Trembling II—Chapter 7

Please…

Laine drew in a slow, broken breath and let the tears she'd been holding back fall uncontrollably down her bruised cheeks.  She wouldn't get out of this…She could already feel his hands undoing the fastenings on her bra—could feel his greedy hands cupping the naked flesh, cradling it…hurting it.

Don't let it happen…

His hands dipped lower with every passing second, and Laine found she had no more energy to fight with.  Why bother?  He was bigger, stronger…in control…

Please…

His mouth, his disgusting, vile mouth found its way to the inside of her thighs…

I don't…want…

And then, the door was struck open by a caressing couple.  They hadn't taken note of her, nor or her attacker—who had frozen, and were obliviously undoing each other's belts.  She heard their nervous pants and sensual laughter as their clothing was finally tossed away and then…

Dallas?

Her dark blue eyes encountered icy, steely ones, and she read his expression at once as being dangerous.  His eyes scanned her—topless, skirtless, and sweaty—and her counterpart in a fleeting motion.  His eyes seemed to narrow.  Then, he turned suddenly, grabbing his earlier partner rudely about the elbow, and making to slam the door when Laine let out an ear-piercing scream. 

Almost as quickly as he had made his exit, Dally re-entered the room, the girl at his side disappointed at the interruption.  But that didn't matter, Laine had resumed her earlier kicking and wriggling, succeeding in letting Dallas know that, unlike what it looked like, she wasn't willingly cavorting with the man hovering above her. 

Without thinking, the young man struck her once more, serious in his request for her to keep quiet, and glared at Dally.  "Get ya're ass outta here—this ain't 'bout you—"

Eyes flaring the moment he caught the deliberate punch that caught Laine in the eye, Dally pounced on the man as if he were the devil himself.  The girl Dally'd entered with  screeched frantically at the sight, her heels echoing loudly as she turned and ran, her cheap perfume the only evidence she had been there at all. 

Laine scurried away the minute Dally jabbed the man across the face, shakingly gathering her clothing and pulling it on with uneven jerks.  Glory she wanted to get out—she wanted Dallas to kill the bastard—which she was sure would happen…but—more than anything she wanted to get out…

Eager to leave, Laine slipped and landed roughly on the floor, her ankle twisting painfully.  But that was nothing compared to her desire to exit, so she began to crawl frantically towards the door, arms pulling her clumsily along.  Once near the threshold, Laine pulled herself up using the doorknob.  She'd thank Dally's hormones later on, at that particular moment she just wanted to hurl.

She ran out of the Matthew's household, shaky legs not carrying her any farther than the porch before she turned her head over the railing and threw up.  But that still wasn't enough.  She needed air…Laine took in a deep breath and grasped the railing harder than she had before, her knuckles white from exertion, and hurled once more.  Glory…

All of a sudden Laine felt cold.  Realization of what had just happened, and of what could've happened sank in.  Shivering, she fell to her knees and felt her eyes begin to water once more.  "Hell," she cursed softly, her voice no higher than a whisper, "I ain't never cried before…"

She didn't want to move, but at the same time, wanted desperately to run as far as she could from Two-Bit's house.  Yeah right.  Laine's legs couldn't have carried her anywhere even if she had wanted them too.  Apart from the fact that she just couldn't muster the strength to move, the heel of her boot had been broken in her efforts to get away from her aggressor.  Laine shivered.  The adrenaline the situation had let loose was gone, and now, she was tired and afraid. 

Laine was so in tune with her thoughts, and so fixated on what had happened, that when two arms came gently about her waist, she let out a terrified shriek and jolted away.  Shivering violently, she pulled both her arms above her head in a protective gesture and curled into a ball. 

"It's me," came the familiar voice, a soft tenor with traces of a deeper baritone lurking somewhere near.  Laine pulled her arms down slightly and glanced up at the tall youth.  He kneeled considerately and examined her face quietly. 

"Where's the girl?"  Laine asked, her voice more curious than venomous, forgetting that the woman had run away screaming like an abandoned child.  She risked a glance up into Dally's eyes, and swallowed thickly at the sight of his face.  Glory, had he taken a beating…

The boy shrugged in response and leaned in closer to her, breathing in a mixture of alcohol, vomit, and sweat.  "You okay?"

