"WHAT I'VE MISSED MOST IS YOU." - Abby Cates (Roadtripsong)

I've dealt with blood before. I've cleaned up my brothers after some Soc couldn't keep their mouth shut - I've even done the same for Steve and Dally, even Johnny sometimes. And I guess I don't have the luxury of being squeamish near blood when I have caked on my thighs every month. I stand in the kitchen, leaning over the sink and scrub the instruments with a wet rag. I can hear Darry in the bathroom, hear the water running as he tries to set his nose back into place. Ponyboy and Sodapop are fast asleep in their bed at the end of the hall. They've gone to bed early for a Saturday night, but it doesn't make me any less grateful. Darry and I have jumped through enough hoops to try and keep 'em away from all this, if they caught us now, all would be for not.

I watch blood, soap, and water all mingle together at the bottom of the sink before vanishing down the drain. Slow steam rising from the tap, but I hadn't noticed the water had been close to boiling. I don't feel like myself - even though I'm doing something I'd done a million times before. Washing the dishes was nothing new, neither was ringing blood out of a rag. Cleaning up after the boys in my life is nothing new, but I don't think I've ever seen a face split open like that.

I watched the bottle swing through the air, I heard it shatter into a thousand pieces over his face. I heard the gun go off and watched him stumble backwards, falling straight onto his back. None of us worried about Mr. Shepard and Keep after that. Hell, I don't even know if I saw them after that. I remember Patrick was the one to haul me to my feet, with one gentle hand around my waist while he let the other loop my arm around the back of his neck. Darry must have done the same with Tim - that could be the only reason he was unconscious on the sofa - but I don't really remember how we got home. I think we walked - we must of - but all the events of the evening have bled into each other, really just turning it into mush in the back of my memory. I feel like I'd just spent the last two hours at the Drive-In or in Sylvia's living room, watching some stupid flick I really didn't care about. Yeah, that's why I can't keep anything straight.

I'm falling asleep in front of the sink with a pair of scissors in my hand while Momma's sewing needles rattle around in the bottom of the sink. Keeping my eyes open feels like some impossible feat, but I know I can't give in just yet. Not until Darry's outta the bathroom and I can scrub the rest of my makeup off. Whatever's left of it, at least. The house is dark and still, but the steam running up from the tap can make it comforting for a while. I know my brothers are safe now; two asleep and the other cleaning his wounds. I know Tim is as safe as he can be when the left side of his face is being held together by my subpar sewing skills and a few bobbles of thread.

My sanity's like a piece of thread right now. Held together by a few frayed edges, threatening to snap at the earliest inconvenience. I just have to pray the strong I'd used it stronger than I am, unless I feel like waking up to a dead and bloodied greaser on my couch tomorrow morning.

"Marley? C'mon honey, what's wrong?"

When did Darry git here? When did I start crying? I can't force my brain to come up with an answer as Darry runs his hands up and down my arms. They're cold - his hands, I mean. Dripping with water and coated with disinfectant, it's comforting nonetheless. I stand there numbly in the middle of my kitchen, trying to remind myself that the shadows moving in the outskirts of my vision aren't real. Trying to remind myself that it's over. Trying to remind myself that Tim isn't going to die. I watch Darry raise one hand to the side of my face and brush away a tear, but I just stand there, rigid as a fence post. I can hear him whisper to himself, but all the words get tangled together on his tongue. "Come on Marley," he says finally before taking my hand in his own. "L-lets get you cleaned up. You can go to bed after."

I'm exhausted, but I don't think I could fall asleep if I tried. Not when every bone in my body is aching and it hurts to breathe, not when I feel like a stranger in my own home; drifting through the corridors like a memory. Darry doesn't let go of my hand until we're in the bathroom and my back is pressed against the cool porcelain counter. Everything seems so much brighter after being in the dark for so long, even the quietest sound is enough to make my head pound like the hooves of a stampede. My eyes are slipping closed again - not because I want to, but because I can only have so much adrenaline burning in my veins for so long. I think that's the reason why I don't realize what's happening until Darry's hands loop under my armpits and my thighs brush the top of the counter. My head tips back on its own, leaning against the cold glass as my fingers curl around the counter's edge. "It's okay," I murmur hoarsely when I hear the tap begin to run. "I-I can take care of myself-"

My eyelids flutter open before Darry can dab the wet cloth across my cheek. It's impossible to see any flesh that wasn't stained with varying shades of bruises and dirt, His lip is still cracked and bleeding, despite all the time he'd spent wiping away and cleaning the cuts that littered his skin like constellations. His eyes don't look rough and cold anymore as he hesitantly tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, eyes trained on my neck. I know what he's looking at, for the most part. It's the reason my voice is so rough, why it hurts to breathe, why my eyes feel like they're burning.

