turnonmyheels (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
turnonmyheels) wrote2008-06-24 02:11 pm
turnonmyheels) wrote2008-06-24 02:11 pm
Fic! Crossover fic! Friday Night Lights/Gossip Girl \o/ I am insane.
Fandom: FNL/GG
Title: Just Follow the Lights(1/3)
Pairing: Tim Riggins/Chuck Bass
Rating: Teen (for now)
Summary: 15 years later, Chuck Bass is in Dillon, Texas
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
caoilainn
Disclaimer: I am insane. Chuck Bass and Tim Riggins in no way know each other. Nor will they ever meet, unless FNL jumps networks yet again. GG belongs to CW, Cynthia Von Ziegesar, et al, and FNL belongs to NBC, Peter Berg, et al
"Damn it!" Tim mutters under his breath as his knuckle gets caught on a ragged edge of the crank for the third time. He props his wrench on the Hummer's air filter and sucks the blood off his finger wishing he had a cold beer.
"What part of I'm not staying in Bumfuck, Texas do you not understand Dad?" Tim picks up his wrench and goes back to work. The sooner he gets this asshole out of here the sooner he can have his beer and forget about the cocky fucker who's worn a hole in his garage floor, pacing back in forth in shiny shoes that Tim guesses cost more than every pair of shoes he's ever owned added together. And then some. "The tests say the oil fields are good. The equipment needs upgrading and there seems to be no end of rednecks out of work. It's a viable project that is guaranteed to succeed in the current political and economical climate. I don't need to be here to oversee it."
Tim clenches his jaw and tightens another bolt. He's wanted to smash this guy's face in with his wrench all day, but he's been holding back, because of the chance these guys might re-open the oil fields. He's not so young that he can't remember what it was like when the oil and subsequently the money flowed in Dillon. He tightens another bolt, and stands up straight, bending backwards a little to work out the cramp in his lower back. He wipes his hand on a rag and steps down off the stool and starts to climb inside the Hummer and turn the key.
"Get your greasy, sweaty hand away from the interior of my car."
Tim closes his eyes to block out the image he has of wrapping this dude's fucking blue scarf - who wears a scarf in Texas in August - around his neck and choking him to death with it. Instead he plasters a fake grin on his face and motions to the car like a girl from The Price is Right, "your chariot awaits." He has to bite his tongue to stop the "you prick" from finishing that sentence. Mr. Blue Scarf sits and turns the key, and the Hummer purrs to life.
"Effing finally." He says and cuts the engine.
Tim closes his eyes and rocks back on his heels, glad to take his weight off the balls of his feet, and shoves his hands in his pockets. Five minutes, maybe ten, long enough to collect payment, store his tools and lock the door. Then he can go home and drink his beer. Shower, slip into his trunks and go for a swim. Maybe after that he'll head down to the field, Coach said he needed some help with the backs this week if Tim had the time.
"Here, this should cover it." The guy shoves a fist full of wadded up cash at Tim. There's at least seven hundred dollars there, maybe more. Tim takes the money, not bothering to smooth it out or count it and drops it in his tool box.
"You have a nice day now." He turns his back on the guy and starts putting his tools back where they belong. Wiping off excessive smudges of grease, lining everything up just so. Street laughed the first time he saw him do it, said Tim was developing OCD in his old age. Tim's not a hundred percent sure what that is, but he figures it's not anything bad because there was a gleam of pride in Jay's eyes when he said it.
"Are there any clubs or bars in this hell hole?"
Tim shrugs and heads to the sink. "Depends on what you're looking for. There's the titty bar by the highway and the Round Up over by the tracks." He rubs the GoJo in paying attention to his cuticles and his nails and rinses off. "There's a bar at the Country Club but you've got to be a member to get in. You'd probably be better off at Applebee's though."
"Really? Why is that?"