Laine wanted to kick and hurt Dallas at the question.  What did he think?  She'd almost been…

The arms that she had jumped away from a few minutes ago came back around her, and this time applied enough pressure to pick her up.  Laine drew in a ragged breath.  Having Dally press her so protectively against his chest brought back the memories of that man doing the same…but this was different.  Dallas' grip was firm, but gentle, and his breathing was slow…not panting not like the other man had been…no—it was almost soothing…relaxing…Laine felt her eyes lazily falling shut…

Waking in a rather snug and protective embrace, Laine realized she was still in Dally's arms.  Pausing, Dally stepped in through a threshold and closed a door behind him.  The young girl's ears were suddenly bombarded with loud, tacky music.  Her body tensed inevitably against Dally, her hazy mind supposing they had returned to the party.  If that was the case, then Dallas knew the layout of Two-Bit's house quite well, since he strode confidently and purposely in one direction. 

Laine's ears picked up vague greetings directed at Dally, all delighted at seeing him, but she had closed her eyes in fear of seeing her attacker, so had little idea of where they were going. 

Laine kept herself blissfully unaware of her surroundings until she heard the sharp click of a lock and the sound of music fading.  Opening her eyes uncertainly, she took in the view from Dally's arms, realizing, for the first time, that she was in one of Buck Merrill's rooms—namely, Dally's room.

The boy maneuvered himself deftly throughout the room, avoiding various objects strewn carelessly about, and reached the bed that lay in the far corner.  Without even pausing, he placed her gently in the middle, his arms leaving her body almost unwillingly.  Then, he disappeared. 

In the bathroom, Dally turned on the faucet and splashed icy cold water on his face.  His heart was still pounding angrily, and his mind was raging at the thought that Laine—Laine, of all people, had almost been raped.  He hadn't exactly known how he had managed to pry himself from the man he'd nearly beaten to death.  It was Mark, he'd realized.  He was one from Tim's gang—and one that—he knew, wouldn't live more than a month after he was through with him. 

His blood boiled at the thought of what would have happened to Laine if he hadn't entered the room the moment he had.  One or two minutes later would have been too late, he'd realized, remembering the only article of clothing still on Laine when he'd burst into the bedroom had been black panties.  But what had she been doing there in the first place?  She wasn't and had never been friendly with Two-Bit…so, her appearance—at his house of all places, seemed strange.  And why hadn't anybody noticed she'd been in trouble…?

Dally splashed his face once more.  But it was useless, he couldn't erase the image of her face—looking so dejected and gone, the expression it had held the moment he had stumbled in on the pair.  And her eyes…they'd been so blank—so emotionless…almost dead…

Dead…

Glancing up at his reflection on the medicine cabinet, Dally studied his own face.  Dead…

A small sob distracted him, and he turned back, stopping uncertainly at the frame of the door.  When had she woken up?

He was more than slightly unnerved by her tears.  Laine wasn't a crier—and he couldn't remember a time when he had seen her cry apart from that day.  That bastard must have hurt her—that would be the only reason she'd be crying…

"Laine?"  his tone was quiet, uncertain.  His eyes took in the sight of her—her small body piled in the middle of the bed, shaking.  He approached her cautiously, not sure how to act, and sat down at the edge of the bed.  He couldn't help but notice how small she was…how tiny, really…and folded in on herself, like that—she looked like a child.  She is a child, his mind whispered, Fifteen years…still a child

Not sure what came over him, Dally suddenly gathered Laine in his arms and scooped her into his lap.  She didn't fight his embrace, but rather, melted into it, the tears beginning anew.  She grasped tightly onto the collar of his shirt, sobs racking her body as she strengthened her grip on his neck.  In response to her cries, Dally tenderly smoothed small circles on her back, knowing that there was little else he could do. 

Soon, the tears subsided, but Laine remained where she was, sheltered in his embrace.  Vulnerably, she blinked red eyes up at him, wondering what to do next, and quite sure that the recent happenings meant she and Dallas were on level ground and that their fight was behind them.

Dally took that opportunity to study her features.  Her face was a mess—her eye was swollen to such an extent that he feared she'd lose sight in it for a couple of days.  Her lips were cut and bleeding, and he could see—much to his repulsion, the imprint of teeth running along the outside of her lower lip.  Dally wondered how much more damage existed—how much damage lay beneath her clothes…

"Glory, doll—" he began absently, his hands coming to rest at her hips.

The girl lowered her eyes once more, thinking his remark had been mocking as opposed to concerned.  But he caught her arms before she had a chance to slide off him, and pulled her close for a final hug.  Then, just as quickly as he had comforted her, he had left her side. 

