Chapter Text
Dally knew he was dead the minute he saw Mr. Curtis’ face.
He was surprised to see the man, all things considered. Mr. Curtis was kind and hardworking and devoted, which Dally was decidedly not. Maybe Heaven was harder to get into than Dally thought.
Dally was lying down, feeling fuzzy and heavy. Mr. Curtis sat next to the… bed? Were there beds in Hell? That felt wrong. Either way, the man had his legs crossed, newspaper open as it was so many times in Dally’s younger years. It had been almost guaranteed that if one joined the Curtis family for breakfast, Mr. Curtis would be reading the morning paper. The only thing that was missing was his coffee.
Dally tried to say the man’s name, hoping to get some answers. Namely: was this Hell? If it was Heaven, how soon until they sent him to where he belonged? Or was this some odd, middle area? Dally had been pretty sure nothing came after you died, so he was pretty much at a loss.
Unfortunately, nothing intelligible came out. In fact, all he heard was a muffled, short, hoarse sound. He frowned, trying to clear his throat. This, at least, caught Mr. Curtis’ attention. But it also made him cough.
Suddenly, pain shot through him. He couldn’t identify where it came from, just that his body was suddenly on fire. His breath caught in his throat, threatening to choke him.
“-lly! Dally!”
Noise swam in his ears through the anguish. Someone was calling for him. He caught sight of Mr. Curtis through blurred vision. It seemed like it was the man, but the voice wasn’t right. Mr. Curtis had never sounded so worried.
“Mr. Curtis,” Dally tried. He wanted to ask for help, for answers. But his voice was still muffled, and each syllable required another breath in between.
“Dally,” Mr. Curtis said. Dally could see his mouth moving. His voice sounded far more normal now, the calm, confident baritone Dally had heard so many times. “Dally, you gotta calm down.”
Dally needed Mr. Curtis to understand. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t speak and he was in so much pain. He tried to reach out, only to find that his left arm wouldn’t move. He tried again and again, but it was trapped.
Suddenly, two hands were on either side of Dally’s face. Dally flinched before finding Mr. Curtis standing over him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. How strange.
“Dally, kiddo, stop,” Mr. Curtis said. Dally felt a rush of warmth; he’d always treasured it when Mr. Curtis acted as if Dally were his own son, even if Dally would never admit to it. “Just take a deep breath, alright? You can do it.”
Dally tried to focus on breathing. His chest was tight, and it felt as if his lungs were on fire each time he took in air. His voice came out wheezy. “Mr. Curtis-”
The hands left him then, and a whine tore from his throat. Dally barely realized how embarrassing that was, too distracted by the desperation surging through him.
Some semblance of a plea tumbled from his mouth, over and over, until Mr. Curtis reappeared. The man looked devastated, like Dally had never seen. But he was there, and Dally wasn’t alone.
A sharp pain struck his right arm, and before he could even turn his head to see what it was, his eyes were shuttering closed.
—✯—
The next time he awoke, Mr. Curtis wasn’t there. Instead, two men in white coats stood above him.
“Hello, Mr. Winston,” the men said. Dally blinked. Either he was staring at two very in-sync twin doctors, or his vision was doubled.
“Dal?” Dally’s gaze slid over to find two identical Darrys. Definitely double vision. He tried to reach up and rub his eyes, but found that only his right arm moved. He struggled to focus on the left, but realized quickly that it was in a sling.
“The hell?” he murmured.
“Mr. Winston,” the doctor said (it was almost funny to pretend there were two of them–like a circus act). “Do you hear me?”
“Both of you,” Dally replied before he could think better of it. The doctor raised an eyebrow, but looked over at Darry and seemingly decided that’s what Dally meant.
“My name is Dr. Hart. I need to ask some questions,” the doctor said. “Is that alright with you?”
“Do I get a choice?”
“Dally,” Darry said. It was a familiar tone–a disapproving sigh rolled into his name. It was like a nickname.
The doctor laughed. “I’m afraid not.”
“Do your worst then.”
“What’s your name?”
“Dally.”
Dr. Hart smiled. “Your full name.”
“Dallas Winston,” Dally said, rolling his eyes.
“Tucker,” Darry snickered quietly. Dally wished his left hand wasn’t immobile so he could smack Darry as he deserved.
“Your birthday?”
“November 9, 1948.”
“Do you know what day it is today?”
