It's close to midnight when someone knocks on the door. Dallas curses and rubs the exhaustion from his eyes. A spike of adrenaline rises in the back of his throat. But whoever's at the door knocked way too softly to be a cop, especially this late. S'probably onea the neighbors complaining about the weed smell. Fuckin' prudes, the lot of 'em.
But when Dally yanks the door open, it's not a cop or a neighbor, but Johnny Cade, bleeding from the lip, dark eyes wide.
"Johnny," Dally says, blinking, "What—"
"Sorry," Johnny says, looking away, "Ponyboy's outta town, and Two-Bit's in the slammer. I uh, need some help." He gestures to his lip, and when Dally squints he can see the beginnings of a black eye bruising under Johnny's left.
"What happened?" Dally reaches out and takes Johnny's chin in his hand—Good. He won't need stitches.
"Got into it with some Socs," Johnny says, gritting his teeth, not looking at Dally.
Dally huffs. He knows how that is. "Alright," Dally says, dropping his hand and opening the door a crack. It's late, and Dally should be in bed. But the gang sticks together, apparently. It's not something Dallas is used to yet. After a beat, he says, "C'mon in, kid."
Johnny hesitates in the doorway, takes a deep breath and shuffles into the kitchen, his wide, dark eyes taking everything in. He hasn't been over before, unless you count when one of the gang stops in to collect Dally and take him somewhere else. But it's never been just the two of them. Johnny pauses on the couple of old photographs hanging on the peeling grey wallpaper. Dally chews the inside of his lip.
"Uh," Dally says, dragging a chair out from the kitchen table with his foot, "Have a seat." Johnny does. He doesn't say anything. Not that Dally thought he would, the kid doesn't talk much. Whatever. Less thinking for Dally to do. Dally digs around the freezer for a minute before pulling out a half-empty bag of peas. When he turns around, Johnny is inspecting his fingernails, biting his lip, looking like a drowning man in his loose jean jacket. "Here," Dally grunts, tossing the peas down on the table. Johnny startles. Dally doesn't miss the tremor in his hand when Johnny reaches for the bag.
Dally swallows. Johnny still doesn't say anything. The silence stretches on, condensing around them like the water droplets on the peas. After a few minutes, Dally grunts and goes to get some Bandaids. When he comes back, Johnny's shoulders are shaking, and tiny, inaudible gasps are coming from his busted mouth. Dally clears his throat. Johnny freezes.
"Sorry," Johnny mumbles, wiping his eyes and fumbling with the frozen peas. Dally chews his lip again. Shit. He can't remember the last time he saw someone cry. Well, there was that Soc who bawled like a baby when Dally held 'im down and pressed a blade to his throat. But that isn't the same. Dally swallows. People didn't cry in jail. Not greasers. Especially not him.
"Nah," Dally says anyway, shuffling over to the seat adjacent to Johnny. Johnny glances up to him then away, his eyes brimming red. Dally suppresses a sigh. Shit. He doesn't know what he's doing. What to say.
So instead of saying anything, Dally slides the box of bandaids across the table. Johnny takes one. Silence drags on. Geez. What would Two-Bit say? He'd probably make some crack about how busted lips are tuff. Soda would want Johnny to talk about his… feelings. God. And the Curtis' dad has that whole first aid kit under the sink. Fuck. Why'd they have to visit the countryside this weekend? They know all about this feelings shit. But Dallas? Dallas just knows how to get even.
Oh.
That's an idea.
"Which motherfucker was it?" Dally asks, spinning his ring around his finger. Johnny's tears have stopped, for now. "I'll cut 'em up real good next time I see 'em."
To his surprise, Johnny snorts. "Nah," Johnny says. His mouth curls into a smile around his split lip, "I started it."
Dally lets out a low whistle, "You, Johnnycake? Starting somethin' with a Soc?"
Johnny shrugs, "You know Frank's baby sister?"
"Susie? Sure," Dally says. He knows of her, at least. Susie's just entered middle school, already swears and smokes as much as Dally did at that age.
"One of them kept harassing her, tryin' to get her smokes. Saying she was too young to be out this late, ya know? Shit like that," Johnny says, lip curling in disgust, "One of 'em tried to grab her hair, too." Dally finds himself sneering. Sure, Susie might be a whiner, but she doesn't deserve that.
