Comments: More Tim, no sexual tension (^_^)
This chapter's more of a filler than anything else. I received several complaints asking why none of the other lovable Greasers were making an appearance and thus, here they are. However, be forewarned, I'm not entirely apt at characterizing anyone who isn't Dallas.
( * * * )
"Took a while," Ponyboy commented, lighting up a cigarette butt he had found near his sneaker, "but it seems Dal's in good graces with Darry again."
Sodapop chuckled good-naturedly while offering Steve a coke, "Pony's makin' it sound like they're lovin' each other. Confidentially, they ain't even talkin' yet."
Two-bit shrugged as he fussed up Soda's hair, "Well, gotta admit that for those two, it's some improvement." Crossing his arms, he raised an eyebrow in thought, "All that for a broad…"
"Glory to that, Two-bit. If Evie ever pulled a stunt like that…"
"Aww, c'mon," Pony coaxed, trying to stray away from that subject. He knew that what had happened between Laine and Dally had to have some greater 'big picture' to it and knowing Dally, figured he was the one to blame
"C'mon what, Pony?" Steve challenged, particular at being defied by the younger Curtis.
Rising, Ponyboy squared his shoulders and raised his chin rebelliously, "Me and you both know Dally ain't no loyal Greaser. He rattles on and on 'bout how Sylvia was an easy broad, but he ain't no better and you know it, Steve Randle!"
Steve had lunged over Ponyboy and was poised to strike when Soda jumped on his back, pulling him off his younger brother. "Ain't no point in fightin' about Dallas, he'll do what he wants to do, and that's that."
Throughout the entire conversation, Johnny remained quiet, eyes downcast, and a slight frown pecking at the corners of his lips. He lifted his gaze momentarily when he felt an arm drape over his shoulder, and offered Soda a feeble smile. He was worried about his cousin.
It could've been worse, he reasoned. Laine could've been with another greaser, one from Tim's gang, perhaps, and one that was infinitely less trustworthy than Dally. True, Dallas Winston was not the most honest and loyal man around, but he had certain standards even he wouldn't surpass. What bothered him the most, however, was the fact that Dally had neglected to tell him about Laine. Johnny wouldn't even know at that point, had it not been that he had stumbled in on them in a rather compromising situation. Johnny shook his head. Who was he kidding? Laine had never thought of him as anything more than an acquaintance. Come to think of it…
"She's just like him."
The thought was expressed in words before he could help himself, and Johnny found himself staring into curious cocoa eyes.
"Like who?" Soda questioned, having been studying Johnny for the past few minutes, and deciding he wasn't quite all right.
Johnny shook his head, but continued just as well, "Laine. She's just like Dally."
"Ain't they both from the same place?"
"Hmm. Yeah, New York."
"Can't be a nice place…"
Johnny shrugged. The stories he'd heard from Dallas were enough for him to know that. But still, it was difficult for him to think of Laine as having gone through the same kind of stuff Dally had. Call it sexism, but it didn't seem right for a pretty girl like Laine to be anything but sweet and innocent. Ha! Johnny snorted a bit, Laine—innocent?
"I mean…Ever seen them together, Johnnycake?"
Letting out a sigh, the smaller youth turned back towards his friend and focused on what he was saying. Together? Yeah, he had seen Laine and Dally together before. He nodded.
"Well then," Soda continued, pulling his knees to his chest, "you've gotta have seen how they look when they are. Glory—it's like they just know…and they move like they're synchronized, you know?"
Johnny thought about that a minute. As far as he remembered, the few times he had seen the two, there had been an ample lack of communication. He had to admit, he had thought it to be extremely immature on their part to carry on a relationship without even talking, but now that he thought about it…Johnny had to admit that both New Yorkers did have a sort of silent understanding for each other. Maybe what he had mistaken for taciturn had simply been their way of communicating. Who knew?
