a s . a . f r i e n d . a s . a . k n o w n . m e m o r y

As a friend, as a known memory
[by victoria p.]

Rating: adult

Summary: Tyra's the only one who doesn't want anything from him.

Spoilers: through "Nevermind"

Notes: title from Nirvana.

Word count: 1,560 words

Date: January 11, 2007

He likes it when Tyra comes to see him. She comes by in the morning sometimes, says she has first period free, brings him a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich and some coffee, and they eat breakfast together. And she comes by in the afternoon sometimes, before she goes to work, uniform in a satchel she drops by the door, still smelling of stale grease and coffee and the perfume she wears, darker and spicier than Lyla's, but just as easily identifiable in the dark, in the distance.

Tyra's the only one doesn't want anything from him, just sits on the floor beside his chair, her head against his legs, and fills him in on the gossip neither of them really cares about, but it's something to talk about that's not football, Tim, or Lyla, or the soap operas on TV.

He reaches out, sometimes, strokes his fingers down the bright blonde fall of her hair, soft and warm as it looks, like the sun has kissed her. He remembers when they were kids, how it felt like straw from all the chlorine in the pool, bleached nearly white with a slight hint of green, how he used to tease her about being a mermaid, called her Ariel until she made him stop, shoved him into the pool with a straight-arm that would have made Coach Taylor proud.

She smiles up at him, talks about her plans to move to California after graduation.

"Not Austin?"

"Hell, no. Getting all the way out of Texas," she says.

"Los Angeles?"

"That'd be trading one crazy fake world for another. Why'd I wanna do that?" He doesn't mention she's pretty enough to be a model or actress. He knows she knows. "No. San Francisco, maybe."

"You think San Francisco is free of phonies?"

"Sure, why not? Nothing but genuine people and old hippies looking to get stoned and relive their misspent youth," she answers, laughing.

"You've been reading too much Kerouac."

She shrugs, and he lets his hand slip through her hair, glide over the soft skin of her neck and shoulder. She shivers, and he freezes, hand lingering there, grateful for the feel of something solid beneath it. She lets him pet her like a cat, presses up into it, and it's easy, because it's just him and Tyra, and while her baggage may not be an exact match for his, it clearly came from the same set.

She presses a quick kiss to his cheek when she leaves, scent of perfume and hair spray lingering in her wake, and he breathes it in like peace.

Tyra grabs for the remote, and he holds it up and away, like she's a linebacker and he's trying to get rid of the ball so he doesn't have to take the sack, but she tickles him, hands somehow knowing exactly where he can still feel, what he can still feel, though maybe not the how. It's shocking, being touched like that by someone who isn't his physical therapist, his mom, or Lyla. But Tyra's bold and fearless, always has been, probably why Tim keeps running back to her and can't let her go.

She climbs into his lap, doesn't treat him like he's delicate, like he's broken, and that right there's enough to make him want her, though the firm warmth of her breasts against his chest doesn't hurt either. He's not sure it's actually a physical response; it's familiar and foreign at the same time, like pictures of relatives he hasn't seen in ages--the resemblance is there, but it's fuzzy, edges blurred enough to make him question if he's looking at himself or at some distant cousin whose name he can't remember.

Either way, it feels good, and he wants more of it, so he wraps his free arm around her waist, holds her close, and he knows he should feel bad--about Lyla, about Tim--but he's tired of feeling bad, just wants to feel good for a few minutes, maybe make her feel good too.

He tosses the remote onto the bed, out of reach, and slips his other hand into her hair, splays his fingers across the back of her head, fingertips sensing the grooves and curves of her skull like the laces on a football, and Goddamn, he really is lame enough to think of this as completing a pass, and also laugh at himself for two really unfunny puns in one thought, but then he's kissing her, and she tastes like strawberry lip balm and peppermint gum, hot and wet and sweet.

She pulls back, licks her lips, eyes him thoughtfully. "You sure about this, Jay? I'm not Lyla."