Laine studied him apprehensively from her position on his bed.  He was standing at the far end of the room, muscles stiff and the skin over his face stretched taut.  Anger toppling his self-control, Dallas was unable to stop himself, and charged his fist into the wall, a loud crack echoing in the room.  Behind him, Laine cringed, afraid at the outburst and disappearing behind a fringe of shaggy bangs. 

A small whimper alerted Dally to how much his action had scared the young girl and when his gaze swept over her, he became aware that her trembling had resumed.  Cursing at himself, he fought to keep calm and returned to her side.  "Doll," he began, shaking her arms gently, "…you need a shower—"

Still shivering, Laine was surprised that Dally had managed to decipher what she had been thinking.  Ever since they'd gotten away from Two-Bit's house, the only thing she'd wanted to do was wash away the sensation of the man's arms roaming over her body.  She felt filthy…like she needed to scrub away at something…but she wasn't quite sure what.

"C'mon," the boy encouraged, picking her up once again, and carrying her to the bathroom.  He settled her down gently against the toilet top, watching her to make sure she wouldn't fall, before turning on the running water, adjusting the knobs so that it would be warm enough.  When all that was done, he turned to study her hesitantly. 

He wondered whether she'd be able to bathe herself—whether she was strong enough…and whether she wanted to be alone.  After what had happened, he couldn't go ahead with liberties he would have otherwise taken. 

"I…I—can't…"

Dally met Laine's eyes at the confession.  She couldn't…

Nodding, Dallas bent down before her, and let his dexterous fingers begin to undo the fastenings of her boots.  It took a while, but soon, they were off her.  Then, rising from his squatting position into one that was level with her eyes, Dally leisurely undid the many buttons running down the hem of her shirt.  He noticed, feeling sick, that most—if not all—had been broken off, and that the shirt was staying on simply because of two buttons. 

"Your favorite shirt," he muttered softly, eyeing the torn fabric ruefully.  It was something trivial compared to the situation, yes, but Dallas had always had the habit of focusing on smaller, less tragic occurrences to take his mind away from the bigger picture. 

Running smooth hands over the cloth that still hung from her shoulders in an effort to pull it off, Dally was promptly struck when his eyes alighted on a dark bluish mar at the very base of her neck.  He craned his neck incredulously, disbelieving that a person could rejoice in hurting another like Laine had been hurt, and caught sight of another bruise, that one clearly made by a suckling mouth.          Disturbed more than he cared to admit, Dally suddenly found himself fearing what he would find once the rest of her clothing was discarded. 

Shaking his head as he returned to a kneeling position, the young man wrapped his arms about Laine's thin upper back and, pressing his lips unconsciously against her neck, carefully unbuckled the clip of her bra.  Laine found herself shivering at the touch, half afraid at his apparent strength and manhood, and half aching for him just the same.  "Don't…Don't take it off—" 

Dally paused, each of his hands holding on to a different side of the girl's bra strap, and met her eyes curiously.  It was an odd request, especially since the undergarment was already riding low on her shoulders, but one that, in a way, Dally understood.

"Do I leave it on, then?" 

Laine nodded curtly, a strange fear striking and settling amidst her throat, and suddenly, more than anything, all she wanted was to be dressed again. 

Obeying Laine's request, Dally grasped onto each strap more tightly and worked it back again, pulling away only when it had been refastened.  Laine knew well enough  she needed to stand up if she was going to undress, and unsteadily seized a fistful of Dally's shirt in her hand, rising to her feet.  In response, Dallas placed a stabilizing hand at her waist, letting her own find their way about his torso.  Once he was sure she had a firm grip, the tow-headed youth tentatively tugged down the zipper of her skirt and she was clad in skimpy, black panties. 

"Get in," Dally muttered, deciding she would feel uneasy being entirely nude in his presence.  Besides, he wasn't quite sure he could handle seeing her that way, either.  It would only make his blood boil—only serve to remind him that Mark would've seen her like that...

Holding onto Dally for strength, Laine gave a small squeal when the young man picked her up abruptly, choosing it better to carry her into the tub.  He was being uncharacteristically considerate.  Dallas Winston wasn't the type to comfort a person as they cried; wasn't the kind to remain so uncertain when he was in control…and most certainly wasn't a person to put others before himself…

"…Too cold?"

Laine shook her head no at Dally's inquiry.  She was shaking, yes, but not because she was cold.  Somehow, she just didn't feel well at all.  Things all of a sudden became confusing; she was afraid of Dally—of what he might do, but at the same time knew he would never hurt her.  She felt sickly—as if her breath couldn't come quick enough.  Laine wanted to cover her body, wanted desperately to run and hide…but then, then where would she go?