I didn't get a good look in the mirror when I stumbled in here, searching for anything I could use for Tim, and I think that's a good thing. I'd barely taken a glimpse of myself, but it was enough to recognize the thick, dark bruises coating my skin like smoke. I reach up to touch the bruised skin before Darry can stop me. I don't know how, but it's almost like I can feel the idents Andy'd left behind. "It really ain't that bad, Dar, j-just go to bed."

I don't have the energy to push him away as Darry sighs heavily and drags the warm cloth down the side of my face. "I'm sorry," he says softly. The water runs down my face, mixing with my mascara and tears. The cut on my chin reopened when Pat tackled Andy, but it's not bleeding nearly as much as Tim's. "I shoulda stopped when you told me to, kept you safe." My makeup stains the sink as Darry rings the cloth out over the sink before working on the other half of my face. I can't remember the last time someone had done this for me. I guess that's what happens when your parents die unexpectedly and you're left to pick up the pieces of your shattered home.

"Sorry I was so mean," I apologize. "You were doing your best an' I just..." tears were rolling down my face now and in a pitiful attempt to defend my pride, I push the heels of my hands into my eyes. "I shoulda trusted you and just believed you an' now you're hurt, Tim's hurt a-an' I dunno how to fix it, Darry-"

That's when he pulled me forwards and let me cry. Darry's always been my big brother, the one I was supposed to go to if something went wrong. We used to do that a lot, back when we were younger. Before high school started and the allure of sports cars and Mandras weighed more than three annoying siblings. I really can't blame him, especially now that we were all we had left. I don't know how long he let me cry into his chest in the bathroom. I don't even really know what I was crying over. Maybe the fact that Tim shot his dad in the shoulder. Maybe because Darry just about had the life beaten out of him on a bar floor. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I was just exhausted and none of this had anything to do with the boy on my couch and how I felt when he grabbed my hand.

I know I should be mad at him for everything he'd done, but I really don't want him to die.

"You know I love you, right, Marley?"

I nod against his shoulder and try to steady my breath. My voice is still weak, but I don't think that'll come back anytime soon. "Y'know I love you too, right?"

It's a little past four when my feet hit the floor and Darry's arm rolls off my shoulders. The blankets fall back into place the second I slide off the mattress and - except for a yawn - Darry stays silent. I didn't really have a reason for waking up, nothing except for the feeling that my limbs would go numb if I were asleep any longer. The house shifts and creaks as I wander down the hall before finally settling. I feel like a little kid again, walking into the kitchen after a nightmare for a glass of water. Darry never explained to me how, but he was always there before me. His bed always seemed so much more comfortable than mine on those nights, too.

I remember what I'd woken up for when I reach the end of the hall and see the living room illuminated by a soft yellow light. His eyes are screwed together tight - from what I can see since the left is covered by my horrible excuse of a bandage. He isn't laying down anymore, either. He's propped up against the couch, collarbones protruding clearly from the thin fabric of his t-shirt. I'm sure if I got any closer, I'll be able to see his ribs, too. Or my shitty stitches holding him together like Frankenstein's Monster. The floor creaks as I step forward, my hands snug in the pockets of Darry's sweatshirt while the edge of my nightgown swings around my shins. "Tim? H-how ya' feelin'?"

It's like cobalt over scarlet. Dark blue irises dance across deep red veins, studying the shadows until I come into the light. He really looks awful. His shoulders heave with every breath - like he's in pain - and his skin is coated in a pale sheen. His lips are moving, but nothing comes out. At least, I think nothing comes out. Maybe that gunshot did more damage than I thought it had. I take another step forward when he tips his head back towards our ceiling. Here I was, like an idiot, thinking I'd left all my emotions behind in the bathroom. I can feel the pinpricks forming already as the room became blurry. As much as I did not want to cry, I really couldn't help it. "Tim," I say again, as loud as I can muster, "there was a fight, a-at the bar-"

"Andy did that, didn't he? When he grabbed you?"