"And…I ain't know if this next thing'll matter to you, but me and Sally—we were like that. No words. I mean, glory, we liked talkin', we did, but we just ain't need it sometimes, and that's how Dal and Laine are. Let 'em be. Ain't got to worry about them no more than they worry over you."
Soda turned towards him and smiled his big goofy grin, "All right, Johnnycakes?"
( * * * )
"Your broad came by."
Dally fell to an abrupt stop.
His broad? As far as he was concerned, he didn't have a broad. Regardless, he hadn't like the tone with which Curly had directed himself towards him. Turning slowly and raising an eyebrow, Dally offered the younger Shepard an annoyed glare.
"Curly, ain't you got better things to do?"
His inquiry hadn't been a question, and if Curly had had any doubts, Dally's ice-cold tone squelched them. Shrugging, the teen disappeared from Dally's vicinity. However, the seed had already been planted. What had Laine been at Tim's for?
Taking the steps two at a time, Dally arrived in a matter of seconds in front of Tim's familiar door. Not bothering to knock, although he never had, the young man pushed the door open, and stepped in through the threshold.
He found Tim stretched out on his bed, topless and surrounded by a plethora of beer bottles. He was trying in vain to block out the sunlight that had beamed into the room the moment Dally had opened the door. "Close that, will you, Dal—"
Raising a vague eyebrow, Dally kicked at the door with his foot and lounged down on the floor, propping his back against Tim's bed. Once comfortable, he reached for a bottle of beer.
"What brings you up at such an early hour?" From his tone, Dally guessed that Tim wasn't particularly glad at having been woken. Pressing his lips together as his fingertips worked to pop off the cap, he scanned the place. Glory, if Tim had drunk all that by himself then, well…
"Ain't you drink enough already?" he muttered, wincing at the warm liquid gliding down his throat as he eyed Tim beginning on yet another bottle.
"Crazy if you think I drank all of that—"
"Curly then? Or is Angela gettin' a little feisty?"
"Shut ya're trap, Dallas—I ain't in the mood. Can't ya talk any lower? And no, it ain't Angela."
Dally shrugged, "Who then?"
"Really wanna know?" Tim asked, raising the arm he'd strewn over his face to study the blond before him. Dally nodded.
"That little broad of yours is quite a drinker, Dally."
"Huh? Wha?" Dally whisked around to study Tim. Laine? Laine had been drinking all of that? With Tim?
"Huh? Wha?" Tim mimicked, rolling his eyes and cringing at the nausea that swept over him.
"I said she was quite a drinker," Shepard repeated, deciding it better not to press things with Dally.
"Yeah. I know she is."
Tim raised an eyebrow. The way Dallas had answered him, one would think that Laine got drunk on a daily basis. However, that wasn't quite what had sparked his interest…Tim thought he might have detected a faint note of jealously in Dally's voice.
"Glory, if I thought drinkin' with you was exhaustin'…"
"Why was she here?" Dally interrupted, intent on figuring out why Laine had visited his 'best' friend.
Tim shrugged at the question. Laine hadn't really told him. Besides, even she had, Tim knew it wouldn't be right if he were to reveal it to Dally. Somehow, he felt he had clicked with Laine the night before—he had seen something in her. She had seemed vulnerable somehow. As far as Tim had known Laine, she had played the part of the sexy, seductive and callous broad; yet, the day before she had been honest, childlike—perhaps even a bit naïve.
"What happened between you two, anyway?"
Dally remained quiet. What had happened?
"Aww, hell—don't tell me it was about something stupid…"
Dally fidgeted uncertainly. He had blown up over something wholly physical…
"C'mon, Dal—what was it?"
It was then that, perhaps for the first and only time in his life, Dallas Winston blushed. Shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot as he stood, Dally bit his lip. Glory it had been stupid…and the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous he felt. "I…I didn't have any protection."
Tim blinked a few times. Clearly, he had been expecting something a whole lot more serious. Perhaps a scarring betrayal of some sort—who knew? But definitely not a breakup—especially not one of sexual frustration. "That's it?"