"It was Mark," came the dark utterance. 

Laine, startled, followed the voice to Dally's disgusted expression and narrowed her eyes in confusion.  Mark?

"Who was Mark?" she questioned, not quite understanding the implications in his statement. 

Dally spun on his toes and focused his gaze a few inches to the right of Laine's face.  "He's from Tim's gang."

Realization seemed to suddenly dawn on Laine.  Her expression darkened.  Had there been any particular reason for Dally to have to bring that up?  "Call, Tim."

Dally's eyebrows came together uncertainly.  Call Tim?

"Call him?  Laine there ain't no reason for Tim to hafta—"

"An' tell him to make sure they kill 'em."

Dally paused in his ranting.  Kill him?  He swallowed thickly despite himself.  As far as he had known Laine, she had always been laid-back—never taken things too seriously.  When he had threatened to murder anyone in particular, she had always—in her own seductive way—managed to soothe him into forgetting the situation.  Despite her rough and tumble attitude Dally knew Laine'd always hated confrontation.  So naturally, hearing her voice, cold and callous, insinuate that she wanted a man killed, was disconcerting. 

Dallas broke suddenly from his train of thought.  He wondered briefly whether Tim would actually concede to killing a man from his own gang.  Granted, all Greasers—especially those under Tim—had been labeled as being treacherous and disloyal, but there were certain lines that just couldn't be crossed.  Besides, Tim had been getting a lot of crap from his gang lately.  They were all bothered by the fact that they hadn't been getting much fighting done, and that Tim was letting the Soc's enter farther and farther into their territory.  It really was only a matter of time before he was overthrown—if that was the adequate word for it.  Killing  one from his own gang could go both ways for him.  It could serve to remind the others he was leader and had ultimate authority, or could backfire and cause them to rebel against him. 

"Doll—" Dally began, trying to quell his temper before it got the better of him when he caught the impatient roll of Laine's eyes. 

"What, Dally?"

"Tim ain't gonna be able to do that."

Laine quickly seemed to forgo her unease for exasperation.  "An' why not?"

"'Cause Mark's from his gang.  He ain't gonna kill 'em off like it was nothin'."

"I would…"

Before Dally could bite his lip, he made his irritation known, "Stop puttin' the blame on other people, Laine.  Glory, doll!  It ain't as if Tim told ya to go to that party, so it ain't like he's responsible for what Mark did.  Shit happens, Laine—and yea, it might've happened to you tonight, but that ain't mean no other Greaser ain't never done it before.  I know at least 10 of 'em from Tim's—two of 'em are Pony's age, for god's sakes!  No one ain't gonna give a damn, doll—no one's gonna kill 'em for you—cause that means the electric chair if they're caught. "

"Then I'll kill 'em, Dallas—I ain't…I ain't never been afraid of nothin' an'…I…"

The towheaded blond remained silent as he waited for her to finish her sentence.  "…I just ain't never wanna see 'im again, Dallas—'cause I ain't afraid of nothin' but him."

"Doll…"

Dally sighed despite himself.  He couldn't deal with how Laine was acting—she was supposed to be tough, sarcastic—never vulnerable.  He didn't like seeing her as she was now.  But that was only part of what bothered him.  The truth was, Dally was feeling more uncomfortable with the fact that the entire situation was irking him so much.  Normally, he wouldn't have given two cents about what occurred that night; hell, if Sylvia—his closest girlfriend before Laine—was ever in that situation, and he had somehow managed to save her, he wouldn't have ever wanted to see her again.  He would have called her a whore—said she deserved what happened…but he never would've carried her to his room, undressed, and later bathed her—he never would've comforted her.

Dally knew his behavior was odd, and it irritated the hell out of him, but at the same time, he couldn't imagine being any other way with Laine.  Frankly, all he'd ever done with her before had been to fool around, and even then, she had been a completely different person—always in control.  Dally smirked absently.  Johnny's cousin was most definitely an impressive lover.  But still…

"Laine?"

The young girl lifted her gaze at the call of her name. 

"Are you okay?"

A slight nod.  A pause, and then…

"No."

No?

"Did he hurt you?"  Laine blinked blankly at the inquiry.  Dallas had never been particularly concerned about her well-being.  At the same time, the towheaded Greaser seemed to be having a similar reaction at his own outburst.

"No."

"Then what?"

Pausing, Laine shook her head slowly.  She didn't know what was wrong; she couldn't explain the feeling to Dally…she couldn't explain what she was feeling herself.  Biting her lip, Laine shifted in the tub, warm water lapping at her neck in waves as she did so. 

