disclaim: We don't own anything; it all belongs to Hinton. We do own Robin, however. Lyrics are Gatsby's American Dream "Theatre."
A/N: After Dally slashes Tim's tires.
Different Names (for the Same Game)
". . .We're in the deep pockets of my mind/Where I lust after blood and pain. . . "
It was a cold day in hell when things went right for Tim, and as he threw away his empty pack of matches, he knew today was not one of those days.
Buck's old T-Bird was idling outside of the convenience store his ex-girlfriend worked at, and it made his blood boil. It reminded Tim of his own slashed tires, and how he'd pick up Robin after she was done her shift, and they'd go back to his place – because no one was ever home anymore – or fuck around at Buck's. Most of the time they ended up at his place; Robin hated anything to do with Buck.
The horn from the car blared, and Tim glared at the arrogant fuck sitting behind its wheel with a smug look on his face – as if he owned the whole fucking world.
"What the fuck are you doin' here, Tim?" he spat as he stepped out and slammed the car door shut behind him.
"Walkin'," Tim said coolly, and scowled. "Do I gotta spell it out for you?"
"Don't gimme that shit." Dally ran a hand through his hair and threw a look over his shoulder. "You can't even spell."
Tim shrugged and leaned against a mailbox; he could spell better than a lot of people.
"Why don'tcha go in and get her?"
Dally pulled a face, tapping a cigarette from its carton, and scratched off the top of a match as he walked around to the front end of the car, and leaned up against its hood. He flicked the spent stick at Tim and chuckled.
"Fuck that, man," he snapped. "And don't take that literal, either."
Tim raised an eyebrow, shifting against the mailbox. "Huh?" He sounded as if he were thinking real hard, glowering at Dally. "Suit y'rself, man, but you're missin' out." He licked his bottom lip and chuckled slightly, turning to peer through one of the store's windows.
"Y' know why she broke up with you, Tim?" Dally asked, his smile sharp. "Said it was like havin' sex with a brick wall." He pushed himself away from the hood, taking a step toward Tim.
Tim turned to Dally, eyebrow raised. "You wanna find out or somethin'?" he challenged, rolling up his sleeves. He didn't care, really – Dally was only dating her because he knew it'd piss Tim off.
"Fuckin' queer," Dally muttered, and scratched the back of his neck. "Guess it's Robin's fault, ain't it? You oughta try fuckin' a girl sometime soon."
"When was the last time you fucked a girl, huh, wiseass?" Tim bit, hand fisting at the blonde's collar.
Dallas smirked, dropped the butt of his smoke, and stubbed it out with the heel of his chucks, letting his fists ball at his sides. "Why, man, they cuttin' in on what you want?"
"Hit me," Tim challenged. "Fuckin' do it; your probation officer would love ya for it. Hell, you'd even get to show everyone you were right."
The smirk dropped from Dally's face as his eyes narrowed, and he tried to stuff down the sudden throbbing urge to send a closed fist into Tim's gut. He clenched his fists tighter, his nails digging into his palms, forcing himself to calm the fuck down – he would not let Tim get to him.
"Fuckin' say it again," he growled, "I dare you."
Behind them, Robin walked out of the store, bags in hand and a scowl on her face. She knew what could – would – happen.
"You gonna help me with this stuff or what, Dallas? It is for you, y' know."
Tim grinned darkly as Dallas ripped himself out of the iron-like grip Tim had him in. He wasn't about to fuck everything up over some stupid cock sucker like Tim.
"I ain't gotta say it again, Dallas," Tim mocked, and rubbed the back of his knuckles over unshaven stubble. He brushed a thumb over the tip of his nose and chuckled as he turned to leave. "Couldn't even hit me."
Dallas shook his head and ran his tongue over his bottom lip; Tim just made a fucking mistake. Dallas wheeled around and grabbed Tim, slamming his back against a brick wall, hard enough to knock the wind right of him. He brought back a closed fist and punched Tim between the eyes. He stepped back, shaking out his hand, and grinned. Hitting Tim had felt good – almost liberating in a sense – normal.
"Couldn't hit you, huh?" He shoved his hands in his pockets, walking away to help Robin.
Robin shook her head, scowling at him and the smirk on his face.
"What'd you need help with, babe?"