"What was she doin' here?" Dally prompted once again, temper flaring slightly at the thought of Laine and Tim—together, alone…drunk. He himself knew better than anyone how fiery the girl could get when she wasn't sober.
"Drinkin,' what else?"
Dally's eyes narrowed as he fought to maintain control. He knew better than anyone not to mess with the Tim, just like Tim knew better than to piss him off. An explosion from either one of them would certainly result in a few broken ribs—it had occurred before, after all.
"Damn it, Shepard—I ain't kiddin. Fuck 'drinkin'—what the hell happened?!"
"Fuck off, Dallas—I ain't your bitch blanket! If yar broads givin' ya problems it ain't my fault."
Losing control, Dally swiped at Tim, catching him squarely in the jaw. The two tumbled into an ungainly heap on the floor, cursing and muttering until they were hoarse. Gaining the upper hand, Tim managed to pin Dally to the floor, grasping both his wrists over his head so that he could scarcely move. Normally, Tim would've won the fight—given his thicker muscle structure—but then again, he wasn't in prime condition, which made it easier for Dally to wrench himself out of his grasp.
"She…is—mine…ya hear…?"
Tim practically growled. Of course she was his. Who had said otherwise? All he was arguing was Dally's behavior—which was being stubborn. Dallas had always been one with too much pride to admit he was wrong. Not to mention the fact that he enjoyed being the cause of a fight—though Tim guessed that was nothing compared to how much he enjoyed the actually 'fighting.' For as long as Tim Shepard had known Dallas, it seemed the latter was always getting into trouble because of his temper—or his mouth. Whichever broke first, really.
Tim remembered the first time he had stumbled upon Dally…
The tow-headed blond must have been around fifteen years old (if not younger), and although he had been young, had already developed a killer attitude when it came to dealing with threatening characters.
Tim himself had only just turned seventeen. As far as he was concerned, he had it made: he had a girl, a car, and a reputation big enough to make him cocky despite his lacking stature. Granted, his egotistical teenage persona came in useful when he got into rumbles, as an intimidating presence sometimes proved more necessary than muscles. However, that same arrogance did do him in on several occasions, as Tim often bit off much more than he could chew.
Regardless, Tim had been living the teenage concept of 'immortality' for some time when, out of nowhere, Dallas Winston comes crashing into Tulsa, Oklahoma—literally.
Although he had never actually found out why Dally had been running from the police that day, the boy had made it clear to him that he was dangerous and was certainly not to be messed with. The message, of course, had gone both ways.
( * * * )
"Who the hell are you?"
At that point the young man had glanced up at him, eyebrows raised and a condescending look making its way into his steel-blue eyes before responding, "Ain't you're problem."
It had certainly not been what he was expecting, but Tim was in no way going to be unnerved by some junior high student who had just rammed a crummy police car into his T-Bird. Furious, he flicked out his blade.
The boy had simply glared at him then, as if he were a mere nuisance, and rolled his eyes. That was when Tim had realized that he was dealing with a kid—a dangerous one, but a kid just as well. He eyed the leather-clad blond curiously, trying to determine exactly what his problem was or at least how old he was, when he took note of a small bruise near the boy's neck. Well, bruise wasn't exactly the right term; wound was more like it. And Tim had been involved in enough gang fights to know that the mark on the boy's neck was from a blade—and by the looks of it, had obviously been the result of a recent fight.
Deciding he didn't want to cause any trouble, much less without knowing about the kid first, Tim snapped the blade back into itself and into his pocket. "I'll let it slip 'bout the car," he muttered, shrugging slightly, "but I ain't about to let you go so quick."
Dally had narrowed his eyes at that, not particularly sure on how to take the remark, but had agreed nonetheless. "So whadda ya want?"
"Answer my question."
Dally looked dismayed for a few seconds. And then, "Dallas Winston."
"So, 'Dallas Winston'," a member from Tim's gang mocked, "where's your Texas?"