Aggravated at her silence, Dallas stood abruptly and let out an annoyed sigh.  He was like that, his temper always got the better of him.  Usually, however, Laine would give a sharp remark to shut him up, and that would be enough for him to go seethe in a corner.  Not today, though, and her lack or sarcasm was bothering him beyond words.  "Don't go."

Dally considered the request.  "I ain't got nothin' to do here, doll."

Troubled at his response, Laine remained silent as she unsteadily reached for a bar of soap that lay a few inches out of her grasp.  She could have asked him to hand it to her; but she didn't want to look at him.  Not when he was so bent on hurting her with his words.  Not when he had seen her in such a weak moment…Try as she might, however, Laine wasn't one able to defy the laws of physics, and felt the tears begin to sting at her eyes when she couldn't reach. 

The young greaser, who had stopped in his tracks when his comment had received no reaction, followed her fixated gaze to a bar of soap that rested a few inches from his hands.  Frowning, he easily retrieved it, extending his hands towards her, waiting for her to take the soap.  However, much to his surprise, the moment he made the motion of handing it to her, she let out an aggravated shriek, "I ain't need you to get it for me, Dallas!"

Dally paused and then, "An' you ain't gotta go screamin' just 'cause I gave you somethin' you couldn't get!"

"Jus' get out, Dallas Winston…Get out!  Get out!  Get out!"

By then, Laine was sloshing around violently in the tub.  She was tired of keeping cool—tired of playing tough, and damn near sick of crying like a helpless child.  She didn't need to be there, brooding and sputtering around like a daddy's girl…Laine belonged outside, with the hoods, the Greasers…

For a very uncharacteristic minute Dally was torn between smacking her senseless and doing what she asked.  And due to the fact that the former had only recently been exercised by another, he very slowly exited the bathroom.  It took all the self control he had—to just walk away, hands up defensively—while she was hollering at him to drop dead and go, 'fuck something that moved.'

(  *  *  *  )

'Go fuck something that moves…'

Dally growled to himself as he remembered exactly what it was that Laine had told him to do.  Presently, he was at Jay's, having decided to leave Buck's lest he get an uncontrollable urge to strangle Laine.  For the past hour, he had been pleasantly downing glass after glass of beer, cursing his uncanny tolerance of the substance, when a shaggy mop of curly black hair caught his attention.  Tim…

He didn't even need to search out the other youth, for as soon as Tim spotted Dally's one-of-a-kind white blond hair, he made his way over, swaying a bit from side to side. 

"Hey, Dal," the eighteen year old began with a smile, alcohol fogging his brain already.  He looked from side to side exaggeratedly for a moment as if looking for someone before continuing, "Where's Laine?"

At the good-natured inquiry, Dally nearly smothered his glass under his tightening grasp.  Was he expected to be everywhere with Laine?  He didn't particularly like how everyone kept associating them together and referring to them as one unit. 

"Buck's," was all he bothered to say.

Tim nodded absently, almost as if he'd expected the answer.  "Heard ya'll were over at Matthews…why'd ya leave?  Was one helluva party, Curly said…and glory, Dal! Mark came back all bruised and bleedin' you'd've thought he'd been hit by a car.  Said some lousy ass had beat 'im up over a doll…can you believe it, a doll?"

By then, Tim was chuckling with incredulity.  He was all too unaware of Dally's tightening jaw or narrowing eyes.  If looks could kill, Tim would've been—pardon the cliché—dead and buried.  "Dal?  Why are you so quiet?"

Tim had sobered up enough to note his friend wasn't laughing along like he usually did to his morbid jokes.  True, he wasn't particularly gifted in humoring others, but he could usually get a rise or two out of Dally.  Especially if he had been drinking as much as he guessed he had.

"Bastard,"  Dallas ground out suddenly, making the mistake of not being clear in his insult.  Tim's eyes narrowed almost dangerously.  What? 

"What the hell, Dally?  I ain't do nothin' for you to—"

"Mark," the tow-headed youth managed to utter through clenched teeth, his tone unsteady with anger.

"Mark?"  Tim still didn't understand.  What had Mark done? 

Uncertainly, Tim broke into a smirk, "Y'all fought for a doll, then?  You were the Greaser who knocked the shit outta him?  Glory!  Dally, I ain't never known you would—"

"Laine," Dally continued in that same deadly tone, oblivious to anything Tim was saying. 