"No shit, Sherlock." It's out before he can stop it, but she laughs, so it's all right. "Lyla and I--it's complicated."

"No shit, Sherlock." She grabs his chin, makes him look her square in the eye. "So how do we do this?"

He can feel himself flush. "I don't really know. They said it would be different now. Lyla bought a video--"

She laughs again, looks away. Her lips are really pink and he really wants to kiss them again, keep this feeling going. "I think we can do better than that." She grabs his hand, brings it up to her mouth. "These still work, right?" He nods and then gasps when she sucks the knuckle of his index finger into her mouth, tongue sliding around it like a snake, then nipping it with sharp white teeth before letting it slip out of her mouth.

It's not like he didn't know who he was dealing with, but knowing it, hearing about it from Tim, isn't the same as feeling it.

"Tyra."

"Not what you expected?" she asks, and then she's crossing her arms over her waist and pulling her tank top off, wicked smile disappearing and reappearing like the Cheshire cat. Her bra is flesh-colored, tan against tan skin, and the sight makes his mouth go dry.

"Little bit over my head," he manages, feeling like an idiot, and grateful that she knows him well enough not to care, "but I like it."

"Okay, then." She reaches back and unhooks her bra, lets it slide down her arms and then tosses it away. He brings his hands up, skimming over supple skin and firm flesh, palming nipples that ripen like hard little berries under his touch. "Good, Jay, that's good." And it is.

She squirms a little on his lap, lets her head fall back when he leans forward to lick and suck at her breasts, hands curled around her ribs, the ends of her hair sweeping over his skin like a summer breeze.

"I have an idea," she murmurs in his ear, tongue following her words and making him shiver. She stands, peels off her jeans and panties, and then climbs back into his lap, one leg dangling over the arm of the chair so she's spread out for him like a church buffet, but a thousand times more likely to get him sent to hell, all wet and pink and--

"Fuck, Tyra."

"Well, yeah, Jason, ain't that what you wanted?"

"Oh, it is. It really is. I just don't know--"

She grabs his hand, slides his knuckles along the slick skin of her pussy, and says, "Maybe the key to making you feel good is making me feel good."

"That's a sound theory," he says, finding her clit and rubbing his knuckles against it, easy at first, then harder when she gasps and grinds against him. "Definitely worth trying out."

He feels an ache in his chest, like he can't get enough air, and the air he does get smells like Tyra, salty and sweet at the same time, like the breeze off the ocean. Pressure's building up inside him, same sense of familiar strangeness to it, though his body's still not doing what it used to, and he's not sure what that means. More important to get Tyra off now, anyway, listen to her gasp and sigh his name into his mouth, feel her body ripple and clench around his fingers as she comes, skin flushed pink and eyes closed tight with pleasure.

She slumps against him, damp with sweat and heavy with satisfaction, and he feels a kind of pleasure in knowing he made her come undone, put that lazy, content smile on her face, even if it's not the same as if he'd come. He licks his fingers clean, and she laughs, soft and low, and it vibrates through him like thunder.

"Yeah," she says, "your hands still work, and your mouth." She stands up, pulls her clothes back on. "We can figure out the rest next time. Maybe watch your video."

"There's gonna be a next time?"

She looks uncertain for the first time. "If you want. I mean, what are friends for?"

"Friends?"

She ducks her head, tucks her hair behind her ear. "Yeah. I mean, aren't we--"

"Yeah, no, yeah. Okay." He grins at her. "Friends with benefits." He grabs her hand, kisses her knuckles. "Next time."

"Next time," she agrees, smiling back and nodding before she kisses him goodbye.

It's not true love or forever or anything like that--he wouldn't want it if it was--but it's a promise just the same, and Jason's all right with that.

end

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Disclaimer: Friday Night Lights and all its characters belong to various corporate entities who are not me. This fan-written fiction intends no copyright infringement .