married and very quickly he found himself outside of a liquor store. He sat there in his truck for three hours straight, just staring. He remembered the bitter taste of beer, the warm embrace of not feeling, the laughter and the weightless freedom of not having to give a shit about anything. And then he remembered waking up with a headache and cotton mouth. He remembered that sour taste in his mouth, the churning of his stomach, and the sudden realization that he had done nothing with his life and never would.
He pulled out of that parking spot, left the liquor store in his rear-view mirror, and went to John's house.
"Well, hey Tim," Johanna greeted as she pulled open the front door. She was as short and thin as her husband was tall and heavy, with wavy blonde hair she always kept pinned up and a motherly air about her.
"Hey Miss Jo," he replied, shifting his feet awkwardly. "Is, uh, John here?"
"Sure is. He's out back. You just go on through the gate and see him if you like," she said, pointing down the yard.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"You stayin' for dinner, Tim?" she wondered, leaning out the door as he started across the lawn.
He shook his head. "Wouldn't wanna intrude."
She waved a dismissive hand at him. "You'll stay and you'll like it," she said simply before disappearing back inside.
Tim ducked his head, somewhat amused by her heavy-handed way, and walked through the wood gate to the backyard. John had a nice home that he took good care of; the yard was always green, flowerbeds always weeded, and it seemed he was always doing something to it. Today he was working on a fountain and the path that would lead to it.
"Tim, that you?" he asked, sitting back on his haunches and wiping his sweaty forehead. "Wasn't expectin' anybody."
He nodded. "Wasn't expectin' to drop by," he mused, shrugging.
Tipping his head, John looked him over a long moment, his brow furrowed. He pushed up from the ground, hands on his knees, and walked up to the deck. "C'mon," he said, waving a hand before he plopped down on a cushioned chair. "Johanna see ya?"
"Yeah. Seems I've been invited to dinner," he said, lips twitching as he took a seat across from John.
He nodded before reaching over to a cooler against the house and dragging out a couple bottles of water, one of which he tossed to Tim. "So? What's on your mind then?"
Tim leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the patio table and staring down at it a long moment, his jaw clenched tight. "Got word on Lyla..." he finally said, the silence hanging heavy in the air. "She's gettin' married."
John stared at him, his face unreadable. "All right."
He ground his teeth. "Didn't handle it too well... Went to the liquor store..." He glanced at John and then down at his water bottle. "Sat outside it a while..."
"You go inside?" he asked simply, voice carefully devoid of judgement.
Slowly, he shook his head.
"But?"
"I wanted to." He swallowed tightly. "I really wanted to."
"Think you're missin' the point here, Tim." Sighing, John sat forward. "You're an addict, son. You're still learning how to deal with things without your drug of choice. But what you need to remember is that when push came to shove, when you had to make that decision, you decided that you weren't gonna get drunk today... You weren't gonna let this thing with this girl screw up your life..."
He twisted the cap off his water bottle and took a long drink while Tim sat back and let that information sink in.
It was a few minutes before John asked him, "Lyla... That's the one who used to date your best friend, innit? You two had a little thing goin' while he was in the hospital. S'how it started anyway. You had a relationship later, right?"
He nodded.
"Things that start out like that, start out with that black mark on 'em 'fore they ever get started, it's hard to change that history, son... I remember correctly, you said you never felt good enough when you was with her... Like she was too good, too pure for a guy like you."
He glanced at him through his hair. "I was."
"You know why those relationships don't work?" He raised an eyebrow. "'Cause you gotta have some equality. You always got a girl on a pedestal while you're down as far as you can get then you don't understand each other. You're lookin' at her like she can do no wrong and when she does, you take it, thinkin' you don't deserve better or, hell, that you could do worse and she's the best you'll ever have..." He shook his head. "The guy you were with this Lyla girl, that ain't who you are now. You might look the same, there might be some stuff left over, but you change and grow with sobriety. You get clear eyes and you can look at these things and these people and see where it went wrong and what you don't want to repeat."
He hummed, nodding to himself. "I loved Lyla," he said. "First girl, maybe only girl, I ever loved... But I never measured up. Wasn't just me who thought it, either. I don't think she ever thought I was enough." He let out a long breath and frowned. "But I tried to be."
"What you oughtta be tryin' is being good for you..." John stared at him seriously. "Ain't no girl gonna live your life or make it right for you. You gotta find it in you to be the best you can be and be happy with what you got. You wanna live this life sober, then you do that. You live it as good as you can and I'm tellin' ya, one day this whole thing is just gonna be a page in your book. It's all a journey, Tim. Some of it's bad, some of it's good, and in the end, boy, you got a story to tell."
