turnonmyheels (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
turnonmyheels) wrote2008-11-17 10:06 pm
turnonmyheels) wrote2008-11-17 10:06 pm
Crossover Fic: Friday Night Lights/Gossip Girl Chuck Bass/Tim Riggins
Fandom: FNL/GG
Title: Just Follow the Lights(2/3)
Pairing: Tim Riggins/Chuck Bass
Rating: Adult. Mature Themes
Summary: 15 years later, Chuck Bass is in Dillon, Texas
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moosesal
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, Cecily Von Ziegesar, et al, and FNL belongs to NBC, Peter Berg, et al
Part One
The Vicodan is hitting him now. Cruising through his system cushioning him, building the barrier he likes to keep between him and the rest of the world, taking the edge off the throb in his face, the ache in his leg. When he's cruising this altitude he can admit it to himself, that the pill is filling up that empty spot inside him, though it doesn't stop him from laughing at himself for it. He's needed a thicker buffer than usual in Dillon, Texas, and promises himself as he watches an old lady buy a fucking "co-cola" served in a genuine paper cup at least a fortnight in one of Blair's favorite spas. Maybe the one in Oahu. He'll need the wraps and the tonics, the massages with no-happy endings, and the quiet to detox, exfoliate the Texas dust right off.
He's traveled the world. Stayed in the oldest and most exclusive private homes and resorts the world has to offer. He's built factories and warehouses in the cheapest -- poorest -- slums from Taiwan to Congo and every third world refuge in between. He's never wanted, no needed a barrier between him and reality as much as he has here.
The, not goodness, Jesus knew and was apparently walking among these Texans; that the people were anything but *good*. You couldn't be good and have built an arena to worship anything other than god, like these people had. He remembered reading another 6 teachers lost their jobs last week beside the column proudly proclaiming that the old Jumbotron was being replaced with one bigger, sharper, and flatter. Which he supposed explained the turnout. He'd noticed in a vague, pill/booze foggy way that the town rolled up the sidewalks on Friday nights, but this ... this has to be these people's version of Times Square on New Years Eve.
He cringes at the purple/teal cowboy boots with bleached out denim stuffed into the tops and white cowboy hat that crosses his line of sight. His turn at the snack bar, he focuses on the menu and can't suppress the sneer that crosses his face when the strongest item on the menu he can find is coffee. No alcohol at a high school function? He's never heard of such nonsense in his entire life -- can't imagine St. Jude or Constance without their champagne punch bowls, open bars, and tuxedo-clad waiters. It's a good thing he's got a pocket full of pills and a flask in his pocket. "Coffee." The server reaches for a styrofoam cup. "I'm not drinking a hot beverage out of a toxic container."
Another head turns, a hand hides a snickering mouth.
The server looks confused, Chuck shakes his head and gives in. "I'll have a Coke." He refuses to say co-cola. Or pop. Conceding to drink a soft drink at all means he's already lost, and Chuck hates to lose. He makes his way to the bleachers, sits down front and center, leer on automatic, as a couple of under-dressed sixteen-year-olds glare at him and slide down the bleacher pointedly leaving a couple of feet between them and him. He pulls his flask out of his pocket and makes a production out of drinking it. He takes a second swallow and smacks his lips at the old lady glaring at him from the next row over.
Fucking hell these people were judgmental. He's been in the bars, the liquor stores, and what these cretins say passes for fine dining establishments. He's seen the empty bottles scattered across the oil fields from what he presumes are the teenage drinking parties on Monday mornings. They have no right to judge him.
The announcer's voice has an echo at the end of it. It begins to fade away as the stadium fills, and Chuck misses the resonating wah-wah effect it was giving him. And then the Dillon Panthers are announced and a roar, something he's never heard replicated at any sporting event in the world, takes it place. Young men, clad in gold and blue run toward him, breaking through a blue and gold paper poster and everyone jumps to their feet. Clapping, yelling, laughing, whistles pierce the air. Chuck feels like he's on a different planet.
They're just kids. It's just a game.
How can it mean so much to a group of adults? How can they put so much stake in something so capricious? He wraps his scarf around his neck, kicks his feet up on the bleachers in front of him, legs spread, arms extended on either side. He's the only person in the stadium taking up enough room for 3 people, it's not much in the grand game of pissing people off wherever he goes, but he'll take his kicks where can get them in Texas.