Dally thought about it. It was odd, like a fog had settled over the part of his brain that kept track of that sort of thing. Something told him it was May, but other than that, he had no idea. He told the doctor as much.
“That’s alright,” Dr. Hart replied. “How about the year?”
“1966.”
“The president?”
“Johnson.”
“Do you know where you are?”
Dally looked around. “The hospital, I assume.”
“Very good, Dallas,” Dr. Hart said. “Now, how would you rate your pain on a scale from 1-10, 1 being nothing and 10 being the worst?”
Dally realized he hadn’t considered why he was in the hospital. Pain. He hadn’t felt any; rather, a pleasant warmth filled his body, like he was taking a bath.
But then, as he thought about it, a throbbing began. It was small at first, at the edge of his thoughts. It ebbed and flowed in time with his heartbeat, radiating from the center of his chest. The longer he considered it, the worse it got. It was no longer a quiet tide, but a roaring wave of pain, hitting him over and over.
He grit his teeth, resisting the urge to scream.
“Dallas?” the doctor prodded.
“Dal?” Darry’s hand made contact with Dally’s right arm. It felt like an ice pack over a bad bruise–relieving the pain wherever it touched. Without thinking, Dally tried to reach over with his left hand to hold Darry in place. His arm didn’t move.
He glanced down, finding his left arm stuck in a sling. He didn’t know why. He looked back at Darry. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
Darry winced, glancing at the doctor.
“Don’t look at him!” Dally snapped. His voice came out shaky, and it only made him angrier. “Tell me what the fuck is going on!”
“Dallas,” the doctor interrupted. Dally hated stupid Dr. Hart more and more by the second. “You were shot. Your arm is immobilized due to a wound near your collarbone. You suffered three more injuries, one on your right hip, one below your left lung, and one just above your navel. You are incredibly lucky, Dallas.”
Dally felt like he’d been frozen right there, unable to move or breathe or speak. He’d been shot? By who? He’d been threatened with it before, sure, but for it to have actually happened?
“Dally,” Darry said again. Dally glanced over at the man, who had on his Superman face, the one he used when his parents had died and when Johnny had been beaten and–
Oh, God.
Buck waking him up, complaining about two kids.
The drop in his stomach that both of the youngest members of the gang would have shown up at Buck’s.
Ponyboy soaked to the bone like a wet dog, shaking in the cold night air.
Handing Johnny that stupid fucking gun.
Walking them out of Buck’s, running a hand through Johnny’s hair one last time before sending them off.
Fear gripping him as he returned to the bedroom, trying to go back to sleep.
Tracking down Tim Shepard the next day, picking a fight outside the Dingo and earning himself more cracked ribs and a trip to the station.
Soda’s devastated face upon seeing Pony’s sweatshirt at Buck’s, begging Dally to tell him where his baby brother was.
Forcing Two-Bit to refrain from going to Texas in search of them, the tears that welled up in the man’s eyes.
Entering the church after days, eyes landing on the kids once again. Ponyboy’s bleached hair, ridiculous and pulling at Dally’s hardened heart in a way that he hated.
The starved way the kids ate their food, like they hadn’t eaten at all since running off.
Johnny saying he was going to turn himself in and the images of the kid in prison, just like Dally but softer and smaller.
Johnny asking about his parents; the rage that tore through Dally about it. The hurt look on the kid’s face.
The church on fire. The stupid, wonderful kids who Dally loved more than anything else running off into it.
Pony falling through the window, still on fire.
The loud crash and Johnny’s screams.
The smoke and heat as Dally climbed in after him.
Johnny’s broken body as Dally finally found him.
Being torn away from him as paramedics arrived.
Tim Shepard showing up at the hospital. The softest Dally’d ever heard him, saying, “Don’t ever do something that stupid again.”
Arguing with the nurses just for something to do, knowing Johnny was just down the hall and not being able to do anything about it.
Two-Bit telling him the kid didn’t look good. The lump in his throat that he fought off.
Interrupting the rumble, late after fighting with the doctors to be able to leave. Relishing in the feeling of beating a Soc’s head in. Feeling a little sick about it.
Winning. Knowing he had to tell Johnny, and knowing Ponyboy had to come with him. The fight belonged to the three of them.
Being pulled over and Ponyboy’s performance at being sick, which made Dally nauseous to see.
Rambling at the kid, wanting never to see him look hurt like that again.
The doctor stopping them as they tried to get to Johnny. “He’s dying.”