"First time you open your mouth around an out of work redneck wearing that scarf you're gonna get the shit kicked outta you and they don't allow fighting in Applebee's." Tim wipes his hands off on the towel by the sink that never comes clean no matter how many times he bleaches it and turns around to face the guy. He's wearing a smirk that Tim recognizes, one he's seen staring back at him in the mirror his entire life. This guy might not be looking to get his ass kicked, but he's not turning down any takers.
"I'll take my chances." The smirk gets even bigger.
"You do that. And while you're at it, why don't you go ahead and leave so I can get home?"
The guy raises an eyebrow and climbs in his Hummer. "See you around." The engine turns over pretty as you please and he drives out of the garage nearly taking off his side-view mirror in the process.
"God, I hope not." Tim pushes the button that closes the overhead door and counts the money whistling at the total. Fifteen hundred dollars. He was gonna charge him four hundred but figures he'll take the extra as a tip for listening to his mouth all day. He makes a mental note to tell Street so the books don't get messed up, turns off the lights, and goes home.
The guy mostly slips from Tim's mind. He hears people bitching about the asshole running around town but he's only heard about a couple of scuffles. He's seen the bright yellow Hummer here and there, mostly in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and the Landing Strip. August rolls into September and September rolls into October. The Panthers are 7-1 by Homecoming - it's Little Jay's first year on Varsity and he's kicking ass. Tim's been working with him since he could hold a ball, under Jay's watchful eye, and couldn't be more proud if he was his own.
Tim's closing the shop early - there's going to be a special half-time ceremony for the alumnae State Champions - and he's got to clean up, put on his coaching uniform and get to the field house but the yellow Hummer pulls into the garage before he gets the door closed. The Hummer's beat all to hell. The headlights and tail lights are bashed in, and it looks like somebody took a baseball bat to the hood, doors, and windows.
"Need you to fix this, by next Friday." The guy's not looking any better than his Hummer; black eyes, busted lip, walking with a limp, but he's wearing a cocky grin and twirls the end of his scarf (red with little black checks this time) in Tim's direction.
Tim shakes his heads toward his office. "You need to take it to the dealership." He rifles around on his desk for the card to Garrity Motors, finds it and holds it out to him.
If anything his grin gets bigger. "The guy in the shop is the one who did this, I can't exactly take it there."
Tim can't help but be curious, Santiago's as good as they come these days. "What'd you do?"
"Might have made some moves on his cousin." He cocks an eyebrow at him and Tim knows he did more than make some moves.
"Carmelita?" He nods and Tim whistles appreciatively. Carmelita's one of the finest pieces of ass in West Texas. Hell make that Texas. Not that he knows from first hand experience, he and Santiago came to an agreement a long time ago about each other's women - hands off.
"Can you do it?"
"I can do the work, but I can't guarantee the parts'll be here in time to get it done." Tim leans against the door frame and scratches the back of his neck.
"Money is no object." He pulls a wad out of cash out of his pocket bigger than Tim's fist and starts counting off hundreds.
"If money's no object, why not buy a new one?"
He stops counting and looks up at Tim. "That was a gift from a friend. Who will be here next Saturday, hence the having it ready by Friday."
The clock on the wall keeps getting closer to four o'clock and Tim has to get going if he's going to be on time. "Look I've gotta go. Why don't you come by here tomorrow morning and I'll tell you what I need, and make the calls. You can pay for the parts and shipping over the phone."
"You're open on Saturdays?" He raises his eyebrows, obviously surprised.
"Not usually. But I've got to go now and this'll take some time." Tim doesn't grab him by the arm and drag him out but only barely.
"What's so important?"
Tim returns the guy's surprised expression. "It's Friday night." He gets no recognition from Mr. Money Bags. "The game?" Still nothing. "The football game? It's Homecoming weekend?"
The guy shoves his money back in his pocket and finally walks out of the garage muttering under his breath. "Different fucking world. Different fucking world." Tim's headed to his truck when the only Taxi service in town pulls up to the curb. "Hey, if I wanted to go to this game, how would I find it?"
"Just follow the lights man." Tim can't imagine this guy at the game. Not for all the money in the world.
"Chuck Bass."
