A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! (Looks through them) Ooh, look! Flames! Wow, you guys are so supportive! You guys know you can click the little 'back' button and leave the page right?
And to Nightingale, I appreciate all of your support and help. Without your tips, this fan fiction would never have gotten put up here 0.o You're a real friend :)
dirtISkrazy - thanks for your help, and for not minding all my questions. Here's chapter 4! :)
I realize also that I haven't been posting the infamous disclaimer.
This applies to all chapters: I do not own Jim Hawkins, Dallas Winston, or any characters from their respective fandoms. Only my original characters(the ones you've never heard of before) and the plot belong to me.
And if anyone has any ideas for a horse's name other than 'India Man', sharing is caring! Lol, on with the story.
-SilverEyes
Chapter 4
"And in gate four, with an unexpected winning streak, is the Slash J's India Man, as well as their favorite stand-in jockey, Dallas Winston." Dallas gripped the reins in one hand as India pawed the ground irately. Something was wrong. His breathing was all wrong, his ears were back. Dallas had ridden India before. The horse was usually the first one out of the gates, even if he'd always come in second or third. But now there was something wrong. He should have seen it earlier. No wonder the horse had shied away from him. India stamped his hooves and nickered as he chewed at the bit in his mouth.
"Easy, boy, easy." Dallas said, trying to soothe him. "It's alright, boy, shh."
"Winston!" Dallas turned to see the Slash J's manager off to the side. Dallas bit his lip. India had a lot of money riding on this race. But if Dallas was right, and there was something wrong with the horse, it would be better to pull out now. He waved the manager over, and when he got nearer to the gates, he explained the horse's condition. The man looked annoyed.
"You expect me to believe that he's sick? Eddie ran him this morning, and he was fine!" Dallas glared at him as the horse tossed it's head, obviously agitated.
"Look, man, I just think that-"
"You're being paid to race him, Dally, not doctor him." With that, the man walked away. Dallas rolled his eyes, and pulled India back into position. All bets had been placed, and the announcer's voice had died away. The bell rang, and the gates were thrown open. India, a true racehorse at heart, burst forward with the others. At first, they stayed with the pack. The roar of the crowds, the sound of hooves thundering on the track, and India's irregular breathing were all Dallas could hear. He urged the horse forward, and they broke away from the pack, rounding the bend. It was India and another top racehorse, named Lighting Bolt, tied for first. Both horses were running flat-out, neither showing any signs of slowing, neck and neck with the competition.
Then India bucked.
Had Dallas not been an experienced rider, he'd have easily been thrown off the horse and possibly trampled to death by the other horses. As it was, though, he felt the horse's movements a split-second before they happened, a skill learned from riding saddle bronc. Dallas gripped the reins and held on as India threw his back legs into the air, then reared up on them, pawing the open air. Other riders and their mounts steered around the spooked horse, narrowly missing them. Dallas didn't let go of his breath until the last horse, at the very back, had shot past them. A bell rang, and the crowd cheered for the winners, and some of the special trainers ran out onto the track to get a hold of India. He was braying and still bucking, and despite his efforts, Dallas couldn't calm him down. They had to pull him off of India's back, and even then he refused to leave the horse.
"I told you there was something wrong with 'em!" he shouted at the trainer, who ignored him but grew quite red in the face. Ignoring the jeers of the winner's fans and the other shouts of the people gathered near the exit, Dallas led a still-anxious India back to the stables. He held him there and didn't leave until a vet showed up. India had calmed considerably, but it was obvious he was still out of sorts. After checking him over, the vet walked over to the feed bins and pulled the lid off.
"What's wrong with him?" Dallas asked. The trainer shoved him back a step.
"You hush up, I'll ask the questions here!" he snapped, then turned to the vet. "What's wrong with him?" Dallas' anger flared, but for the moment he pushed it aside and looked at the vet, who was letting the feed run through his fingers as he examined it.
"It's colic. How was he this morning? Feverish? Did he eat anything?"
"Yeah, his normal amount. Colic? How is that possible? He's been fine all day!"
