Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders
A/N: Dally's POV, so copious amounts of swearing ensues.
x
"Where are they?"
"Jesus, how many different ways you want me to say it, Soda? I. Don't. Fuckin'. Know."
Soda smirks like he's a snap of a thread away from losing his shit. He's watching him like a hawk while clutching onto the kid's sweater like it's a goddamn assault rifle.
Now, Dally's seen him angry before. He's seen his eyes blazing.
But he can count on one hand the amount of times Soda's been this Hulked out.
If Dally was a betting man, which he is, he'd wager that if he stood up right then, Soda'd be on his ass like a gook in the Jungle.
Not that he couldn't take him, but his head was throbbing courtesy of a cop's baton kissing his temple good morning the other day, and he needs a stiff drink, not a stiff right hook.
He figures he'll try to sidestep Soda's wrath long enough to fully wake up.
"You waitin' for me to say it in Spanish?"
Dally lights up.
Soda fumes.
"I'm waitin' for you to cut the bullshit, Dal."
Mother of Christ.
It's easy to handle Soda when he's tipping over the edge of recklessness at a rodeo, or prancing around like a half-crocked idiot.
It's a headache and a half sometimes, sure, but it's still half a headache less than dealing with Soda on the rag.
When his anger lands down, it rocks the fucking equilibrium of the universe for a shaky minute.
That's just it, though-it burns away quickly.
I'll wait the bastard out.
-Even if Dally's at the top of his own list of least patient people he knows, and that's saying a hell of a lot since he considers Steve-spitfire-Randle a good buddy.
"What the fuck you want me to say, Sodapop? I got into it with Shepard that night. Tried to sleep it off. Woke up yesterday to the fuzz poundin' down the door an' draggin' my ass to the station over some dead piece of shit soc in the park. That fat dipshit of a cop-"
"-You told him they were in Texas. Which we both know they ain't. So why'd you lie to the fuzz, hmm? You musta been throwin' them off, so I reckon they're in Kansas by now."
"You think I lied to the fuzz 'cause I really know where the kids are?"
Dally snorts.
"No, you lied to the fuzz 'cause that's what we do. But you fuckin' know, all the same."
He shakes the sweater in front of him for emphasis.
Dally tilts his head back and sighs out at the ceiling.
Chrissakes. Why didn't I throw that fuckin' thing out when I had the chance.
Truthfully, it never occurred to Dally that Soda would have recognized it, so he never bothered to toss it.
But Soda stalked in the room that morning, his eyes briefly meeting Dally's before whipping around the room and landing on the sweater.
He was sniffing around like a hound dog the second he stepped foot in there.
And he found a scent, so he wasn't going to make it easy.
"Like I said-"
"-You're full of shit, Dally, you know that?..."
Dally tenses.
"...I figure there ain't any fucker in Tulsa as full-a shit as you."
Soda violently chucks the sweatshirt at him like a grenade.
On reflex, Dally deflects it from his face and snatches it into his lap.
"What the fuck, Curtis?!" His voice is thin, cracking ice.
Soda inhales deeply, looking as ready for a fight as Dallas' ever seen him.
It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to leap up and belt him across the face.
If these were different circumstances, he would.
He catches himself before his fist can clench and drain the blood from his knuckles.
And that's more restraint than Dally's shown in a long time.
Then again, his buddies aren't usually the ones testing his patience, not unless their name starts with 'Tim' and ends with 'fuckin' Shepard.'
He taps the ashes from his cigarette onto the floor, as Soda watches him, nearly unblinking.
Take a deep breath, Winston. He's your buddy an' we're all in one clusterfuck of a mess.
One, two, kumbaya an' all that other hippie shit.
No, he wouldn't be the one to take the first swing. Not today. Soda'd have to do it.
"...You wanna hit me, go ahead. I can take it. But I ain't fuckin' fightin' ya, man."
He figures that once he's landed a few solid punches, he'll be calm enough to talk down, or at least calm enough that he'll wheel back around and stalk outta there the same way he came, leaving Dally to tend to another mounting headache.
Because that's the thing about Sodapop. His emotions flip on and off like wildfire. Dally can keep himself in a functional rage for days.
Sure…Sylvia would call it sociopathy.
Semantics, right?
But Soda...Soda's anger sweeps down, touches home base, and then strikes out just as quickly.