Slowly, his lips twitched up on one side. "Ain't much of a story-teller, John."
He laughed, deep and from the belly. "Yeah, I noticed."
"You boys almost done? Dinner's near ready," Johanna called out from the house.
"Yeah, we're comin' in," John shouted back, before pushing up from his chair. "C'mon. Best wash up before we sit at her table."
Tim joined him as they started for the house.
When he sat down for dinner, watching the light-hearted banter and bickering between them, Tim was reminded of another couple; Coach and his wife. And he realized as he sat eating Miss Jo's lasagna, that the couples he wanted to be like, the family he wanted to have for himself, wasn't anything like what he and Lyla had when they were together. Maybe John was right; maybe the way things started, toxic as they'd been, made it so that nothing that happened after could stack up. Wasn't just that though, either. Him and Lyla had so many ups and downs it was hard for him to find his footing. Hard for him to ever feel like he measured up enough to be with her. He didn't want that in his future. He didn't want to feel like he didn't deserve the woman he was with or he had to change to be good enough for her. So maybe it was a blessing, he figured, that Lyla was really and truly out of reach. Now he could put that fantasy of her and being with her out of his head and move on.
"You know, I been thinkin'," John said, waving his fork toward Tim. "What you need is a hobby."
His eyebrows hiked. "A hobby?"
"Yeah." He nodded. "See, I got my yard work. I keep busy with it, buildin' stuff, gives me something to concentrate on."
"That was always football for me..." He shrugged. "Or weight lifting."
"Hmm... Maybe find somethin' different. Something that gets your head workin'."
Tim nodded, but he didn't know where to start. He'd never given much thought to hobbies in the past; he'd always had women, football, friends, and beer to fill up the empty space in his life. Now he was O for 4.
A week later, he was walking through town, wasting time before the meeting when he saw it. There was a little shop full of hand carved furniture; it had a wooden porch chair out front with a price tag on it that was worth a good laugh. There was no chance of him spending that much on one chair, even if he did like it. But it gave him an idea. Carpentry. Instead of buying somebody else's hard work, he started building his own furniture. If he wasn't at the shop or a meeting, he was busy building; a lopsided kitchen table, wobbly coffee table, and too-good-to-be true stools, the only thing that actually seemed sound, even if he was waiting for the day they'd finally snap and break under his weight.
Eventually, when the urge to drink struck, he'd smell sawdust in the air, his brain equating it to something else now. He would go home and build until he was distracted, completely absorbed in every cut and measurement and the hours he spent sanding it all down. He got better at it; replaced his shitty tables with better ones and even came to trust that his stools would hold up. He built a dresser for Billy and a hope chest for Mindy. He built sturdy bunk beds for their twins and a picnic table for their backyard.
And then one day, Tim was surprised to hear John telling him that his one year was coming up. There would be a cake and speeches and he'd get himself a one year medallion to celebrate. A year. Twelve whole months and he'd done it. Wasn't easy, he'd had his days when he didn't want anything more than to get drunk until he couldn't see straight, but he'd made it.
It felt surreal. Standing there, listening to the group talk about their first impressions of him, of how proud they were to see how far he'd come. He sat back, half-smiling as John stood up, playing with a medallion in his fingers.
"When I first saw Timmy, it was three days before he ever set foot in here."
Tim raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"For three nights, he sat outside this building just looking, just observing... And y'know, I realized that was just his way. He's a quiet man, saying more in a look than he ever does with his mouth." He nodded. "I watched and waited to see what he'd do, if he'd ever get the courage up to come inside. And on that third night, I decided that maybe it wasn't in God's plan that Tim found his courage but instead that I let him know he had it... So I walked up to his truck and invited him inside. I left it up to him whether he wanted to come or not and I trusted that he would do what was best for him... I didn't know Tim from nothing, but I tell you I was proud when I saw him sitting in the back. I was proud when I saw him there the next night too..."
He looked up and stared across the room at Tim with a half-grin. "Boy, you are somethin'... You ain't heard it enough in your life, I gather. Had a lot of cheerin' fans out there with you on the field but as soon as you got off it...?" He whistled. "Crowd went their way and you went another... Ain't no cheerleaders when you don't got a pigskin in your hand, makes it hard to keep goin', find your way, make somethin' of yourself; life after football..." He reached up to scrub his fingers through his beard. "You've done that Tim... You did that on your own. You didn't have no daddy to tell you it was right, no rally girls to soothe your ego, or a Coach to make ya come here. No, you did that on your own..."
He nodded at him. "This here is a medallion to remind you of all your hard work. Remind you of the best and the worst of times and how many of 'em you still got comin'... You got one year under your belt, son, and you got a lot of 'em still to come." He tipped his head to invite Tim up with him.