"The symptoms take awhile to show. But it's definitely colic." Dallas left the two men to the horse, and went straight to India's trailer. Inside was a feedbag that the horse had been wearing when he'd gotten to the track. Dallas picked it up and poured some of the grain out in his hand. In the sparse light of the parking lot, a sliver of green caught his attention. It felt leathery between his fingers, and it smelled sweet. He brought the feedbag back to the vet, who took the leaves.
"Yep, there's your answer. Oleander. That'll make any horse sick." he said disdainfully. "Looks like India here was sabotaged. Who fed him this morning?" The trainer was about to answer him when another man ran into the room.
"Lucky's sick, doc! Come take a look at him, will you?" The vet picked up his bag and left before Dallas or the trainer could say anything else. When he was gone, the trainer shook his head.
"That's what you get for racing horses in a place like this." he muttered, watching Dallas unsaddle the horse. "Riffraff like your kind screwin' up the horses like this." Dallas's cold gaze turned to him.
"What do you mean, my kind?"
"A couple of no-good kids were feeding the horses this morning, that's what I mean!" the man snapped. "'Cept of course they dressed better than you. Must've been from the rich side of town. All attitude and throwing things around like they owned the place!" Dallas paused.
The owner of Lighting Bolt was a man who worked at a bank on the west side. A Soc if he'd ever seen one. And he had a son, whom Dallas had seen lurking around before the race. The family boasted that they only ran their horses for sport, and that they donated their winnings to local charities, but Dallas knew better.
"They still here?"
"The winner and his family are celebrating in the conference room." the trainer snorted. "Rich cheats." Dallas, who had finished rubbing India down by this point, dropped the brush and started off in the direction of the parking lot. "Hey, where do you think you're going, punk? Someone's gotta tell Bucky, and it ain't gonna be-" Dallas turned and knocked him flat on his back, barely breaking his stride. As the trainer sat swearing on the ground, Dally continued on his way.
Dallas loved very few things. Racing was one of them. While he cheated on girls, stole from store clerks, rolled drunks and basically showed no respect for anyone or anything else, he never cheated at horse racing. He loved the adrenaline rush when the horse burst through the gates. He loved feeling the horse's muscles flex underneath him as it ran. And winning was ok, too. Personally, Dallas didn't care if he won. He could deal with losing, even if it meant not getting a paycheck. He pretended to care, though. If he didn't he'd lose his job. But normally he was happy either way. Racing was almost sacred to him.
The only thing that set Dallas off, truly, when he lost was if someone else had rigged the race for it to turn out that way. He cornered them as they were climbing into their car, and threw the leaves he'd found in one boy's face.
"Came to thank you for your little gift." he said, smiling dangerously. The first one just stared at him, but the other one made the mistake of getting up in Dally's face.
"Get outta here, greaser." he laughed. "You and your colt didn't even finish. Isn't that enough of an embarrassment for one day?" Dallas grinned.
"Nope, don't think so." The other Soc climbed out of the car.
"I think he's asking for a fight, Rod." he said, circling behind Dallas. Rod smirked.
"I think you're right, Billy." He shoved Dallas with the tips of his fingers. "You just walked into-" Dallas slugged him, then turned on Billy. Both Soc's were roughly eighteen or nineteen, just a couple of high school kids jerking around, thinking they were the hottest thing in town. It took him maybe ten minutes before he had them both out cold. The two of them wouldn't know what hit them. Just a couple of wet-behind-the-ear, snot-nosed, trust fund brats. But nobody messed with Dallas. Nobody.
Billy moved to pull his phone from his pocket, and yelped. Yep, his arm was definitely sprained, if not worse. He slowly picked himself up, whimpering. Rodney was sitting against one of the cars, smoking a cigarette.
"Rod, my wallet's gone!" he said as he noticed its absence. Rodney spit on the grass.
"Filthy greaser took all our cash." he muttered. Billy winced. Aside from their tainted winnings, he'd had about a hundred and fifty dollars. He was supposed to deliver it to his father that night.
"Your ol' man's gonna kill you." Rodney said, unsympathetically, when Billy told him. Billy winced. He should have known.
"Help me up, Rod."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"Filthy hood broke my leg."
"Oh." For a moment neither said anything. Then,
"We'll get him back. Just wait. We'll get him back." Billy stood up shakily, then held his good arm out to his buddy.