Tim grins and waves in his direction. "Just follow the lights, Chuck Bass, you can't miss it."
Part Two
also not fic I've promised, but fic! progress!
Title: Just Follow the Lights(1/3)
Pairing: Tim Riggins/Chuck Bass
Rating: Teen (for now)
Summary: 15 years later, Chuck Bass is in Dillon, Texas
Beta:
caoilainnDisclaimer: I am insane. Chuck Bass and Tim Riggins in no way know each other. Nor will they ever meet, unless FNL jumps networks yet again. GG belongs to CW, Cynthia Von Ziegesar, et al, and FNL belongs to NBC, Peter Berg, et al
"Damn it!" Tim mutters under his breath as his knuckle gets caught on a ragged edge of the crank for the third time. He props his wrench on the Hummer's air filter and sucks the blood off his finger wishing he had a cold beer.
"What part of I'm not staying in Bumfuck, Texas do you not understand Dad?" Tim picks up his wrench and goes back to work. The sooner he gets this asshole out of here the sooner he can have his beer and forget about the cocky fucker who's worn a hole in his garage floor, pacing back in forth in shiny shoes that Tim guesses cost more than every pair of shoes he's ever owned added together. And then some. "The tests say the oil fields are good. The equipment needs upgrading and there seems to be no end of rednecks out of work. It's a viable project that is guaranteed to succeed in the current political and economical climate. I don't need to be here to oversee it."
Tim clenches his jaw and tightens another bolt. He's wanted to smash this guy's face in with his wrench all day, but he's been holding back, because of the chance these guys might re-open the oil fields. He's not so young that he can't remember what it was like when the oil and subsequently the money flowed in Dillon. He tightens another bolt, and stands up straight, bending backwards a little to work out the cramp in his lower back. He wipes his hand on a rag and steps down off the stool and starts to climb inside the Hummer and turn the key.
"Get your greasy, sweaty hand away from the interior of my car."
Tim closes his eyes to block out the image he has of wrapping this dude's fucking blue scarf - who wears a scarf in Texas in August - around his neck and choking him to death with it. Instead he plasters a fake grin on his face and motions to the car like a girl from The Price is Right, "your chariot awaits." He has to bite his tongue to stop the "you prick" from finishing that sentence. Mr. Blue Scarf sits and turns the key, and the Hummer purrs to life.
"Effing finally." He says and cuts the engine.
Tim closes his eyes and rocks back on his heels, glad to take his weight off the balls of his feet, and shoves his hands in his pockets. Five minutes, maybe ten, long enough to collect payment, store his tools and lock the door. Then he can go home and drink his beer. Shower, slip into his trunks and go for a swim. Maybe after that he'll head down to the field, Coach said he needed some help with the backs this week if Tim had the time.
"Here, this should cover it." The guy shoves a fist full of wadded up cash at Tim. There's at least seven hundred dollars there, maybe more. Tim takes the money, not bothering to smooth it out or count it and drops it in his tool box.
"You have a nice day now." He turns his back on the guy and starts putting his tools back where they belong. Wiping off excessive smudges of grease, lining everything up just so. Street laughed the first time he saw him do it, said Tim was developing OCD in his old age. Tim's not a hundred percent sure what that is, but he figures it's not anything bad because there was a gleam of pride in Jay's eyes when he said it.
"Are there any clubs or bars in this hell hole?"
Tim shrugs and heads to the sink. "Depends on what you're looking for. There's the titty bar by the highway and the Round Up over by the tracks." He rubs the GoJo in paying attention to his cuticles and his nails and rinses off. "There's a bar at the Country Club but you've got to be a member to get in. You'd probably be better off at Applebee's though."
"Really? Why is that?"
"First time you open your mouth around an out of work redneck wearing that scarf you're gonna get the shit kicked outta you and they don't allow fighting in Applebee's." Tim wipes his hands off on the towel by the sink that never comes clean no matter how many times he bleaches it and turns around to face the guy. He's wearing a smirk that Tim recognizes, one he's seen staring back at him in the mirror his entire life. This guy might not be looking to get his ass kicked, but he's not turning down any takers.