Even when he fights, he only stays angry enough to amp himself up for the contest. After that, he works off of pure adrenaline and a high of energy.
"Will it get you talkin' if I did?"
Soda wipes at the growing line of sweat on his brow as Dally rubs a tired hand over his face.
He stubs out the remaining filter on the heel of his boot and calculates his options.
He can continue denying that he knows anything, the reeking pile of bullshit hovering and continuously stinking up the space between them, or he can tell Soda without really telling him.
Either way he doesn't rat, and his hands remain (relatively) clean, though calloused.
Because if it wasn't obvious before, it's obvious now that they've pushed passed the awkward deadlock, and they both know it.
They've been playing a game of chicken all morning—one where neither stubborn ass participant is willing to budge or bite.
Dally won't budge, so Soda has to bite.
It's basic arithmetic, Dally figures.
He gets up cautiously and leans against the window pane, wishing he'd taken the 315 out of this shit barbecue.
Goddamn little shits.
"Answer me, Dal. Is my fist meetin' your nose gonna get you talkin'?"
Soda shifts his weight to one side.
"You ain't dumb, Soda. What do you think? Sock me a good one if it'll make you feel better, but I can't tell you shit."
"No, no. Can't ain't a part of your vocabulary, Dally. It ain't ever been."
Dally's smirk comes out as a sort of grimace.
Can't say you don't know me.
"I won't tell you. I can't tell you. Makes no difference. Point is, I ain't talkin', so start swinging or get the fuck outta here."
Come on, man. Get it outta your system so I can fuckin' go back to sleep.
For a long moment, Soda just stares.
And stares.
And stares.
And then he strikes.
He slams Dally so hard against the window, it nearly cracks under the impact.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Curtis! You wanna pay for a brand new window?!"
Dally's still expecting a real blow, but it doesn't come the way he thinks it will.
"Damn it, shut the fuck up, Dally! You think this is a goddamn joke? It's my kid brother we're talkin' about here…it's Johnny…"
Something in the way Soda says his name pummels Dally somewhere behind his chest cavity.
He grabs Soda's collar and shoves him off in one quick motion.
"Don't fuckin' say his name like it don't mean somethin' to me, motherfucker!"
But Soda's ready to volley back.
"Does it, asshole? Coulda fooled me."
Pushing at Dally's pressure point is risky. But Soda's always been reckless.
Dally takes a tense, ominous step forward.
"Fuck you, Curtis! Get the fuck outta here before I forget you're my buddy."
He spits it out with as much venom as he can muster.
Want me to count to ten, Soda?
Soda's quiet for a moment, as he stares at Dally, who's dangerously close to cracking.
His breathing is unsteady.
But now, Soda's desperation is starting to brew, replacing his stubborn vitriol.
He shakes his head manically and words comes flooding out, temporarily plugging in Dally's growing rage.
"That's just it, Dal. You're supposed to be my buddy..our buddy...they could be anywhere an' we don't know nothin.' Darry's walkin' around like a zombie. He don't eat. He don't sleep, and I ain't much better. Jesus, we're worryin' ourselves sick an' you're sittin' here actin' like all this is nothin'...you know where they are, Dally, so just fuckin' tell me. Just tell-"
Soda twitches slightly and his face contorts in sudden anguish. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to fight back whatever is willing itself out of him.
There goes your anger, Curtis.
And Dally reluctantly finds himself letting go of his own.
Dally doesn't do well with sadness of any kind, but in his own way, Soda doesn't either.
Not when he's the one wandering in its parameters like a lost puppy.
Soda leans back and rests a hand on the dresser.
All Dally does is watch as he works to compose himself. There's nothing left to say and, again, they both know it.
In Dally's experience, when there's nothing left to say, the silence becomes deafening.
So, he sighs stiffly, takes a step forward, and fills it in with a question that's been itching at him since Soda showed up in a frenzy.
"You gonna get Darry on my ass, now? 'Cause I could sure as shit use a warnin' if Muscles is gonna come after me."
Soda rubs a heavy hand on his face. His voice is unusually quiet. He has a look on his face that makes Dally want to hit something.
"All the fight's gone outta him, Dal."
Dally grimaces. That doesn't sit right with him. He'd rather have Darry come at him like a territorial grizzly than have him walking around lifeless, waiting for the trumpets to sound.
Fuckin' Christ, it's a brave new world.