"Don't ya reckon we should just leave him alone?" Rodney ground his teeth as he handed Billy the keys and climbed into the car.
"He's just a greaser, Bill."
"He's Dallas flippin' Winston!"
"So what?" Rodney snapped. Billy fell silent. "He's just a common hood. And any hood ain't no match for me."
"But how would we go about getting back at him?"
"Every hood's gotta have some weakness." Rodney winced as he set his leg on the floor of the car. "We'll find his."
Little did he know that just as he said this, Dallas was pushing Jim's bangs away from his face, careful not to wake him up. It was late, and the kid had school the next day, but Dallas half wished they could talk now. Jim had walked through the front door that night to find an empty house. On the coffee table he'd found the note that Dallas had left, saying he'd gone over to Buck's and that he'd be back soon. Apparently, he'd switched on the TV and had eventually fallen asleep. Dallas turned off the TV and the lights, and went to bed. It didn't seem right to him, to miss his son for a race, but he'd had his back against a wall. What was I supposed to do? he thought bitterly. It's not like I wanted to ditch him. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. He needed help. And he knew just the person to ask.
"I don't know what to do. I'm not cut out to be a dad. When his mom was around, it was easy. But now that it's just me…it's…hard."
"I know it is, Dal." Johnny said, trying to comfort his friend. As soon as he'd woken up to an empty house, Dallas had gone to talk with Johnny. The two of them were in the Cade's kitchen, Dallas staring out the back window, and Johnny sitting at a small table with a cup of coffee. Dallas ran his hands through his hair anxiously, and turned to his friend.
"He left for school this morning before I got up."
"Why didn't you talk to him last night?"
"Well, I was gonna. But…"
"But?" Johnny challenged, raising one eyebrow. Dallas shrugged.
"Buck called last night, pulled me into a race." Johnny rolled his eyes.
"Aw, Dallas-"
"Hey, it was a last-minute emergency. I didn't have a choice, alright?" Dallas snapped. Johnny Cade shot him a look.
"You always have a choice, Dally. Just like anybody else. I know you think Buck would fire ya, but maybe it'd be better that way." Dallas turned to him, bewildered.
"How d'you figure?" Johnny shook his head, a bemused smile on his face. Dallas glared back at him. "What?"
"Dallas, get a job." he said with a laugh. "A real job. One that you can make a decent, honest living at, like the rest of us." Dallas still glared at him.
"Are you sayin' I cheat on those races?"
"Not hardly." Johnny put his coffee down. "Listen, Dallas. When my kids were born, I was working part time at the Dingo, and Alice was working at a grocery store. When we found out she was pregnant, I got a real job. Steve and Soda have gotten better with their's, and they do alright stayin' mechanics. Darry still works construction. Pony teaches. We all got real jobs, but you're still living the way you did when me and Pony were in high school." Dallas shrugged.
"So? I'm doing just fine."
"Dallas. You ditched your kid for a horse." Dally closed his eyes.
"When you say it like that, it sounds bad."
"That's because it is bad." Dallas groaned.
"Well, what am I gonna do? With the reputation I have, nobody's gonna give me a job around here. Besides, I don't…really…have any skills." he said with a sigh, and dropped into a chair. "I don't know what I'm doing." Johnny thought for a minute.
"Well, I wouldn't say that you don't have any skills. You like working with horses, right?"
"Well, yeah, but you just said-"
"No, no." Johnny waved off the argument. "I was talking about racing 'em. But you take care of 'em pretty good, too, don't you?" Dallas sat up a little straighter. He always made sure that whatever horse he'd ridden had been put away properly after every race. He brushed them down, like he had India Man the night before, gave them water, and if it was cold enough he hunted up a blanket for them.
"Yeah…?"
"Well, why don't you ask Buck if the Slash J is looking for new guys to help out with the horses? Plus, having someone like you around their stables would keep any unwanted visitors away." Dallas thought it over. He didn't like the idea of getting, what Johnny referred to as, a 'real job'. It meant commitment, and getting up early and showing up on time and answering to someone else. He did well with none of those things.