"I'll take my chances." The smirk gets even bigger.
"You do that. And while you're at it, why don't you go ahead and leave so I can get home?"
The guy raises an eyebrow and climbs in his Hummer. "See you around." The engine turns over pretty as you please and he drives out of the garage nearly taking off his side-view mirror in the process.
"God, I hope not." Tim pushes the button that closes the overhead door and counts the money whistling at the total. Fifteen hundred dollars. He was gonna charge him four hundred but figures he'll take the extra as a tip for listening to his mouth all day. He makes a mental note to tell Street so the books don't get messed up, turns off the lights, and goes home.
The guy mostly slips from Tim's mind. He hears people bitching about the asshole running around town but he's only heard about a couple of scuffles. He's seen the bright yellow Hummer here and there, mostly in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and the Landing Strip. August rolls into September and September rolls into October. The Panthers are 7-1 by Homecoming - it's Little Jay's first year on Varsity and he's kicking ass. Tim's been working with him since he could hold a ball, under Jay's watchful eye, and couldn't be more proud if he was his own.
Tim's closing the shop early - there's going to be a special half-time ceremony for the alumnae State Champions - and he's got to clean up, put on his coaching uniform and get to the field house but the yellow Hummer pulls into the garage before he gets the door closed. The Hummer's beat all to hell. The headlights and tail lights are bashed in, and it looks like somebody took a baseball bat to the hood, doors, and windows.
"Need you to fix this, by next Friday." The guy's not looking any better than his Hummer; black eyes, busted lip, walking with a limp, but he's wearing a cocky grin and twirls the end of his scarf (red with little black checks this time) in Tim's direction.
Tim shakes his heads toward his office. "You need to take it to the dealership." He rifles around on his desk for the card to Garrity Motors, finds it and holds it out to him.
If anything his grin gets bigger. "The guy in the shop is the one who did this, I can't exactly take it there."
Tim can't help but be curious, Santiago's as good as they come these days. "What'd you do?"
"Might have made some moves on his cousin." He cocks an eyebrow at him and Tim knows he did more than make some moves.
"Carmelita?" He nods and Tim whistles appreciatively. Carmelita's one of the finest pieces of ass in West Texas. Hell make that Texas. Not that he knows from first hand experience, he and Santiago came to an agreement a long time ago about each other's women - hands off.
"Can you do it?"
"I can do the work, but I can't guarantee the parts'll be here in time to get it done." Tim leans against the door frame and scratches the back of his neck.
"Money is no object." He pulls a wad out of cash out of his pocket bigger than Tim's fist and starts counting off hundreds.
"If money's no object, why not buy a new one?"
He stops counting and looks up at Tim. "That was a gift from a friend. Who will be here next Saturday, hence the having it ready by Friday."
The clock on the wall keeps getting closer to four o'clock and Tim has to get going if he's going to be on time. "Look I've gotta go. Why don't you come by here tomorrow morning and I'll tell you what I need, and make the calls. You can pay for the parts and shipping over the phone."
"You're open on Saturdays?" He raises his eyebrows, obviously surprised.
"Not usually. But I've got to go now and this'll take some time." Tim doesn't grab him by the arm and drag him out but only barely.
"What's so important?"
Tim returns the guy's surprised expression. "It's Friday night." He gets no recognition from Mr. Money Bags. "The game?" Still nothing. "The football game? It's Homecoming weekend?"
The guy shoves his money back in his pocket and finally walks out of the garage muttering under his breath. "Different fucking world. Different fucking world." Tim's headed to his truck when the only Taxi service in town pulls up to the curb. "Hey, if I wanted to go to this game, how would I find it?"
"Just follow the lights man." Tim can't imagine this guy at the game. Not for all the money in the world.
"Chuck Bass."
Tim grins and waves in his direction. "Just follow the lights, Chuck Bass, you can't miss it."
Part Two
also not fic I've promised, but fic! progress!
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