Warning: This story contains a spanking.

"Dallas Herman Winston."

He bites his tongue at the dreaded mention of his middle name, hoping she'll kindly waltz away. C'mon, pretend I ain't here, Mrs. C. Go on back to bed, like you wanna. Yelling at him over whiskey is more trouble than he's worth.

"You put that down this instant," her voice knives the stale air, and to his horror, he obliges. One by one, he lifts his fingers off the bottle and whirls around to face her.

"Hey, Mrs. C, how's it goin'?" he asks, blushing as their eyes meet.

"It's two in the morning, Dallas," she states plainly. "You oughta be asleep, but instead you're stealing my husband's liquor?"

"I wanted to read the label," he mumbles, the best excuse his thirteen-year-old brain can produce.

"Better yet, why're you wearing your jacket and shoes?" she presses on with narrowed eyes.

"Figured it was 'bout time for me t'split," he tells her, shrugging. "Don't wanna overstay my welcome."

"Honey, you'll never overstay your welcome," she assures as he cringes—there's something equally infuriating and enduring in being called 'honey,' but mostly infuriating.

"Lemme get this straight, you were gonna leave with a bottle of whiskey you stole from us? At two in the morning?" She closes the distance between them and rests a hand on his back. "You have any idea how dangerous that is? For you to leave in the middle of the night, let alone drink, at your age? Dallas, you know better."

He grits his teeth. Now she's just pissing him off. "Well, I used to bum around New York in the middle of the night, and lemme tell ya, Tulsa ain't no New York."

"I don't care if it's Tulsa, New York, or small town in the middle of nowhere," she insists. "It's dangerous to go out at night no matter where or who you are."

For of love Christ, she sounds just like she's trying to be his mother or something, and how does she even live with her brain if this is the kind of shit she worries about? Who the hell has time to play mother to their kids' friends anyway? "Look, Mrs. C." He groans, trying to find the politest way possible to tell her to fuck off. "I appreciate your concern, I do, but I always carry a blade. Ain't nobody gonna mess with me."

"Except me," she replies, taking a gentle hold on his arm and leading him away from the liquor cabinet. "I'm afraid your choices have left me no choice but to treat you like one of my own, and I know exactly what I'd do if I caught one of my sons not only stealing booze, but trying to sneak out in the middle of the night—I'd put them right over my knee and spank them, and that's exactly what I intend to do to you."

Spank him? Really? He snorts at the thought and lets her drag him to the couch. Might as well let her whack him a couple times, so she'll leave him alone and go to bed. "Okay, Mrs. C," he says, suppressing a laugh. "Where to you want me?"

She sits down and points a finger at her lap. "Over my knee, and you better wipe that grin off your face. You won't be laughing in a minute."

He stares at her tiny hands and grins all over again. "Shit, ain't you gonna grab a belt first or something?"

"You watch your mouth, young man, and no, my hand'll do just fine."

"Suit yourself," he says, finally bending across, but only to humor her. "I just thought, you know, in case you wanted me to actually feel this or something."

"Dallas, I'm dead serious," she scolds and cracks him hard enough to make him wince, more from the shock than the pain.

"You will not steal liquor from us," she continues, laying a few more smacks. "Thirteen is far too young to drink, and so help me, you will not roam the streets of Tulsa by your lonesome, especially at night. I know you think you're tough, but honey, even the most hardened of criminals get shot sometimes."

Damn.

Damn.

He's supposed to be laughing this off, but then she has to go and make sense, and as the swats keep raining down, he finds himself stewing over her words. Christ, he doesn't know why. Ain't like she said nothing he didn't already know, but she just cares, and why he needs to go getting all sentimental about that, he don't know.

"I have to say I'm disappointed, Dallas," she says, voice heavy and hardened with the deepest concern. "The thing that bothers me the most is how willing you were so eager to dismiss your safety by running out in the middle of the night, and I'll have none of that. You're one tough kid, I'll give you that, but you are not too tough to go over my knee."

Fuck her. Really. Fuck. Her. He doesn't know why he suddenly wants to cry. The embarrassment? Certainly not the pain. Christ, a five year old girl could make a spanking hurt more than this, but tell that to the tears streaming down his cheeks.

She swats him a final time and rests her hand against his back. "It's over, hon," she speaks softly. "I hope this is the first and last time you find yourself in this position, but if I ever catch you doing anything so ridiculous again, I promise with God as my witness, I'll tan your hide no matter how old you are."

He gets up quickly and tries to scurry away before she notices the tears, but within two seconds, she catches him by the shoulder. "Oh no, you don't, you can't just walk away from me like that."

He wipes the wetness off his cheeks and grumbles, "What do you want me to apologize or something?" he snaps. "I'm sorry. I don't think I've ever honestly been this sorry, but I—"

"Dallas, I've seen every man in this house cry, even Mr. Curtis," she says with a sigh. "You don't have to hide your emotions from me."

Her words only break him harder, and as she turns him around and wraps him into an embrace, he might as well have been born female the way sobs escape his lungs.

"You don't have to be ashamed. Just let it all out." She squeezes him tighter and guides him back to the couch, keeping an arm around him as they sit. "You're not running off, not running away from your problems. That's why you wanted the liquor, wasn't it?"

He nods against her shoulder and reluctantly spills all about the fight he'd had with his old man earlier that week. My life ended the day you were born, his father had said. And your mother slept around so much, there's no guarantee you're even mine. Just like him—spewing shit he don't mean when his blood's half whiskey, but sometimes Dallas swears booze only gives him the courage to say what's always on his mind.

"Drinking and running away isn't the answer, kiddo," Mrs. C says, practically cradling him in her arms the way she often did her own children. "Next time something like this happens, you come find me right away, all right? Don't let it drag on and wind up over my knee first."

"About that …" He grimaces. "You ain't gonna tell nobody, are ya?"

"No one in this house would make fun of you if that's what you worried about," she replies. "Darry, Soda, and Pony have all been on the wrong side of my palm at one point or another, but of course, baby, this'll be our secret."

One they'll both take to their graves.