Pushing up from his seat, he crossed the room, gait slow, none too eager to be standing in front of everything. His stomach twisted up and a weight sat heavy on his chest.
John gave his hand a shake and handed him his medallion, "You did good."
Tim took it, weighing it in his palm a long second.
He remembered making a speech, something short and quick, he was sure, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what was said.
It was later that night, with a medallion burning a hole in his pocket, that he realized the weight in his chest was fear. He'd done this, John was right. He'd come this far all on his own. There was nobody holding his head up over the water but him. And that truth was hard to swallow. John was a good man and hearing him say that he was proud of Tim sent a shot of fear through him of what it meant. What if he screwed it up? What if he started drinking? Would he lose that respect? Would John be disappointed in him? Give up on him? Would he realize that putting his faith in a Riggins was never a good idea?
Fear ate at him until he was right back where he started, idling outside a liquor store, staring at the neon open sign in the window. His hands twisted around the steering wheel, his gut clenched, and he watched, waiting, wondering what would happen. Would it taste good? Feel good? Would he hate himself after?
When he turned the ignition off, his hand was shaking. He climbed out of the truck and felt his blood pulsing quick in his veins. Dragging his hands down his face, he nodded. He started across the parking lot, slow and easy, unhurried, each step feeling like a death march.
He was halfway across the road when he heard it.
"Tim?"
He paused, eyes turned up.
"Tim Riggins?"
His head turned and, finally, landed on a blonde head in the distance.
She walked toward him, coming close enough that the street lamp lit up her familiar face.
"Julie Taylor," he said, lips twitching.
She half-smiled. "Hey..."
He nodded at her. "What're you doin' in Dillon?"
"I just moved back actually... It's a long story." She waved a hand. "Trust me, you don't wanna hear it."
He raised an eyebrow. "Last I heard, you and Seven were engaged."
"Yeah..." She turned her eyes off and let out a distant laugh. "Not anymore."
He nodded, staring at her. "You, uh..." He licked his lips, glanced at the store, and then turned back to her. "Hey, you wanna get somethin' to eat an'... catch up?" He crossed his arms loosely over his chest. "You can tell me your long story."
She stared up at him, a little surprised. "Sure," she agreed, adding, "But only if you fill me in on yours too."
He half-grinned. "Deal."
She pointed her thumb back at her car. "Where's good for you?" Her nose wrinkled. "And please don't say the Alamo or Applebee's."
He chuckled under his breath. "Anywhere's good, just... Not a bar."
She tipped her head thoughtfully before smiling. "No bars it is."
They ended up in a small diner where Tim had a late dinner and Julie nursed a milkshake.
"So you moved back for good then?" he asked her as she stirred her milkshake across from him.
Julie shrugged. "Wasn't my first choice, I admit, but..." She licked her lips, turning her eyes out the window. "Me and Matt, we started out good in Chicago. It... It was like a fairytale, almost. Like everything I wanted was happening..." She rolled her eyes at herself. "But you never really know how young you are until you grow up." She frowned. "And we both had some growing up to do."
"Been doin' that myself," he admitted, nodding.
"Yeah?" She half-smiled and looked him over. "You look different..." She scoffed. "Well, I mean... You always looked relaxed, but now you look, I dunno... Calm, maybe."
"You were in college down there, right?" he asked. "Think your dad said something about writing?"
She nodded. "I wanted to be a journalist, so I was taking a lot of writing courses." She smiled brightly. "It was amazing. Learning about it, figuring out what my weaknesses and strengths were. I..." She shook her head. "I mean, it wasn't easy. Being judged like that, feeling like the one thing you're really good at is just average and needs a lot of work, but... It was worth it. Even... Even when me and Matt started fighting and growing apart, I just, I knew that writing was what I wanted…"
She pinched her straw and brought it to her mouth, taking a deep sip before licking her lips and sitting back. "I was talking to mom about looking for work and how much I hated my new apartment and how lonely it was there and she told me about this job opening here in Dillon at one of the smaller newspapers... I mean, it's just starting out, it's nothing really big, but... I guess, when she said that, it was just this huge wave of nostalgia and I went online and looked it up and..." She rolled her eyes at herself. "Applied before I could talk myself out of it."
"Guessin' you got it, since you're here."
She grinned widely then, nodding her head as she laughed. "I did." She looked up briefly as the waitress returned with his burger and fries and watched as he grabbed it up with both hands. "Hungry?"
Tim had to open his mouth pretty wide to get it around the burger and didn't pause to answer, instead giving her a wink.