Dally rubs at his mouth and pulls out another cigarette, offering it to Soda.
He takes it almost greedily.
"Listen, Dally..."
Not this shit again, Soda, I swear to God I'm gonna throw you out the window you were so eager to break against me.
"I know you ain't gonna tell me where they are, whether I break a few bones or not..."
He takes a rather pathetic drag from the cigarette. There isn't much fight left in him either.
"But I gotta know, are they OK? Was Ponyboy hurt...? Look, there was a huge struggle..."
Dally can feel the beginnings of an eye roll pushing its way into existence, so he cuts in.
"Soda, I wouldn't send the kids packin' if they were on their damn deathbeds. Glory! They were fine."
"But Ponyboy..."
"Is a tough kid. Besides, he's got Johnny watchin' out for him, don't he?"
Soda taps at the butt of his Kool, eyeing the embers like they hold some sort of magic answers that Dally isn't giving him to this clusterfuck of a problem.
It's rare for Dally to cave, but he figures he owes his buddy something more.
"Jesus, Sodapop. Want me to wrap you in a hug or some shit? Look, I ain't lyin,' alright. They came here practically beggin' for help. I gave 'em fifty bucks and a safe way out. They were both alright. I made damn sure of it."
Soda whips his eyes up to meet Dally's mildly irate grin.
For a second, Dally thinks he's going to get pummeled by frantic pleas.
I wiped their asses, tucked them into bed and read them a lullaby .That what you wanna hear?
But Soda finally cracks a smile. It's listless and slight, but it's honest.
"Guess it's a good thing they came to you, huh?"
He doesn't move his eyes off him.
Dally's unsure of what to say.
Shit, don't go all pussy on me, Soda.
He rubs a hand on the back of his neck for good measure.
"Yeah, been a real riot havin' to get all you motherfuckers off my back."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
Soda looks at him for a moment, silent understanding on his face, and then turns towards the door.
But before Dally can run a hand through his hair and mutter a curse towards the heaven's for giving him a week of shitty headaches, Soda opens his mouth again.
"There's one thing you gotta do for me, Dal. And don't be a prick about it, neither. Come by the house at aroun' 7. I gotta write down a note for Pony. You're gonna give it to him along with half my paycheck."
If it's one thing Dally hates, it's being told what to do, by anyone.
You're gonna. You will. You have too.
All these orders set off a flame in the back of his head that threatens at triggering an explosion.
Hearing them feels too much like being in a cage without being in a cage.
Dally hates it.
But though Soda's voice is nightstick wielding prison guard steel, his eyes are pleading.
Shit. If it'll get ya to stop lookin' at me with that miserable fuckin' look on your face, I'll bite.
"I'll do it, but it ain't 'cause you're tellin' me too, Curtis."
"Why then?"
"'Cause I want ya to get outta here so I can get some damn sleep. Jesus. Worse than dealin' with Sylvia's nagging when I have a damn hangover."
Soda doesn't attempt a smile or a real goodbye. He simply nods and stalks off down the hallway and out of Buck's.
Dally stands at the doorway for a moment, thinking about what a shit-storm the last three days have been.
Fuckin' redhead broad at the drive-in. Her fuckin' drunk ass sack a shit boyfriend an' his carpetsucking sack a shit buddies. A real fuckin' idiotic 2 AM stroll through the park, an' here we are, fuckers. Welcome to Shitfest Tulsa. Tickets are free, hallelujah.
He lets out a low growl as his eyes travel to the sweatshirt on the bed.
Fuckin' sweatshirt. It caused me a whole different headache, kid. Thanks for that.
He moves towards it with indignation, cocksure now's a good as time as any to chuck it.
Yet, after he takes hold of it, he finds himself draping it over the edge of the bed instead.
It's just a damn shirt. Not worth the walk it's gonna take to dump it.
But even as Dally collapses into the bed, ready to drown out the last three days, a part of him knows that he'll be keeping it around.
He isn't sentimental, by any means. He'd probably belt the guy who'd open his mouth to suggest it, but he figures the kid might want it back some day, once Shitfest Tulsa ends and things go back to the way they were.
'Cause kid, I'm gonna want my jacket again someday too. So you better not fuckin' mess it up, neither.
He smirks somewhat grimly into his pillow, as sleep begins to quiet the throbbing in his temples.