There's a coin-flip, a kickoff, and people are yelling and screaming all around him. The sun sets and the lights shine bright and then brighter. He sees his mechanic down on the field. Tight faded out jeans, blue and gold Panther jacket. The mechanic yells a lot, knocks more than a few kid's helmets into one another and claps. And when that one kid -- in the six jersey -- throws the ball from one end of the field to nearly the other and it's caught and then a score, the expression on Tim Riggins' face is transcendental. He's punching his fist in the air, hugging the kid, picking him up and spinning him around when he runs off the field. They both look over to someone and wave so Chuck follows their gaze and sees a guy in a wheelchair. He can see the family resemblance between him and the kid. Can see more in the faces of the men as they share a look between them.
Chuck knows that look intimately. It's history. A lifetime of shared pain and joy. Riggins ducks his head, slaps the kid on the shoulder, and gives a blinding smile to the guy in the wheelchair before turning his attention back to the game. Yeah, Chuck knows that look, sex and love and hate and anger. Trust, joy, pain, and betrayal built over a lifetime. He can't help but miss Nate. And Blair. Can't stop the wheels in his mind from spinning out what he's going to do with them when they visit. He pops another pill and chases it with a swallow from his flask. It's more than he needs for the beating he took the other night but just enough to let him coast through the night. He lets the game and the town play out its dramas around him, while he observes from behind the safety curtain of Vicodan.
The sounds of the game cover him like a blanket as he tries to envision Blair in Dillon. The only place she'll be remotely comfortable is the mansion he's renting. She'll refuse to eat in any of the restaurants, he'll have to order groceries special from Austin and fly someone in from New York to cook. It'll be worth it though, to see her in the hot tub, glass of champagne in hand, beneath the wide star-filled Texas sky. He doesn't think a lot of Texas -- but Chuck can give credit where it's due. Texas is filled with hot bodies and a sky so broad and wide it makes him feel like ...
Well. It makes him feel. Blair under the night sky and Nate in the sun. He'll love the lake and the speedboat Chuck picked just for him. It's no catamaran off the coast of Maine, but it'll bring out the sailor in Nate. A week, maybe two, and then they'll go. Blair to Paris, Nate wherever his wanderlust takes him next.
Two hours -- and a couple more pills later -- the town has paraded every living state champion in the town across the field and the Panthers win the game by a landslide. The stadium slowly empties, plenty of people run out on the field to hug players and coaches, linger on the field until the lights start to shut down.
His presence on the bench finally captures Riggins' attention and Chuck holds up his flask in invitation. Riggins shrugs in response and walks off toward the guy in the wheelchair. There's plenty of back slapping, laughing, and a hug, and then the entire stadium is empty, the lights are off, and Riggins is walking toward him. He stops at the bleachers in front of Chuck tosses his keys in the air and catches them.
"Got plans?"
Chuck turns up his flask and empties it into his mouth. "Thought I'd head over to the Round Up."
"Looking to get your ass beat again?"
"Que sera sera."
Riggins tilts his head and doesn't speak.
Chuck tries to wait it out, make him talk but apparently this guy can win silence competitions as well as state football championships. "Do you have a better suggestion?"
"Most of the town's coming back to my place to party."
"Is that an offer to protect me from the rednecks?"
"Nah." Tim shakes his head. "It's an offer to be the one and only redneck to kick your ass tonight. The others won't mess with you if they think you're mine."
There's no guile on his face, no suggestion by the quirk of his mouth or eyebrow to suggest Riggins is aware of how his statement could be interpreted. "Is that so?" Chuck asks with enough heat in his voice to make him squirm if he doesn't swing that way.
"Yeah."
Perfect deadpan delivery. He's mistaken stupidity for inscrutability before and refuses to be fooled again, so even though his gut tells him this guy is just plain dumb, his brain won't let him believe it. "Lead on, cowboy." Riggins turns on his cowboy boot clad heel and Chuck gets an incredible view of his ass. Can't believe some off the wall brand like Carhartt could fit a man so well. He'll have to look into the designer and see what else they have to offer.
"You need a ride?" Riggins asks as he opens the driver's door to the oldest and nastiest pickup truck Chuck's seen in his life.
He makes a point of looking around the empty parking lot and holds his hands out wide. "It seems my taxi didn't wait."
That's how Chuck Bass, captain of industry and all around poor little richboy man finds himself in a run-down brick rancher in West Texas drinking cheap beer out of a nearly empty keg, shooting the best tequila he's ever tasted, and comparing life stories with a quadriplegic. The house emptied out at least an hour ago, and Chuck popped his last pill an hour before that. Jason's head is nodding and Tim is leaning against the wall looking like something straight out of a photo shoot. Chuck takes his time taking in his appearance. Bare feet, ankles crossed. Ass resting against the wall, only two buttons on his fly are in use. His arms are crossed, his chest is bare and that inscrutable look has been replaced by what can only be described as come-hither.