"So you went after 'em?"
Johnny nods.
"Tell me who they are. I can rough 'em up."
Johnny bites his lip, tonguing the scab forming there, "Mick, and uh. What's his name? Randy somethin'. Looks like a Beatle with his haircut like that." He grins. Dally nods. Yeah, he knows them. Randy wears all those rings. Cut up Dally's face real bad once, took a week to heal. Dally grinds his teeth.
"Yeah, I'll fuck 'em up for you."
Johnny is quiet for a moment, but a smile creeps across his dark face. "Thanks, Dal."
Dally shrugs, "Sure."
Silence stretches out again, settles in the empty chairs around the table. Dallas fiddles with his ring, admiring the glitter of gold. Johnny puts a bandaid on his lip once the bleeding stops. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks. A car zooms down the street, too fast to be legal, the driver probably too drunk to care. Johnny switches between tonguing his lip and staring off into space, eyes glazing over.
"Hey," Dallas says after Johnny spaces out for the third time, "You wanna smoke?" He can't believe he didn't ask sooner. Johnny nods with vigor. Dallas fishes a pack and a lighter out of his pocket and lights one between his teeth. He hands the carton to Johnny, whose hands are still shaking. After watching Johnny fail to flick the lighter a few times, Dallas grabs the thing from Johnny's hand and lights his cigarette for him. Johnny doesn't look at him. After a few puffs, Johnny glances around the table. "What?" Dally asks.
"Ashtray?"
"Shit, nah," Dally says. He pulls a mostly-clean plate from the other end of the table and sets it in front of Johnny, who taps his ashes out. It takes a few minutes, but the lines on Johnny's face begin to relax. His shoulders droop. His hand steadies. He flicks hair out of his eyes.
It's a good look on him, Dally thinks, not being so stressed out.
Silence falls between them again. It gets to Dally eventually. When he lights his second cigarette, he takes a long drag and just starts talking. He tells Johnny about the fight he got into at Buck's place a few weeks ago, when the broad he was picking up didn't mention she had a boyfriend. "Took a nasty blow to the stomach. Couldn't breathe right for a while." Dally says.
Johnny makes a face, smoke seeping through his teeth.
Dally laughs, "That ain't nothin'. You shoulda seen some of the guys in New York. One of them ran from the cops with two broken ribs and a busted jaw. Had to climb over fences and shit to get away. Tuff stuff."
Johnny's eyes go wide. "What'd they do to piss off the fuzz?"
Dally shrugs, "Whatever, really. Broke into the movies, mouthed off to a store clerk, stole shit, beat up some kids. Anything he could do, he did."
"Did he get away?"
"Every time," Dally says, pride swelling on his tongue. "One time he got hurt so bad couldn't leave the couch for two weeks, though. Had to smoke through a pack a day to keep himself sane."
"Wow," Johnny says. He fingers at his cigarette, licking the flavor off his lips, "That's tuff."
"Sure was," Dally says. The air has gone stale with smoke, but Dally sucks in a deep breath anyway.
"What was his name?" Johnny asks, eyes bright, leaning forward in anticipation.
Dally smirks, "Dallas Winston."
"No way," Johnny says, his grin growing.
Dally nods. "S'true." He juts his chin out, leaning close to Johnny. On one side of his jaw is a bright pink discoloration half the width of a knuckle, in the vague shape of a star. The skin is slightly raised, "Told a cop to go fuck himself. He didn't like that too much. Good thing he didn't know I had a blade on me."
Johnny leans in close and studies the scar. In his peripheral vision, Dally sees Johnny's hand twitch out reflexively before Johnny pulls it back to his chest.
"Tuff."
"Yeah."
They lapse into silence again, but it doesn't bother Dally as much this time.
"Hey, Dal?" Johnny says halfway through his second cigarette.
"Mm?" Dally hums.
"Thanks."
"Sure thing." Dallas sucks on his third cancer stick, "Hey, there's a deck of cards in the top drawer behind you. Let's play somethin'."
After a beat, Johnny agrees.
It turns out Johnny doesn't know anything more complicated than Go Fish. They play a few rounds of it, but the damn kid can't stop grinning whenever he picks a good card off the pile, so Dally wins in ten minutes flat. Johnny scowls and hands his last two cards over. Dally thinks it's the most expressive he's ever seen the kid.