Laine?  Tim narrowed his eyes cautiously.  He knew Dally enough to know that whenever the latter spoke in monosyllabic phrases and barely bothered to open his mouth—as it almost seemed he preferred to grind each phrase before it left his mouth—he was in a dangerous mood.

"For Laine?"

Dallas nodded jerkily.  The anger that had bubbled down to a simmer after all the drinks he'd downed and the reasoning he'd gone through was shooting up once again, and soon, his blood would be boiling. 

"I ain't gettin' it, Dal."

"Mark and Laine."

"Oh…"  Tim nodded in understanding.  Well that made sense.  Laine was an attractive, feisty little sex kitten—anyone would want to bed her—Mark would've been no exception.  And Mark, though not remarkably striking, was handsome.  He could see how the pair could've gotten together.  However, Tim found it a little unfair that it all be taken out on Mark….Laine was no angel—if they'd been together then it had partially been her fault.

"…But she ain't with you."

Dally practically glared at the remark.  'But she ain't with you.'  Tim raised his arms up defensively.  "Ain't that what you said this mornin'?  Said you were tired of her…"

"Fuck off, Tim."

Tim looked genuinely surprised for a moment, but covered up for it easily enough.  A lot of people, excluding Dallas and Laine, found him a thoughtless, cold bastard; he liked to think of himself differently.  Granted, he wasn't a benevolent St. Francis, but he was loyal when he needed to be, and liked to be thought of as an otherwise approachable person.   Yeah, right.  "Fuck off, Dally."

"You know, that insult really ain't hurt when you say my name like it was some Disney character."

Tim paused in his internal ranting for a moment.  Glory but Dally had a habit of going off on tangents.  Where did he get off talking about Walt Disney when moments ago he had been insulting his pride.  "Fuck off, Dallas."

"Better, Tim—real good," came the sarcastic reply.  Dally knew it was unfair to take out his anger on Tim, but knew at the same time that when it was all over, Tim'd beat him up enough for it.  Besides, he was gonna cool off soon, and then he'd let Tim know what was going on.

"Listen, Dallas, quit your whinin' and get on with it…so Laine slept with Mark—ain't nothin' new…you slept with Sylvia didn't you?"

Dally's fingertips were itching to hit something.  Or someone.  He didn't need to be reminded of what had happened with pug-face at that exact moment.  Tim didn't seem to be getting the picture of what had really gone on, anyway. 

"He raped her."

"Who, Sylvia?"

Dally was near losing his mind.  What the hell did Sylvia have to do with the entire situation?  "Laine—" he griped in pure annoyance, cradling his forehead with both hands, "Laine…L…A…I…N…E…"

Tim opened his mouth then closed it just as fast.  Laine…?

"Are you sure…?"

"I was there—he was over her, lickin' her…touchin' her—"

"And…?"

And?

"Dally, I ain't gettin' it…what's the problem?"

Huh?

"I mean, glory—she ain't no worry to you…she ain't even with you anymore.  And so what if she is?  She must've asked for it, what with—"

Tim didn't have time to finish the sentence, as Dally's first contacted starkly against his cheek before he could react.  "Fuck it, Dallas, what now?"

Despite all the reputation he had to protect, Tim was hesitant to strike Dally back.  Anyone else, and he would've socked him without thinking…but not Dallas—he just couldn't hit him.  "She's got bruises all over—she can't see nuthin' from one eye…Tim, this ain't like he took advantage of her or nothin' like that…he hit her—he bit her places…it ain't like it was just a quick thing; he ain't just go for it…he hurt her—"

Tim was trying rather hard to identify with Dallas and with the repulsion the latter was feeling, but found that it just wasn't very striking to him…and why should it be?  Dally knew better than anyone that broads in Greaser territory were useful only for that one thing…hell, Dally'd been one of the greater advocates of 'use 'em and leave 'em' up until that moment.  Why the change now?

"Glory, Tim—Angela…see her lyin' on the floor with nothin' on, crying her eyes out, her skin all purple and blood on her face…and see her try to fight some man who she ain't never gonna be able to kick off—see it, Tim?  That was Laine…"

 That did it…if it hadn't been the mental picture Dally had drawn for him, the idea of the same thing happening to Angela had been enough to trigger remorse in him for his recent comments.  He didn't even want to think about the possibility of it happening to his sarcastic little sister…

"She's at Buck's?"

A slight nod.  Then a frown.  "She told me to go fuck somethin' than moved."

            Comments

…well…Dally may be a bit OOC, my apologies if he is, and yea, I know the sequences where sort of iffy…hope you liked though!