"Come on, Johnny, I can manage the way I-"
"You're gonna lose him, Dal." Johnny said, suddenly very serious. "You've already been to court twice since he got here. It's a wonder you're still free, and he's still with you. You know your probation officer is gonna start asking questions sooner or later." Dallas winced. Johnny was right. He couldn't afford to be reckless, especially if it meant losing Jim. He gave a defeated sigh.
"Alright." he said, giving in. "I'll ask him."
"You wanna do what now?" Dallas leaned back in his chair, holding Buck Merril's glazed-over gaze. Buck was wasted. Hardly ever what Dallas would call 'sober', he'd decided he might as well talk to him while it was fresh on his mind.
The downside, unfortunately, was that he'd had to bring Jim.
"You brought a kid with you?" Buck had asked, none too happily, when he'd first spotted Jim. "The last time you dragged some of those kid greasers over here I got searched by the cops." Dally just shrugged.
"This one won't cause any trouble." Dallas had said, and sent Jim a look. He was right, Jim wouldn't cause any trouble; He feared Dallas' wrath too much to risk it. Buck seemed to believe him and they over to a somewhat private table in the far corner of the room. Jim took the hint and stayed by the bar.
A girl somewhere in her twenties was eyeing him closely. He sat down on a barstool, suddenly feeling very wary of his situation. He couldn't help but notice...she was wearing shorts. Not just any shorts. These shorts barely had enough material to cover her. She wore a low-cut pink blouse with tiny black stars on it. Very low cut. She was a blonde, with amazingly dark brown eyes. She winked at him, and he looked away. He knew about girls like her, who hung around places like this. Nothing but trouble. He knew from seeing it first-hand, too. Back home there were always stories of the women that hung around the taverns, and the trail of heartbroken spacers they'd left in their wake. She was no different, other than her clothes. So at first he ignored her.
This became increasingly difficult to do when she suddenly appeared right in front of him.
"Hey, sweetie," she drawled. Jim jumped, and nearly toppled off the barstool. He stared at her as she leaned in closer to him. "You're a cute one."
"Um…" he said, and tried to back away. "I, uh…"
"How old are you?" she asked, batting her eyelashes.
"S-sixteen...ahem." He said, and cleared his throat. She moved next to him, and put her head on his shoulder.
"Mmm...you're just a kid, aren't you?" she breathed into his ear. He felt a chill run down his spine, and he lightly pushed her away.
"Look, not to be rude or anything, but I've already got a girlfriend." She looked slightly more interested, and he could have slapped himself.
"Is she here? I don't see her…" she purred, and literally thrust herself at him. He shoved her away.
"I said back off!" he snapped. Months of living with Dallas gave him that much nerve. He lost it, though, when she slapped him across the face.
"Fine!" she hissed at him, and strutted away. It hadn't really hurt. But being slapped by a woman in public was embarrassing, and there were quite a few other guys around. Laughter filled the room, and one man shouted,
"Definitely Dallas' kid!" Jim rolled his eyes, shoved his hands into his pockets and went back to the barstool. Half-leaning, half-sitting, he waited for Dallas.
He was wearing an old pair of Darry's jeans, a white t-shirt that had belonged to Ponyboy, a light-blue flannel over shirt that had been Soda's, and a black pair of sneakers that had also belonged to him. Around his waist, the only thing keeping the large pair of jeans on was his old belt. He stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowd. These weren't just greasers. These were hoods and tramps.
When Dallas finally came back, Jim was so lost in his thoughts he didn't realize it until his father had had walked out the front door. Jim hurried to catch up with Dallas, and as a result ran smack into his back. Dallas turned to him, and laughed suddenly.
"What'd you do to your face?" He asked. Jim blushed.
"...some dumb blonde got in my face." He muttered. Dallas laughed again, and Jim let the gap between them grow.
The Dingo was buzzing with activity when they got there. Greasers and middlers had the restaurant packed out, and trying to find a parking space would've been murder. Luckily, they hadn't come by car. Gage was standing around with Darry and Soda Curtis, laughing and joking around with Rontamel. Darry just rolled his eyes in annoyance. Jim didn't dislike Darry, but he'd rather be with anyone else in the gang. Darry was all-business. Well, most of the time. And he tended to be too strict.