Tim's looking at me straight on, now. Running his tongue over his teeth and dragging his hands over the blanket I made Darry toss over him when I'd finished fixing him up. "Yeah, don't worry about it," I say quickly. I walk towards him before I can help myself and stop a good two feet in front of him. "It really ain't that big of a deal." Not when he had a bottle broken over his face and managed to shoot his dad in the shoulder when he collapsed. "No big deal?" Tim scoffs. The quilt falls to the floor when he shoves it away from him with the wave of his hand. After a quick breath, it's obvious he's trying to stand. "Do you not hear your fucking voice? He coulda snapped something-"

The only thing that snaps, is my sanity when Tim tries to stand and ends up hitting the floor instead. He curses and groans before leaning back against the couch and turning his gaze to me. "None of that was supposed to happen," he mumbles. "Y-you weren't supposed to get hurt. Donna, she wasn't supposed to get hurt, either." Everything aches as I cross the floor and sink down beside him. My throat is dry, my voice doesn't even resemble my own, and my heart feels like it shattered. "I believe you, y'know. I-I don't think you wanted to hurt her."

We're silent for what must have been hours. The only thing I can hear is his breathing, and the light tick-tock of the clock hanging in the kitchen. The sky's still dark, but I can already start to see thin rays of sun trickling in through the curtains against the navy sky. I think the last time I sat here was when Momma and Daddy were waiting on news for Uncle Jim. Back when ignorance was bliss and my parents were still alive. That was before I didn't cringe away from my brother's gentle hand, back before I didn't despise him for trying his hardest. Back when my biggest fear revolving around Tim Shepard was if he'd pass his chemistry exam.

"Fuck Marley, don't cry, I'm fine-"

"What?" I really am crying again. For no other reason, except I had finally realized something. Tim turns to face me while one arm snakes around my shoulder. "Really," he says softly, "It can't be that bad if I don't even remember what happened." I know he's just trying to be funny - or maybe just trying to get me to stop crying - but it doesn't really work. I bite down on my tongue to suppress the next sob long enough for my lungs to fill with air. "You shot your fucking dad, Tim," I mumble into my hands. "I-in the shoulder after he broke that bottle." He curses again before tracing the bandage with his right hand. "Don't touch it," I order weakly. "He cut you pretty bad."

I knew I was getting over Momma and Daddy. Sure, it still stung, but I wasn't setting plates for them at the dinner table anymore. I wasn't asking where Momma was whenever I came home, and I didn't think about Daddy's hugs before he left for work in the morning much, either. I think it's because I knew they'd die someday. I knew that one day I would have to wake up and live with the fact that they weren't here anymore. Sure, it was so much sooner than I would've hoped, but I knew what to expect.

But I never expected Mr. R to call me into his office and ask if I'd be Tim's tutor. I never expected my brother to be selling lithium on Friday nights. I never expected Tim Shepard to be the first guy I actually liked, my first kiss, or my first break-up. If it can even be called that. Christ almighty,I really didn't expect to miss him as much as I have been. There was no warning when I fell, no set of instructions or a list of What-Not-To-Do. It just happened.

"You passed out after he hit you. I don't know where your dad went, but Darry an' I brought you back here an' I tried to give you stitches," I ramble. My hands are in my lap, twisting my fingers together and cracking my knuckles over and over again. I've always fidgeted when I was nervous, but I don't think it's ever been this bad. "Does it hurt? I... I didn't really know what I was doin'," I admit.

Tim winces every time he blinks. It happens whenever he laughs, or talks, too, but he's a good sport about it. "You sure don't act like it," he scoffs. "You're gettin' a lotta good practice with me, ain't you, doll?" I end up laughing. I can feel my face grow hot when his grip tightens around my shoulders, heat radiating off his bare arms in waves. "What'd you do with my jacket?"