Tim tilts his head toward the back of the house where no doubt a sub-standard mattress and possibly the fucking of his life are waiting.
Who is Chuck to say no?
Conclusion
Title: Just Follow the Lights(2/3)
Pairing: Tim Riggins/Chuck Bass
Rating: Adult. Mature Themes
Summary: 15 years later, Chuck Bass is in Dillon, Texas
Beta:
moosesalDisclaimer: 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, Cecily Von Ziegesar, et al, and FNL belongs to NBC, Peter Berg, et al
Part One
The Vicodan is hitting him now. Cruising through his system cushioning him, building the barrier he likes to keep between him and the rest of the world, taking the edge off the throb in his face, the ache in his leg. When he's cruising this altitude he can admit it to himself, that the pill is filling up that empty spot inside him, though it doesn't stop him from laughing at himself for it. He's needed a thicker buffer than usual in Dillon, Texas, and promises himself as he watches an old lady buy a fucking "co-cola" served in a genuine paper cup at least a fortnight in one of Blair's favorite spas. Maybe the one in Oahu. He'll need the wraps and the tonics, the massages with no-happy endings, and the quiet to detox, exfoliate the Texas dust right off.
He's traveled the world. Stayed in the oldest and most exclusive private homes and resorts the world has to offer. He's built factories and warehouses in the cheapest -- poorest -- slums from Taiwan to Congo and every third world refuge in between. He's never wanted, no needed a barrier between him and reality as much as he has here.
The, not goodness, Jesus knew and was apparently walking among these Texans; that the people were anything but *good*. You couldn't be good and have built an arena to worship anything other than god, like these people had. He remembered reading another 6 teachers lost their jobs last week beside the column proudly proclaiming that the old Jumbotron was being replaced with one bigger, sharper, and flatter. Which he supposed explained the turnout. He'd noticed in a vague, pill/booze foggy way that the town rolled up the sidewalks on Friday nights, but this ... this has to be these people's version of Times Square on New Years Eve.
He cringes at the purple/teal cowboy boots with bleached out denim stuffed into the tops and white cowboy hat that crosses his line of sight. His turn at the snack bar, he focuses on the menu and can't suppress the sneer that crosses his face when the strongest item on the menu he can find is coffee. No alcohol at a high school function? He's never heard of such nonsense in his entire life -- can't imagine St. Jude or Constance without their champagne punch bowls, open bars, and tuxedo-clad waiters. It's a good thing he's got a pocket full of pills and a flask in his pocket. "Coffee." The server reaches for a styrofoam cup. "I'm not drinking a hot beverage out of a toxic container."
Another head turns, a hand hides a snickering mouth.
The server looks confused, Chuck shakes his head and gives in. "I'll have a Coke." He refuses to say co-cola. Or pop. Conceding to drink a soft drink at all means he's already lost, and Chuck hates to lose. He makes his way to the bleachers, sits down front and center, leer on automatic, as a couple of under-dressed sixteen-year-olds glare at him and slide down the bleacher pointedly leaving a couple of feet between them and him. He pulls his flask out of his pocket and makes a production out of drinking it. He takes a second swallow and smacks his lips at the old lady glaring at him from the next row over.
Fucking hell these people were judgmental. He's been in the bars, the liquor stores, and what these cretins say passes for fine dining establishments. He's seen the empty bottles scattered across the oil fields from what he presumes are the teenage drinking parties on Monday mornings. They have no right to judge him.
The announcer's voice has an echo at the end of it. It begins to fade away as the stadium fills, and Chuck misses the resonating wah-wah effect it was giving him. And then the Dillon Panthers are announced and a roar, something he's never heard replicated at any sporting event in the world, takes it place. Young men, clad in gold and blue run toward him, breaking through a blue and gold paper poster and everyone jumps to their feet. Clapping, yelling, laughing, whistles pierce the air. Chuck feels like he's on a different planet.
They're just kids. It's just a game.
How can it mean so much to a group of adults? How can they put so much stake in something so capricious? He wraps his scarf around his neck, kicks his feet up on the bleachers in front of him, legs spread, arms extended on either side. He's the only person in the stadium taking up enough room for 3 people, it's not much in the grand game of pissing people off wherever he goes, but he'll take his kicks where can get them in Texas.