"Hey, man!" Gage said, slapping him a high-five. "Glad you decided to show up! Jace said you ditched him, so I didn't figure you'd show." Jim glared at the back of Dally's head as he said hello to the Curtis brothers.
"Dal made me go to Buck's with him. If you see Jace before I do, can you tell him?" Gage nodded.
"Will do, buddy. Hey, turns out Jackie didn't show." Jackie Maverick was the only girl in school who would have given Gage Randle the time of day. She was a middle-class girl, who acted Soc and dressed greaser. She was a decent enough girl. She made good grades, she was shy, and she was very pretty. And Gage's first crush.
They hung out for a while, testing to see how far from Dallas and the others they could get. It turned out to be pretty far, and they passed the time by flirting with various girls and making crude jokes.
Then the fight broke out.
If it hadn't been for the fight, none of it would have happened. Even after experiencing a mutiny by pirates, Jim still hated violence. Dallas, however, was an entirely different story.
It made Jim's stomach turn to watch as some hitch hiker and a tough greaser from their neighborhood started going at it. Dallas shouted with the crowd, as did Gage. When the greaser broke the other guy's nose, Jim winced painfully. I've got to get out of here. He thought. It had been fun, but he had to leave. Slowly, he began edging away from Dallas and the guys. They didn't notice anything, and soon, he was walking away from the Dingo.
"Man, how are we supposed to get him?" A broad-shouldered Soc named Rodney Smith asked. His buddy, Roy Nelson, shrugged.
"We just wait."
"Even after the fight, he's gonna be with his buddies!" The third, Louie Moscovits, pointed out. Rodney still had a black eye, thanks to Dallas, although his sprained leg was doing better.
"Man, I told you we should'a left that blasted horse alone." Billy complained.
"Winston lost, didn't he?" Rodney snapped back. "That's what we wanted, and that's what we got."
"Yeah, easy for you to say! He didn't try to bust your neck!" Billy groaned as he winced in pain. "Lousy greaser." They watched as Dally and two other guys cheered some greaser on. A kid stood with them, and was slowly edging away from the crowd. Roy elbowed Billy in the ribs, considering it too late.
"Hey, look!"
"Ow!"
"That kid there! The grease." He pointed at the single greaser walking away from the fight. Rodney's eyes widened.
"That's his kid? I've heard rumors, but I never thought..." He let out a long whistle. "Where's he been hiding that little punk?" Roy watched as Dallas searched the crowd, his attention having been drawn away from the fight. He was looking for the boy.
Roy started the car, and started to follow the boy.
"Get your blades ready." he said with a smile.
The night air was peaceful and calm, and all was quiet now that he was away from the Dingo. Sometimes he questioned why he put up with stuff like that, when he could just walk away. He'd get an earful from Dallas later for walking alone, especially without carrying a blade. But he could deal. He just stuffed his hands into his pockets, and picked his way along the empty streets, eyes glued to the stars. I wonder if I could spot Montressor from here...He didn't notice the red Corvette until it was almost on him.
"Hey, grease!" One of them shouted at him. He froze. It pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of him, and they climbed out. There were four of them. Two of them looked pretty bad off already, and seething mad. He took half a step backwards. "Chill, we ain't gonna hurt ya." the Soc that was driving the car said as he climbed out. "We just wanna talk to ya." He turned to his buddies. "Right guys?"
"Yeah, just a little conversation." the other Soc that didn't look beat to a pulp reassured. For a moment, Jim faintly considered what Dallas would have done at that moment. He regretted leaving his switchblade at the house.
"Uh...what about?" He asked slowly. They all walked over to him, circling him.
"Oh, we met your old man yesterday." the first one said. He waved at the two beat-up Socs, and Jim gulped. Dang it, Dally. He thought crossly. Whatever he'd done to these Socs, they were going to make him pay for it. "Hey, don't look so anxious, kid." Once Soc put his arm around the boy's shoulders. Jim's heart rate accelerated, and he bolted. Running straight at the Corvette, he launched himself over the hood, and darted down the street.