"You would suck at poker," Dally says, raising his eyebrows, "With your face like that."
"I've never played," Johnny admits. Dally shuffles the cards.
"Obviously. You can barely play a round of Go Fish," Dally says.
Johnny stills.
Shit, way to pour salt on it, Dally.
Dally opens his mouth to apologize—since when is Dally someone who apologizes?— but Johnny somehow beats him to it.
"At least I don't pick up girls who have boyfriends."
Coming from anyone else, Dally would've punched them. But it's so unexpected to hear from quiet little Johnny, all Dallas can do is laugh, full-bellied, mouth full of smoke.
"Guess you're right," Dally says, "Guess you're right."
Dally isn't sure how it happens, but Johnny winds up being the best part of Dallas' day, any day. He comes over most nights the next couple weeks. After the Curtis' get back from their vacation, Johnny spends a few hours tooling around with Ponyboy, then instead of heading back to his parents' place, he knocks on Dallas' door. Sure, sometimes Dally's at Buck's, sometimes he has a girl over, but on the nights he's free, Dally grabs Johnny in half a headlock and pulls him inside. Most nights, they have a few smokes and play Go Fish. Dally teaches Johnny how to keep his expression locked down, and after a while Johnny even wins a few games. Johnny learns Rummy, War, and they're working on Texas Hold 'Em.
Dally doesn't get it, to be honest. In New York, he liked fighting. He liked spitting on cops and old Catholic women. His mouth always tasted like blood and tobacco. That hasn't changed much in Oklahoma: he nicks things from the convenience store because it's easy. He gets drunk and fucks whatever girls offer him a warm bed. He kicks Socs' heads in when he feels like it. But somehow, shooting the shit with Johnny has become the highlight of his day, no matter what day it is. He likes the kid, feels at ease around him. Half the time they play cards and don't even say anything, maybe pass a joint or a beer between them, only talk when it's necessary for the game. That should drive Dally wild. It would normally. But it doesn't. Because it's Johnny, whatever that means. Besides, the other half of the nights, like this Tuesday night, they talk, and talk a lot.
"That's bullshit. You can't do that," Dally says, cigarette bobbing between his teeth.
Johnny raises his eyebrows, smoke puffing from his nose, "It's true. We had to dissect one to pass ninth grade science."
"I've never heard of that," Dally insists, shaking his head, "Got any fours?"
"Go Fish," Johnny says, "Ask anyone. Even Two-Bit had to do it."
"Was it like, hopping around on the tray? Did you have to pin it down?" Dally asks, picking a card from the pile. He grins, all teeth, "Was it bloody?"
"What?" Johnny says, "No, it was dead already. Like, they froze it and stuff. Got any Jacks?"
"That's jank. You saw me pick that up," Dallas scoffs, handing over the card. He finishes off his cigarette and smushes it out on the table, leaving a little black mark.
"Did not," Johnny says, but then his – admittedly improving— poker face breaks and he grins, crooked tooth dazzling, "Okay, maybe."
"Oh, that's it," Dally says. He smacks his cards down on the table and lunges across to Johnny, pulling him into a headlock. Johnny taps Dally's thigh and Dally loosens up a fraction, but then Johnny lunges at him, his small hands surprisingly strong against Dally's chest. They grapple together, wrestling in a few blows and kicks. Dally winds up pinning Johnny to the floor, hands on Johnny's wrists. The two boys pant, smelling of smoke and sweet beer. Johnny's eyes are brown. Dally doesn't realize he's laughing until he needs to gasp for air.
"Uncle," Johnny coughs out, and Dally lets up. Dallas sits back on his knees, breath coming in short. He needs to quick smoking, he's bound to get cancer one of these years. Johnny plucks at his shirt and fixes it.
"You good?" Dally asks once Johnny adjusts himself.
Johnny nods, "Yeah."
A beat, "Seriously, fucking frogs, man? Dead ones?"
"Yeah. We took out their hearts and everything."
"Fuck," Dally says, letting out a low whistle. Johnny laughs, and it comes out a bit broken, like he himself isn't used to the sound. Dally's chest gets tight, and it's not from exertion. Yeah, somehow Johnny's become the best part of his fucking day.