"In the bathroom," I answer. Getting it off of him had been a struggle - since he was unconscious and covered in blood - but once I did, I left it in the bathtub. I'll scrub the blood outta it eventually, just not right now. I feel goosebumps explode down my arms as his breath warms my neck, his fingers slowly winding through my hair over my shoulders. "Bet you'd look good in it," he says casually. My cheeks are burning bright red right now and I'm sure he can tell. When I wipe my head around to look at him, however, all I get is an empty glare. "What? I'm concussed, Marley. Concussed people don't know what they're talkin' about." His eyes flicker to the wall behind me before I can say anything to his face, but it isn't impossible to notice the slight curve of his lips.

"Well y'know, if you did mean it, I figure I wouldn't look too bad in your jacket, either."

It's the sound of something ripping that makes me turn my head. Tim's already pulled half of the bandage off, leaving nothing but the ugly scar and inflamed skin behind. It's deep and an ugly shade of red, dotted together with the black thread I'd used to hold his skin together. I can tell right away it won't heal properly - not like Soda did after that horse bucked him off. "The whole point of the bandage," I sigh, "was to keep you from getting an infection." The bandage was just the sleeve of an old t-shirt I'd folded and taped over his eye, but it had done the trick. It's stained red with blood and whatever else comes from a wound, but none of that matters when it falls to the floor and I feel his hand creep up the back of my neck. "You mean that? 'Bout my jacket?"

His eyes look a lot different up close. Not nearly as cold or as violent as one would've imagined. I tell myself it's just because of the light, or just because we're exhausted. "Maybe I did," I say, barely more than a whisper. "But, y'know, strangulation an' all can make a person kinda-"

Stupid. I was gonna say stupid. I thought we were really just gonna sit here on the floor and talk - since we hadn't really done that in weeks. But no. That's when he kissed me and I didn't do anything about it. I kissed him back, though, and wrapped my hands around his shoulders, if that counts. My fingers work through his hair and down the side of his face - on the right side, without the scar. Oh God. The scar. "Tim-"

"Are you still mad at me?" He asks breathlessly when I pull away. He's still got one hand tangled in my hair, and the other on my knee, but they both pull back when I don't answer. "Y'know, since most girls don't bring a guy to their house and stitch him up when they're pissed-"

"I just don't wanna hurt you, is all." I know it sounds stupid coming from me; since Tim gets his face beat in by guys like Dally twice a week. Still, I can't stop the fear from blossoming in my ribcage like a bad weed. "I still really like you, Tim. I-I don't think I ever stopped an' I don't wanna-"

His hands are really warm when they're on either side of my face. A lot warmer for a guy I'd always pictured so cold and heartless. "I don't think you could hurt me if you tried, darlin'."

Yup, that's Tim Shepard all right. The kind of guy to get a beer bottle broken on his face and still taunt me for blushing. It's not my fault, okay? How many times has a guy done that to you? If the answer is more than once and you were able to keep a straight face, I don't really know what to tell you. I guess I don't really know what to say to him, either, once he slips his hands back around my shoulders. "I kinda missed you," I say after a while. There's a heavy silence between us, the kind pushed forward by fatigue. My head's slumped against his shoulder, my hand pressed between his own and his chest. I can feel him muttering into my hair as his fingers move over the back of my hand, tracing my veins and scars as if they were rivers painted on a map. I can feel his lips move against my hair, muttering sweet nothings. It really is nice here, away from everything as my eyes finally droop closed. "I kinda missed you, too."

It's half past four in the morning and the world is still dark. No one knows yet what we've done - what we've seen. None of that matters now, anyway. Not when I can feel his heart beating under my fingers at a comfortable rhythm - the kind not forced by fear, nor slowed down by blood loss. The world is quiet now, too. The streets are silent around the house, even the slow tick of the clock can barely reach my ears. We reek of rotting wood, stale beer, and cheap weed, but it really isn't that bad. Not when we're all safe.

Eight o'clock in the morning really is too early to be arguing with some cop on my front step, but here I am. I know who he is, the fat cop who stinks of cheap tobacco and not enough cologne. He has beady dark eyes - like the crows that dive at you for anything scraps you may drop at The Dingo - under dark and bushy eyebrows. His belly obstructs the gold badge hanging off his belt, but it doesn't take a genius to discover what - who - he's here for. After banging on my front door loud enough to wake my parents, Officer George Lewis has the audacity to look me up and down when I fling the door open. "I'm lookin' for that Shepard kid," he says gruffly.