For a moment, Tim thought the new boy would jump on Chris's back for the comment, but the youth merely shrugged, a dangerous smirk alighting on his lips and then disappearing to form an un-amused thin line. "I ain't fond of geography, ass, so don't try me. And you," he directed himself towards Tim with a nod, "ain't you the leader? Keep your damned thugs in line."
Tim was surprised for a moment, not quite sure how to react to the teenage rebel, but quickly composed himself. "Dallas, ain't you a little too young to be out?"
Again, a fleeting smirk crossed the boy's lips only to be quickly replaced by a snarl. "I ain't got no time for jokes, ass. I suggest you do get outta here though—fuzz gonna be here soon, you know."
"Why?" Tim teased, breaking out in disbelieving laughter at how he was being treated by the little pipsqueak, "'cause you stole their car?"
Dally clucked his lips then, not amused at all, and grabbed an unsuspecting Tim by the collar. "Listen, ass, I ain't got time for this—and no, it ain't cause I stole their car, though, if caught, I reckon I'd say it was you who did it."
Unsure of what exactly to do with him, Dally made use of what was left of the police car and shoved Tim faced down against it, succeeding in using the broken glass to draw blood from his cheek and lip. Tim winced. "I don't appreciate bein' insulted by a bunch of fools."
All at once, Tim whisked around, easily overpowering the much smaller framed Dallas. He secured his hands behind his back, shifting so that Dally was pressed against the car's hood just like he had been moments earlier. "What was that, Dally-boy?" Tim teased, not particularly sure how he came about with using 'Dally' as opposed to Dallas.
Growling, Dallas practically foamed at the mouth at being ridiculed by what he considered an insolent, egotistical bastard. He kicked the air in hopes of scourging Tim, though he didn't succeed in anything but eliciting laughter from him. "C'mon, boys, let's give 'em a warm welcome!"
As some of Tim's thugs took Dally by the arms, freeing Tim to beat him up, the sound of distant police sirens became evident. 'Screw them,' Tim thought, a glare enough to warn everyone in his gang that they had better not move without his command unless they were willing to suffer the consequences.
'Damn little ass,' Tim thought once more to himself, as he looked over his shoulder and surveyed the damage that had been commissioned to his black T-bird. Cracking his knuckles and gritting his teeth, Tim pulled his arm back and struck the boy as hard as he could in the stomach. He smiled when a grievous groan reached his ears.
Grinning as he felt his cockiness returning, Tim bent down beside the faltering blond and whispered into his ear. "Havin' fun, blondie?"
His reponse, which rather than annoy him, scared the living hell out of him, was a raw, strained laugh. The boy motioned him forward with his head. "Hit harder, next time, ass. I woulda thought you'd be stronger than that…"
Sneering, Tim wound up for a harder strike, this time deciding the condescending little brat would pay by hitting him squarely in the ribs. As chance would have it, fate intervened and as soon as Tim let loose his punch, the cops arrived, sending everyone into a massive run.
Dallas was still strong enough to maintain his balance without the aid of Tim's lackeys, but Tim was unable to stop the momentum of his punch, and found his fist contacting with Dally's pelvic bone before he had a chance to pull back. Tim was stunned at first when he thought he felt all the bones in his right hand shatter. He had hit his share of bones before, and he knew his certainly did not shatter when they hit another human. He blinked a few times through the hot blinding pain he felt, trying to decipher exactly what had happened, when he caught sight of Dallas sprawled a few feet from him. He was on all fours, a maddened expression on his face, feeling around the dark grassy floor for something. Tim wanted to tell him it was impossible; finding something in that field in the dark of the night, that is, but he didn't have the strength. Vaguely, he wondered how it was that the irritable young man could be crawling, apparently all right, when his fist had just burst through his pelvic bone. How could he have broken the bones in his own hand, yet done nothing to his opponent?