Wiping the blood from his nose, Tim blinked the stars and spots from his eyes. He didn't mind being hit in the face; it proved his point—that he knew how people worked, and knew that they never changed. People would always do what he said; it was a fact of life.
Tim picked himself up, and wished that Dally was more than just some arrogant fuck, always doing what people said. That way, he might win one of these days. He didn't mind Dally though, he thought as he tapped his last cigarette from its carton and stuck it between his teeth.
In fact, he almost liked the stupid shit. . .
"Winston!" he called. "Y' got a light?"
Dally smirked with grim satisfaction. Yeah, he had a light – there was a whole book of matches in his back pocket.
Tim watched Robin scowl at Dallas as he kissed her on the cheek obnoxiously. "You just had to punch him, didn't you?" she hissed. "You couldn't just let it go!"
Smiling, Dally dug into his back pocket for the book. "Aw, Robin," he whispered, "there ain't even any hard feelin's." Dallas turned and faced Tim, tossing the matches at him. "Sure, man, I got 'em."
The book dropped at Tim's feet, and he grinned as he picked it up. As he drug a match across the back of the book, he thought about how funny – and sickly gratifying – it'd be if the top popped off and set Dally's shirt on fire. He held the book out for Dally to take, his head and nose still throbbing.
Tim's hand lashed out, and he wrapped his fingers around Dally's wrist, and pressed the lit end of his cigarette into the tow-head's arm.
The smell of burning flesh quickly invaded the air, and Dally gritted his teeth. It wasn't the first time he'd experience that – his old man had done the same thing when he'd first found out about Dally's smoking habits.
Dally found Tim's stare and held it, not letting him have the satisfaction of knowing he had the upper hand – he'd be damned if he let on that it hurt like a fucking bitch. He grabbed onto Tim's free arm, pressed fingers into the bone, and jabbed a knee into Tim's gut. The dull sound made Robin turn around as Dally sent a kick into the guy's ribs.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Robin muttered, hurrying over to Tim, and shot daggers at Dally. "You've gotta be friggin' kidding me!"
Tim waved her off and picked himself up; it was nothing he hadn't felt before. It was hardly as bad as that time he got jumped by all those Socs – in truth, it didn't even compare – but it still stung. He straightened up, smiling at Robin a little, and narrowed his eyes at Dally. He moved quickly, sending an elbow into Dally's chest, a knee into his gut, and a fist into his ribcage.
Tim picked Dally up, and threw him into a brick wall – the kid didn't weigh much. He slipped an arm behind the blonde's head, and a forearm over his throat, clamping down like a vice to wood. He watched Dally struggled, thrashing against him.
Tim leaned in, his mouth nearly against Dally's ear. "You've got three seconds before I break your fucking neck."
"Tim!" Robin shrieked, trying to push her way between the two of them. "Stop it, c'mon!"
He didn't give, he just pressed harder, watching Dallas gradually move less and less.
"Tim, please!" Robin screamed. "Cut it out!"
Tim gave, letting a dark chuckle pass his lips as Dallas slid down, against the wall, with shallow, grating breaths.
Robin stared between the two of them as Dally picked himself up, wide-eyed. As much as she still liked Tim – missed him, even – her loyalties were with Dally, and that was where they'd stay. She'd seen them fight – most everyone had – but this was out of hand. Dally had just seen his probation officer not even three hours ago.
"What the hell was that?" she asked, her voice quiet and body shaking.
Dally swallowed hard, leaning against the wall as cool as ever, and pulled his pack of smokes out of his shirt sleeve. He liked the feel of them against his arm; it was comforting in an odd way. "It ain't nothin' you need to worry about," he told her, and coughed slightly.
"One-a these days, Winston, you ain't gonna have someone around to save your ass." Tim winked at Robin, turning on the scuffed heel of his boot. "Course there ain't any hard feelin's, though," he said, stepping on Dally's matchbook. "Ain't never any fuckin' feelings."
Tim stalked off, heading back in the direction he came from. He thought about Dally, and what a ruthless fuck he could be, and Tim wondered exactly how many people Robin had already kept him from killing. Robin didn't understand – she never would. It was all a fucking game to them. She called it insanity – called it crazy, and stupid, and immature.
Tim reached into his back pocket and pulled out his lighter with a dark smile.
It didn't matter what she called it; Tim and Dallas were still playing the same game.
And Tim was winning.
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