"Get him!" Another Soc shouted, all kindness gone from his voice. They all chased after him. Forgetting the car, fortunately for him.
Dally was ticked off when he realized the boy had disappeared again. Jim was always managing to pull stuff like this, and it annoyed him to no end, since it meant he was on the streets alone. Again. Darry noticed, too, and offered to help search for him. Not one to stay behind, Soda also joined them.
"When I find that little punk..." Dally muttered under his breath. Darry shook his head in amazement, and nudged Soda with his elbow.
"You'd think that you could get away with murder, having Dally for a father." he whispered. Dallas didn't hear him, but Soda nodded.
"I know. Ironic, isn't it?" Darry opened his mouth to say something when Dallas threw his cigarette to the ground and swore aloud.
Jim bolted across the street in front of them, almost getting hit by a truck in the process. He neatly jumped over the hood, and kept going. The driver laid on the horn, shouting several things at him, and Dallas looked furious.
"Stupid kid-" Then the Socs rounded the corner. Four of them, tall and muscular. The two at the back were limping slightly, and Dallas narrowed his eyes at them. "Those two rigged the race last night." he thought aloud. They must have seen he and Jim at the Dingo and connected the dots. Socs might not have been totally smart, but they weren't totally stupid, either.
This didn't look good. Dallas took off running, Darry and Soda right on his heels.
Jim was having trouble seeing his way in the dark. He didn't know where he was going, either. He was all turned around. Besides, he knew that if he ran to someone's house, they'd most likely break down the door and get him, anyway. Only when a train whistle sounded did he realize they were on the overpass over the rail yard. Two Socs jumped out in front of him, and he skidded to a halt. Two were at his back. He was trapped. Panting hard, he backed up against the edge of the overpass.
"Well, well, well," one of them sneered. "Look what we found, guys. A little lost greaser." He pulled out a switchblade, and they circled Jim. "I got a message for your daddy, white trash." He grabbed Jim's arm, and the other three held him still as he ripped the sleeve of Soda's old shirt. Jim struggled, but it was no use. The Soc dragged the blade over his arm, and he shouted out in agony. Remembering what he'd learned during his brief stay at the IA, he started fighting them. Pinning two of them in major pressure points, he freed himself. He couldn't run, they'd catch up too fast. His only hope was if someone heard him yelling his head off, so that's what he started to do.
The first Soc came up behind him and pinned his arms to his sides. The second Soc, the one with a black eye, slugged Jim in the stomach three times. Jim wriggled free, just in time for the Soc landed a fourth punch in his gut. The force of the blow knocked him over the side of the overpass, and he hung on for dear life. He tried to climb back up, and one Soc slashed at his bicep with a switchblade. Dally, Darry, and Soda ran up as the Socs hauled Jim back over the low stone wall. They all laid into him, and his cries for help suddenly stopped.
Dallas felt as though someone had dropped an ice cube down his shirt.
With a half-crazed holler, he tackled the Soc, and dragged him off. He took the first two, and Darry handled the two worse-off Socs. Soda knelt next to Jim, and shook his shoulder.
"Jim?" He asked, with wide, worried eyes. Jim was lying on his side, the cuts on his arm staining the cement red. There was a cut above his right eye, and he was already feeling bruises forming over his entire body. His rib cage was killing him. He moaned, and laid his head against the ground.
The Socs ran off, and Dallas dropped to his knees beside Jim. Soda ran off to get his pick-up truck. Darry could do nothing but watch as the toughest hoodlum in Tulsa took his son into his arms.
"Kid? Kid, come on, say something!" He said, shaking him slightly. Jim opened his eyes, and was startled to see Dallas. He coughed, and tears jumped into his eyes. The pain was so intense...
"...Dad?" He asked shakily. Dally helped him to sit up a little, and began rubbing the back of his neck hard.
"Don't go to sleep, you hear me? Don't close your eyes. Stay awake!" He wasn't yelling at him, exactly, but his tone was sharp. Jim groaned.
Soda pulled up beside them, and Darry came over to them.
"Kid, can you get up?" Jim tried to stand up, only to give a short scream of agony when he put pressure on his foot. Dallas picked him up, and set him in the back seat, sitting next to him.