There's a coin-flip, a kickoff, and people are yelling and screaming all around him. The sun sets and the lights shine bright and then brighter. He sees his mechanic down on the field. Tight faded out jeans, blue and gold Panther jacket. The mechanic yells a lot, knocks more than a few kid's helmets into one another and claps. And when that one kid -- in the six jersey -- throws the ball from one end of the field to nearly the other and it's caught and then a score, the expression on Tim Riggins' face is transcendental. He's punching his fist in the air, hugging the kid, picking him up and spinning him around when he runs off the field. They both look over to someone and wave so Chuck follows their gaze and sees a guy in a wheelchair. He can see the family resemblance between him and the kid. Can see more in the faces of the men as they share a look between them.
Chuck knows that look intimately. It's history. A lifetime of shared pain and joy. Riggins ducks his head, slaps the kid on the shoulder, and gives a blinding smile to the guy in the wheelchair before turning his attention back to the game. Yeah, Chuck knows that look, sex and love and hate and anger. Trust, joy, pain, and betrayal built over a lifetime. He can't help but miss Nate. And Blair. Can't stop the wheels in his mind from spinning out what he's going to do with them when they visit. He pops another pill and chases it with a swallow from his flask. It's more than he needs for the beating he took the other night but just enough to let him coast through the night. He lets the game and the town play out its dramas around him, while he observes from behind the safety curtain of Vicodan.
The sounds of the game cover him like a blanket as he tries to envision Blair in Dillon. The only place she'll be remotely comfortable is the mansion he's renting. She'll refuse to eat in any of the restaurants, he'll have to order groceries special from Austin and fly someone in from New York to cook. It'll be worth it though, to see her in the hot tub, glass of champagne in hand, beneath the wide star-filled Texas sky. He doesn't think a lot of Texas -- but Chuck can give credit where it's due. Texas is filled with hot bodies and a sky so broad and wide it makes him feel like ...
Well. It makes him feel. Blair under the night sky and Nate in the sun. He'll love the lake and the speedboat Chuck picked just for him. It's no catamaran off the coast of Maine, but it'll bring out the sailor in Nate. A week, maybe two, and then they'll go. Blair to Paris, Nate wherever his wanderlust takes him next.
Two hours -- and a couple more pills later -- the town has paraded every living state champion in the town across the field and the Panthers win the game by a landslide. The stadium slowly empties, plenty of people run out on the field to hug players and coaches, linger on the field until the lights start to shut down.
His presence on the bench finally captures Riggins' attention and Chuck holds up his flask in invitation. Riggins shrugs in response and walks off toward the guy in the wheelchair. There's plenty of back slapping, laughing, and a hug, and then the entire stadium is empty, the lights are off, and Riggins is walking toward him. He stops at the bleachers in front of Chuck tosses his keys in the air and catches them.
"Got plans?"
Chuck turns up his flask and empties it into his mouth. "Thought I'd head over to the Round Up."
"Looking to get your ass beat again?"
"Que sera sera."
Riggins tilts his head and doesn't speak.
Chuck tries to wait it out, make him talk but apparently this guy can win silence competitions as well as state football championships. "Do you have a better suggestion?"
"Most of the town's coming back to my place to party."
"Is that an offer to protect me from the rednecks?"
"Nah." Tim shakes his head. "It's an offer to be the one and only redneck to kick your ass tonight. The others won't mess with you if they think you're mine."
There's no guile on his face, no suggestion by the quirk of his mouth or eyebrow to suggest Riggins is aware of how his statement could be interpreted. "Is that so?" Chuck asks with enough heat in his voice to make him squirm if he doesn't swing that way.
"Yeah."
Perfect deadpan delivery. He's mistaken stupidity for inscrutability before and refuses to be fooled again, so even though his gut tells him this guy is just plain dumb, his brain won't let him believe it. "Lead on, cowboy." Riggins turns on his cowboy boot clad heel and Chuck gets an incredible view of his ass. Can't believe some off the wall brand like Carhartt could fit a man so well. He'll have to look into the designer and see what else they have to offer.
"You need a ride?" Riggins asks as he opens the driver's door to the oldest and nastiest pickup truck Chuck's seen in his life.
He makes a point of looking around the empty parking lot and holds his hands out wide. "It seems my taxi didn't wait."
That's how Chuck Bass, captain of industry and all around poor little rich
Tim tilts his head toward the back of the house where no doubt a sub-standard mattress and possibly the fucking of his life are waiting.
Who is Chuck to say no?
Conclusion