( * * * )

"Shut up, Tim," came Laine's muffled voice from somewhere within the confines of a dilapidated couch in the Shepard household. 

"Does Dally know you're here?"

"Screw, Dallas."

Laine shifted so that she was facing Tim, her long wheat-blond hair landing in waves over her body.  "Where's Curly?" she asked suddenly, looking around the empty living room.

"Out," came Tim's curt reply.  He glimpsed over his shoulder, dreading but knowing that Dally might storm in through the back door at any given moment.  He and Dally were close friends—best of, he'd say if not for the fact that he liked to maintain that he was a loner.  Often, when troubled, Dally would come over with either a pack of cigarettes or a six-pack of beer and they would waste the night away.  It wasn't what one would call consolation, but it was company and that was better than nothing.  However, now that Laine was there, Tim was having second thought about his blundering friend finding him with her when he came to seek solace.

"Why are ya here, doll?" he asked, his jaded eyes traveling nonchalantly over her body. 

"No reason."

"Then go sleep at Buck's.  Ain't you share a room with Dal?"

Laine turned over on the couch, looking away from Tim and studying the knitted texture of the throw above the sofa.  Lifting up a polished fingernail, she absently traced the pattern on it and shook her head no. 

"No?  No what, doll?"

"No, I ain't share a room with him."

"Oh c'mon—"

"C'mon nothin', Tim.  It ain't as if me and Dallas can't live without each other—he's him and I'm me.  And you shouldn't be talkin' either, cause I ain't never seen you with a girl, so shut ya're trap."

Tim remained quiet.  She was right.  He rarely ever was with a girl.  Sure, there was the casual quick one here and there, but that wasn't what Laine meant.  She was pondering at why he never commented on girls as heartily as Dally, Steve, and even Soda did when at the Drive-In or at the vacant lot.  He was with them, but never as physically involved as the rest of the gang was.  It was odd to say the least.

"Where's Angela?"  Laine suddenly griped, right in thinking she'd struck a cord in Tim. 

"Out," Tim muttered again, rolling up his sleeves as he ambled into the kitchen. 

"Want something to drink?" he asked, throwing open the fridge and pulling out a couple of cans of cool, frosty beer.

Nodding, Laine pushed herself off the couch and sauntered over to the counter, waiting until Tim popped off the cap before taking along hearty swig from the bottle.  Grateful for the bitter sensation that cascaded down her throat, Laine smirked slightly and cradled her head in her arms, studying Tim from beneath sleepy lashes. 

"Doll?" he inquired.

"Hmm…?"

"How old are you?"  It was a simple question, yet it took Laine off guard.  No one ever asked her age—at least, no one who knew her well.  They figured they knew how old she was.

"Fifteen."

Tim nearly choked on his beer.  "Glory!" he exclaimed, "you're nearly the same age as Angela!"

Sleepily, Laine nodded and smirked at his reaction.  "Yea…Dally nearly blew a fuse when he found out.  Thought I was older, he said…" 

Laine cringed inwardly at the thought of Dallas.  Of his reckless smirk…his wild eyes…his touch.  Shaking her head, Laine, abruptly changed the subject, "So, Tim, how old at you?"

"Eighteen."

Then, it was Laine who nearly spit out her beer.  Eighteen?  Tim was only eighteen?  Anyone would have shot Tim at being at the very least twenty-four.  For what might as well been the first time, Laine scanned the man's face.  His cheeks and chin were dotted with stubble, though it was not the hard kind that comes after years of shaving—it was new…soft even, she'd guess.  His body was one of eighteen, no doubt-- lean and fit, more toned than hard.  Actually, now that she looked at him, he really was just a child.  Only eighteen.  She never would have thought. 

"You look older," she said honestly, smiling just a bit.

"So do you," came the weary answer.

"Fifteen…" Tim continued, incredulous.  He would have pegged the young girl at being at least eighteen, hell—even seventeen, but fifteen?

"Oh, get over it, Tim—"

Sighing, Tim shook the bottle he held in his hand and made his way back into the living room, hoping Curly didn't come home that night. 

"Tim?  D'ya reckon, Dallas'll come 'ere?"

"Might.  What'd ya do to him, anyway?"

Laine shrugged and kicked off her boots, "Nothin'."

"Nothin'?  Doll, you wouldn't be here if nothin' had happened—"

"Ya know, Tim, ya're all right when you ain't all rough and tumble."

"Must've been real mad, though…"

"Dallas?"  Laine asked, curious to hear what Tim knew.

The boy nodded, "Popped my tires again.  That little ass…Imma get 'im one of these days."

"Want help?"

Tim grinned at Laine's spiteful comment, but shook his head just the same.  "y'know, doll, Dally ain't really all that bad."

Sighing, Laine closed her eyes and cuddled into the less than comfortable sofa.  She really was in no mood to talk about Dallas; at the moment all she wanted to do was relax. 

"Doll?"

"Hmm…?"

"Why'd you come 'ere?"

Laine let her eyes lazily flutter open at the question.  Why had she gone to Tim's?  At first she had tried to convince herself it was because of Curly, but the more she thought of it, the more she realized that Curly had very little to do in the matter.  "I just ain't know where to go, Shepard."

It was the truth.  When she got right down to it, the only reason she had even bothered to ring the doorbell of the Shepard household had been because she hadn't known where else to go.  Buck's had been out of the question; Dally would be there.  Johnny's house would have been murder and she didn't quite feel up to watching her cousin take a beating, nor risk one herself.  The Curtis' she might have gone to--had she not already aggravated Darry enough.  She wasn't familiar enough with any other of the gang members, so Steve and Two-bit had never been an actual choice. 

"Laine?"

"Yeah?"

"Dal's real cool once ya get t'know him."

"You're sure 'bout that…"

(* * * )

No worries…it's not the end