Desperate to escape the approaching police, Tim pulled himself into a sitting position and tried to cradle his ailing hand in his left arm. A sharp moan escaped his lips involuntarily. Glory he wouldn't be able to run anywhere like that! Any sudden movements jolted his injury.
All hope lost, Tim figured he might as well try and hide, so he dropped on his belly, careful about his hand, and burrowed within the dense grass. He had no sooner laid his head down that he became aware of the fact that he was lying on something metallic. Brow creasing, he shifted uncomfortably. Curious, Tim slipped his left arm beneath his body and caressed the smooth length of the metal object. Suddenly, he paled and his eyes widened as he recognized the shape and feel of the object. It was a gun.
Realization hit Tim abruptly. That must have been what Dallas had been searching for in the grass—why he had been so flustered…and, he must've hit the gun instead of Dally's flesh, which would explain why his punch hadn't inflicted any damage on the youth, yet caused him to break his hand.
As much as Tim would have liked to dwell on his new discoveries, the fact was that the fuzz had arrived on the scene. Gratefully, they were busily inspecting the car crash, but he knew it wouldn't be long before they began to spread out, investigating the area.
Tim cringed almost marginally when he realized the police would track the license number of the T-bird and call home. When they verified he wasn't there, they'd probably broaden their area of investigation and find him sprawled on his stomach like a helpless moron, just inches from the scene of the crime. Glory! And the scare Curly and Angela would get…
"C'mon, ass," came a non-too-familiar voice in his ear, urging him on half-heartedly, "we gotta get out."
Detachedly Tim wondered what the hell Dallas was still doing in the vicinity. Then he remembered the gun. "It's right under me," he muttered morosely. Dallas seemed confused for a moment, but quickly complied.
"We gotta leave," Dallas murmured anxiously, irked by the fact that Tim wasn't moving.
"My hand's broken, kid."
Dally seemed mildly annoyed by being branded a kid, but said nothing. "Just 'round the corner, ass, is all."
Together, though grumbling all the way, both Dallas and Tim made it to Merrill's place. They made a good team, everyone around agreed after hearing the story, though Tim and Dally failed to concur.
Once in the bedroom Buck had assigned as theirs, Tim dared to glance at his hand for the first time in the entire evening. Groaning, he stood and made his way to the sink, letting ice-cold water run over his sore hand. He didn't think it was broken anymore, but it had definitely been jarred. He looked around indifferently, wondering where Dallas had gone, when the young boy stepped out from the bathroom.
In plain light, what had been disguised in darkness was made almost explicitly obvious—Dallas Winston was nothing more than a child. His tousled wheat-blond hair framed a child-like, stubble-free face that would have been cherubic if not for the scowl he had plastered upon it.
"Why'd you hafta go breakin' it, anyway?" he asked, eyeing Tim's hand and glaring at it as if it were some criminal that deserved to be punished.
"How old are you, anyway?" Tim felt compelled to ask, knowing that Dallas was young physically, but relatively grown on the inside.
Dallas remained quiet for so long that Tim doubted he would answer, but after a while he responded, "Just turned fifteen."
"You look younger."
"Ain't that the truth! I ain't seem to grow much since I left New York."
Tim paused in his thinking. New York? So, the mystery boy was from New York…
Dally seemed to regret his talkative attitude for a minute, as he remained quiet until Tim prompted him again.
"Like fightin'?"
Dally shrugged. "It ain't as if there's much of anythin' else to do," he paused before asking, "What's your name?"
"Shepard. Tim Shepard."
( * * * )
"Damn it, Dallas," Tim cursed, "seems every time I see you, somethin' bad's goin' on. You're like a bad omen."
Struggling to breath with Tim's weight atop his chest, Dally managed a slight chuckle. "It ain't all 'bout bad luck," he muttered, eyes drooping a little as he sought to make his point, "it's 'bout bad timin', Shepard."
"Dal, you know it ain't always 'bout bad luck, 'cause that would mean we've always got it."
Dallas shrugged somewhat absently, "Maybe we do…we are Greasers, after all."