"Oh, god." Jim heard someone mutter. It couldn't have been Soda, Jim could see in the rearview mirror that he was biting his lower lip so hard it was bleeding. Darry was staring into the back seat, but his mouth wasn't moving. "Oh my god..." Dallas? He craned his neck to see Dallas holding him close. He closed his eyes, and exhaustion consumed him as he fell asleep in Dally's lap.
Dally was sitting in a hallway, nothing but white linoleum all around him. Nothing could calm his nerves now, not even a cigarette. He'd been sitting there alone for the past hour; Soda and Darry had to get home to their kids. Around them, he'd maintained some of his cool. He'd sworn that the second the kid could walk again, he'd kill him.
But he didn't know if he meant it.
Dallas got up and began pacing again, slapping his empty pockets. Those Socs had meant business. If Jim had lost his grip on that wall, he'd be considering now how he was going to pay for a funeral instead of a hospital bill. The only people that acknowledged him at all were a few nurses. Well, and a police officer.
"What're you doing in here, son?" he asked, knowing Dallas' records all too well.
"I've got someone here." he said, trying hard not to add a few insults after that sentence. He needed to be here when the kid was awake, and the last time he'd insulted an officer he'd been arrested. The cop looked surprised.
"That kid in A5? The one from the gang fight?" Dally only glared at him. "Isn't he a bit young to be involved in something like that?" Dallas bit back a smirk.
"That's what I asked him when his kid was born." The cop's face flushed, and he left Dallas alone.
Finally, Dally couldn't take it anymore. He walked up to a doctor and asked about his son.
"Name?" The man in the white coat asked.
"Uh...Winston."
"Full name."
"James…Winston."
"This way." Why couldn't he remember? Jim had a middle name. What was it? Why can't I remember?
The doctor led Dallas into a small room with two beds in it. The first was empty. Jim was asleep in the second. A doctor had stitched the cuts on his forehead and arm, and his ribs were bandaged.
"...Is he gonna be alright?" Dallas asked. The doctor nodded.
"He should be alright. A very slight concussion, a sprained ankle, and two bruised ribs. But aside from that, he's okay. Are you his father?" Dallas nodded mutely. "He can leave in the morning, but I suggest you keep him in bed for at least two weeks, three if he's still in pain." Dallas nodded again, and the doctor left.
He sat down beside the bed, staring at him again. He really did look a lot like Sara. He had her hair color, and her gentle nature. Those eyes were definitely his, though. And, as much as he hated to admit it, his stubborn will, too.
Dally tousled his hair lightly, thinking hard. He hardly ever saw the kid, though they lived in the same house. He remembered when Jim had turned eight, he'd built something crossed between a skate board and a surf board. Dallas hadn't cared then, but now he was wondering what it had been. He smiled to himself as he remembered the first time the kid had gotten in trouble with the police. He'd been somewhat smug and proud at the time, and Sara hadn't liked it one bit. Yet another fight between them had engaged.
After a while, Dallas called Soda and asked him to bring his truck over. Normally he would have asked Steve, Two-Bit, or even Johnny, but Soda was more attached to the kid.
Dally took his son home that night, not waiting for the doctor to okay it.
"How bad off is he?" Soda asked. Dallas looked over his shoulder into the back seat.
"Doc said he's bedridden for the next couple of weeks, then to take it easy."
"Any permanent damage?" Dallas shook his head, and rattled off the list to Sodapop. Soda whistled. "Wow. Those Socs are really asking for it." Dally punched the door angrily.
"As soon as I can, I'm gonna fix 'em for this."
"Yeah, well, don't take it out on the truck." Soda muttered. Dally shot him a look, but didn't say anything.
Once Dallas carried the kid inside(he was still out), he was exhausted. Dallas walked into his bedroom and laid the kid down as briskly as he dared. Once he'd kicked off his shoes and pulled off his shirt, he collapsed next to the kid, and fell asleep instantly.
A/N: Seven pages, once again. Extra long to make up for it being so…meh. From the point where they got to the Dingo to the end, I am not satisfied with… -.- Reviews are appreciated and encouraged! They help me write the next chapter faster! So review! Plz. =)
-SilverEyes