She snorted and then leaned forward, staring down at her milkshake. "So I'm back living with my parents and repeatedly telling myself this isn't the opposite of progress, but..." She glanced around the diner. "I don't know, it just feels right." She brightened. "As soon as I save up enough, I'll look for my own apartment and I think that'll really help me feel more independent, y'know?"
He nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin as he chewed. "Sounds good to me."
"So what about you then?" She tipped her head, resting it on an upturned fist. "What've you been doing? I think dad mentioned you reopened your car shop!"
Tim was a little surprised the Coach knew; they hadn't kept much in touch. But then, with work and meetings and his carpentry, he hadn't had much time for anything else.
"Yeah, I opened it back up..." He nodded, staring down at his plate. "Took some doin'... Had to do construction for the first while, keep it afloat..."
Her brow furrowed. "That must've been hard. Working two jobs..."
He shrugged. "Wasn't easy."
"But worth it?"
He grinned. "Yeah." He looked up at her through his hair. "It's goin' good now. Got steady business, good mechanic helpin' me out..."
He paused for a moment, unsure if he should share the rest. He hadn't really shared his sobriety with anyone but his brother and the people he saw at the meetings. There were a few times he wanted to tell Streeter but he'd held his tongue. He told himself he'd tell him when he got a year but even now he wasn't sure. It had a lot to do with worrying that if he said it out loud somebody would laugh, think he was joking, ask him why or if he really thought he could keep it up. Sure, Jason wouldn't do it to hurt him, but it would all the same.
Now here was Julie Taylor and, in all honesty, they weren't real close before. He hadn't had much contact with her since he lived in her house years ago, sleeping on her couch, all thanks to her dad. They'd hung out some then and he'd liked her. She encouraged him to do his homework and helped when he got stuck on it. She was nervous though and twitchy, not quite comfortable in her skin, but all sarcasm and fire and too smart for her own good. Probably still was, in some ways, but she looked grown up, like maybe she did find herself out there in the big city, and she liked who she turned out to be.
"I, uh... I'm celebrating a year sober today," he told her, keeping his eyes down for a second, his shoulders tensed.
"A year?"
He looked up and found she was grinning at him.
"Wow! Tim, that— That's really great!"
He blew out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He was expecting a snort, a 'Yeah, right,' but not that. Acceptance and approval; things he'd always craved and rarely got.
Genuinely happy for him, she reached across the table to cover his hand with hers and squeezed. "Good for you." She tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling. "You came a long way, huh?"
The weight in his chest morphed then, he felt it clear as day. It went from fear to pride and he laughed under his breath. "Guess I did," he said, leaning back in the booth. "Guess I did."
They stayed in the diner until an impatient waitress let them know they were closing. Julie blushed as she paid an excessive tip in apology and rolled her eyes but thanked him as he paid the tab. They walked outside to the parking lot, where he dragged his feet. Truth was, this was the first time in more than a year that he felt comfortable with anybody outside of the meeting. He loved his brother, but he felt like there was this pressure between them, of Billy being proud his little brother wasn't drinking and unsure how he should handle it himself. Hanging out with Julie, there was no pressure; it was gone as soon as he admitted he didn't drink anymore. They talked easily, about Dillon and high school and her life in Chicago. He told her about his house and the furniture he built and she said she might just look him up for some help when she was refurnishing the apartment she planned to rent as soon as possible.
Hands tucked in his pockets, he racked his brain for an excuse, a reason to keep hanging out. He didn't want to go home just yet, didn't want to walk away and return to the somewhat lonely life he'd been leading. "We, uh, should do this again sometime," he finally said, leaning against the front of his truck and watching her as she dug her keys out of her purse.
She nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that..." She rolled her eyes. "It gets old just hanging out with my parents." Her nose wrinkled. "And also makes me feel lame, so... It'd be nice to hang out with somebody I can relate to and not feel like I'm getting scolded."
He laughed under his breath, ducking his head. "Sounds good."
"Cool. So... I guess I'll see you around." She jangled her keys and started toward her car.
Seeing his in, he called to her, "Hey, y'know, if you want, you could bring your car down to the shop and I'll give it a look over. Free of charge." He licked his lips. "Maybe we could hang out after or something."
She smiled. "Sure. I'll see how my work schedule is and give you a call."
"All right."
She reached for the handle of her car door and waved. "Night Tim."
"Night Jules."
As she drove off into the night, Tim watched the headlights of her car and thought to himself that maybe that higher power they were always talking about in the meetings wasn't total bullshit. Maybe someone had prompted John to invite him inside that night one year earlier and maybe that same someone directed Julie Taylor to that parking lot, interrupting what could've been a very big mistake. Whatever it was, he was grateful.
[Next: iii.]