Maybe I was just exhausted. Maybe I just decided I didn't care about some stupid cop and what he wanted with my - boyfriend? I don't even know at this point. But I knew for damn sure I wasn't about to let this fucking prick in my house. "Shouldn't you be lookin' for Jesus instead?" I ask, "it is Sunday an' all." I'm sure I look like a real nice piece of east side trash, with my hair sticking up and out every which way, dressed in a dirty old sweatshirt and bruises over my neck like the newest piece of Haute Couture. I feel his piercing gaze trained on my neck, probably studying the clear outline of eight fingers and two thumbs, too. "What are you even framing him for this time?"

He gives me his worst glare before flipping open a notepad he pulled from his back pocket. I ain't scared of him at all. "We've got reason to believe he and two others were involved in a B-and-E down at Smith and Son's a few nights ago." I don't even try to hide the fact that I'm rolling my eyes before looking over my shoulder. Tim's still on the floor in front of the sofa, wiping the sleep from his eyes. I swear it's just rage bubbling under my skin, but it feels really good, regardless of reason. With a grim smile, I turn back to the pudgy cop standing on my porch, say "come back with a warrant," and slam the door. I lean my back against the door and let my eyes fall closed for a minute before I open my mouth again. "Tim?"

"Huh? Yeah, I'm up." He's already struggling to his feet before he can finish his sentence, tracing the ugly and jagged mess across the left side of his face with his fingers. Now that the scar is reaching from just under his hair, all the way down to his chin, it gives him an awkward half-smile. It's the kind I know Dally and the rest of the gang would tease him relentlessly about, but it's kinda cute. "Did you break into a drugstore a few nights ago?"

Sure, he may be dumber than a sack of hammers, but at least he's honest. "Oh, yeah. Syl and Dally helped, too," he answers lazily. I nod and drag my fingers through the knots in my hair, over and over again as the seconds tick by. I still haven't heard the stairs creak and groan, which means Officer Lewis is still out there. "That cop is outside looking for you."

"Ah fuck," he laughs. I wanna give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it's just the lack the sleep and blood making him laugh it off like no big deal. "Alright," he adds while smoothing his hair down, "just open the door."

"What is this supposed to be, some sorta noble sacrifice?" I scoff. Tim doesn't answer. Instead, he comes to stand in front of me and rests his hand on the doorknob. "George caught me, Marls, it's okay. I'll get less time if I turn myself in, anyways." He really isn't that much taller than I am, but the distance between us is enough that I move to the side when he gently nudges my shoulder. I don't even have it in me to argue with him at this point. He's a stupid hood, alright, and about as stubborn as they come. "Serious, babe, you're gonna go grey by the next time I see you if you keep worrying' 'bout every damn thing." I feel anxious and nauseous, dizzy and scared. I feel kinda cold, too, once Tim pulls the door open and loops his free arm against my waist. "I'll be in an' out in no time," he says. "You won't even have time to miss me." He's pressed his lips against my forehead in a quick and tender moment, he's even thrown his hands in the air once the door opens and he faces the cop responsible for our introduction in the first place. "C'mon, George, let's hustle this up. Don't you gotta cheat on your wife at one?"

There's nothing I can do but watch as he's led down the walkway and to the white squad car parked in front of the house. He and Officer Lewis are bickering the whole way, but it isn't loud enough for me to make out any of the words. It isn't until Tim's pushed up against the hood of the car and the gleam of silver handcuffs catches my eye that I can finally hear what's he's saying. Shouting, really. "I'll be in an' out in six months, don't you worry 'bout it, babe. Just make sure you wear my jacket!"

"An why in God's name would I do that?" I holler back.

I don't what to think when I realize that'll be the last thing I hear from him for six months. It's loud enough that I'm sore the entire block has heard it already, but word does travel fast in these parts. He's being pushed into the back seat of the car with one of Officer Lewis's fat hands on the back of his neck, forcing him in. Still, Tim manages to get tha last laugh - and word when he turns around.

"So you can tell all these horny fucks in the neighbourhood it belongs to your boyfriend!"

On the bright side, at least I don't have to worry about what we're calling our relationship anymore.