Hearing his own voice shake as hard as the hand holding Two-Bit’s switch.
Johnny, so small and pale and sick in that bed.
Johnny, his eyes glowing as Dally told him how proud they were.
Johnny, his hand going slack in Dally’s.
Knowing he had gone soft.
Knowing he wouldn’t survive prison or fighting or seeing anyone else die.
Knowing he had to go out on his terms.
Holding up the gas station.
Calling Darry.
Seeing his friends turn the corner just as the cops arrived.
Raising the gun.
—✯—
“Dally?”
Dally was awake again. Two-Bit Mathews stood over him, hands on either of Dally’s shoulders.
“Two-Bit,” Dally said. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton and he wished for a drink.
Before Two-Bit could reply, Dally was hit by memories.
“Johnny!” Dally sat up wildly. His chest and abdomen screamed in protest, and he groaned. However, he persisted in his need to get up, scrabbling against the other guy’s grasp.
Two-Bit’s strong hands pushed Dally back down. Usually, Dally could have fought back, but, infuriatingly, his body failed him. Dally grabbed at Two-Bit’s arms desperately. “Two-Bit… Johnny, he…” Dally trailed off, looking at Two-Bit, hoping he would understand. Dally couldn’t say it.
“He’s alive, Dally,” Two-Bit said, keeping one hand on Dally’s arm to keep him from getting up, and putting the other on Dally’s chest. “He’s alive.”
Dally stared at Two-Bit, sure the other guy was stupider than ever. He had seen Johnny die, he had watched as the only person in the whole goddamn world who gave a shit about him took his last breath.
“He made it, Dal,” Two-Bit reiterated. “You and Pony left before you could see. They revived him. None of us knew until we wound up back here with you, and a nurse caught us.”
Dally knew he looked like an idiot. He was staring blankly at Two-Bit, unable to comprehend what he was saying.
“He’s okay?” Dally finally was able to force out.
“He’s alive,” Two-Bit said. “He’s mostly out of the woods, the doctors think. But he’s going to have a miserable couple of months.”
“He’s alive,” Dally echoed. And then he did something horribly embarrassing, something he hadn’t done in years. He burst into tears.
Two-Bit jumped back a bit before coming to hold Dally’s shoulder. “Dal, it’s… it’s alright.” Two-Bit sounded terribly unsure of what to do. If he had been more sound of mind, Dally might have laughed. Instead, he continued to cry, sobs coming from somewhere deep inside of him. He might have liked to blame it on the pain. He had been shot after all. But he knew that wasn’t quite true.
Dally shook with pain and anguish, a hand over his eyes. Two-Bit was still there, rubbing Dally’s shoulders.
It took him a while to calm down, but he managed to stem the flow of tears just a minute before more of the gang walked in. Darry, Sodapop, and Steve walked in the door, waving at Two-Bit. Dally didn’t think they had been by since he woke up, at least not that he remembered.
“Dally! Good to see you awake, pal!” Soda said with a cheerfulness that radiated discomfort.
Dally hoped that his breakdown earlier wasn’t obvious. “You too.”
Darry gestured for Two-Bit to join him outside the room. Two-Bit patted Dally’s shoulder before following the oldest member of their gang out the door. Soda and Steve took the seats on either side of Dally, Soda kicking his legs up onto the bed.
“Where’ve you two been?” Dally said hoarsely.
Steve and Soda made eye contact for a moment, before Soda looked back at Dally. “We were with Johnny.”
Dally nearly sat up again, before remembering the searing pain that had come last time he had tried. “How’s he doin’?” He tried to hide his desperation for answers.
“He’s… he’s pretty miserable, Dal,” Soda said, chewing on his lip nervously.
“He’s awake?” Dally asked.
Steve and Soda both nodded. “He’d been in and out of it before. The doctors say he should be awake for good now, though,” Soda said.
“I want to see him,” Dally said, doing his best to stare down Soda in the intimidating way that usually got him what he wanted.
“Dal, neither of you are fit to be out of bed right now,” Steve said. “We aren’t even sure if Johnny can-”
Soda gave Steve a severe look, and Steve’s jaw snapped shut like a steel trap.
“You aren’t sure if Johnny can what?” Dally asked, although he was sure he already knew the answer. He had seen the state of Johnny’s back.
Soda glared at Steve. His eyes went soft as he turned to Dally, “Dally… the doctors aren’t sure if Johnny’s gonna walk again.”