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The night Johnny gets jumped is fucking awful. Dal is fucking around at the movies, shooting the shit with Tim and Curly, when he gets this… Feeling all of a sudden, like something is very, very wrong. He can’t explain it, he just knows, like a spidey sense or some shit.
He makes some excuse and leaves, hopping in his car. He’s not sure what he's looking for but he knows when he sees it - the gang is huddled around one of the vacant lots that Johnny hangs out in sometimes.
Fuck.
His heart drops to his stomach.
He parks half-on the curb and starts running.
Sodapop’s already found him. They’re curled up together, Soda’s arm around him, whispering comforting things like he’s his dad or some shit. Johnny is outright sobbing, his breath coming in wet shudders and gasps.
Then he looks up and sees Dally, and turns away, his face bright with shame.
“Kid,” He says, because what the fuck else is there to do, “It’s… It’s alright.”
It’s the wrong thing to say, he guesses, ‘cause then Johnny’s cryin’ harder, burying himself in Soda’s armpit. They stay like that for a long time, Johnny cryin’, and the rest of them standing around, lookin’ at each other uselessly. But there was nothing else to do.
Eventually, his cries subside into sniffles, and he collects himself long enough to croak out, “Anyone got a light?” and damn it, somehow that’s the funniest thing anyone’s ever said. Johnny laughs. Ponyboy laughs. Hell, even Dally laughs while fishing his cigarette tin out of his pocket. He squats down and doesn’t bother even handing it to him, just sticks the fag between Johnny’s lips and lights it himself.
He sucks it while staring at him, eyelids fluttering. Slowly, slowly, the color starts to come back to his cheeks.
It’s alright. He’s alright.
He tries to stand a few minutes later and winds up half-falling onto Dally.
He catches him, holds him up.
“Johnny?” Soda asks, putting a hand on his back.
“Yeah?” He croaks, not looking away from Dal.
“Where do you wanna stay tonight?” He asks, cause he sure as hell ain’t goin’ home, “You’re welcome on the couch, if you like.”
But Johnny shakes his head.
“I’ll stay with Dal,” He says, “If that’s alright with you.” He says to Dally.
“‘Course it’s alright,” He says, for once not caring who hears emotion that gets stuck in his voice.
Soda looks at him, a question in the furrow of his brow. Dally looks back, trying to project I’ve got him as hard as he can. Soda puts his hands up. He’s all yours, the gesture seems to say.
Johnny can’t really walk more than a few steps at a time, so Dal and Two-Bit loop their arms around his shoulders and they hobble to the car. The kid’s in bad shape, he probably needs a hospital or some shit, but fuck, can you imagine that? Three greasers walk into a hospital, it sounds like the start to a bad joke. Except this time there’s no punch line. Nothing, really, to diffuse the weight of the half-dead boy walking with them.
The house is empty when they get there. Soda goes and flips on some of the lights, Two-Bit raids the fridge, and Darry goes to find the first aid kit. Sodapop and Pony get into a spat, ‘cause Pony wants to stay, but Soda is making him go home. Eventually, Pony goes, but not before crushing Johnny in a hug and swearing he’ll be back in the morning.
Darry took an EMT class last summer, so he’s in charge of stitching up the worst of it. He disinfects the wounds with a bottle of vodka, and puts creams and bandages on where needed.
It’s now that Dally really sees the extent of the damage. He saw the cut on his cheek before, bleedin’ like that was its damn job, but now he notices the dirty clothes. His jacket, tossed over the back of the couch, is torn in a couple places. His shirt, which he’s taken off so Darry can get to his back, is red, red, red. But the worst of it is when Darry tries to coax Johnny out of his jeans. He starts hollerin’ then, cursing, and fresh tears start welling up. Dally sees - they all see, for the first time, the beginnings of a stain on the back of his jeans.
Dally’s blood turns to ice and fire all at once.
“Those motherfuckers,” Someone says, and Dally is surprised to realize it’s his own voice, “I’ll kill them, I swear to god, I fucking will.”
Then, the worst part of the whole night happens. Johnny reaches out for him. His brown hand is grasping at the air in Dally’s direction. Dally has no choice but to follow, wrapping his arms around Johnny’s slight frame for all he’s worth. Johnny’s arms get crushed up against his chest, but he doesn’t complain. He’s clinging, and Dally is clinging right back.
“Johnny,” He murmurs, one hand going up to pet Johnny’s dark hair. It’s a mess of grease and dirt and sweat, but fuck if the heat of his small body isn’t the only thing that fucking matters right now, “Fuck, Johnnycake.” He glances at the rest of them, wide-eyed, trying to see if they have any words of wisdom. He’s not good at this shit. But they’re all looking away, rather pointedly. As if it’s just him and Johnny alone in the room.
“Johnny,” He says again, because he can’t say I love you, “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.” He squeezes tighter, and he knows it’s gotta hurt because Johnny is whimpering a little, but fuck, he needs this. They both need this, “It’s okay, baby. It’s alright.”
He holds him for a long time. He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until he opens them, and suddenly they are alone in the room. The rest of the gang is out in the kitchen, whispering amongst themselves.
“Baby,” He whispers against the top of Johnny’s head.
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna go talk to ‘em. You stay here.”
He kisses his temple and pushes him gently towards the couch.
In the kitchen, Darry has the first aid kid spread out on the table, making notes of what all is there and what’s missing.
“Dally,” He says when Dally comes in.
“Darry.”
They nod at one another. They’ve always had an understanding. He gives him a brief overview of the first aid kid, what Johnny probably still needs and where.
“You’ll be alright with him?” He asks, arms folded across his chest.
“Yeah.”
They take their leave, and as they head out the door, Soda turns back to him and looks at him with such naked understanding.
“Call us if you need anything,” Is all he says, but Dally gets the feeling that Soda knows, somehow, even if he isn’t quite sure what exactly he knows.
“I will,” He promises.
The door clicks shut behind them.
Johnny’s fallen asleep on the couch when Dally comes back in.
“Hey, kid,” He says, nudging him with his knee. Johnny blinks awake.
“Oh, hey, Dal,” He says, easily, like this is every other night they’ve spent together recently. Like he didn’t just get his world upended.
“You need a shower,” He murmurs, and as expected, the color drains from Johnny’s face.
“I…”
He huffs, “C’mon, kid. You’ll feel better.”
Johnny bites his lip, but he gets off the couch and follows Dally to the bathroom. He sits on the closed toilet while Dally starts the water, waiting for it to heat up. Now that Dally sees it, he can’t unsee it - the way Johnny’s jaw twitches when he sits down, the way he doesn’t even sit fully, he perches on the edge of the seat, like he’s afraid to get comfortable. Like he can’t get comfortable.
It makes something burn in Dally’s chest, like the first time he realized Johnny’s dad sent him to school hungry. Who does that to fucking Johnny ?
But tonight is not the night for anger, so he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
The bathroom is starting to steam up, so he pulls back the curtain a few inches.
“Get in,” He says.
Johnny looks away, biting his lip again before he murmurs, “Dal…”
“What?”
He looks down, twisting his hands in his lap.
“Will you… Can you… With me?” He mumbles.
Oh. He wants to - oh .
“Yeah,” He breathes, “Yeah, babe, I can.”
They strip together, leaving their clothes in a pile on the floor. Dally kicks Johnny’s ravaged clothes into the corner, vowing to burn ‘em to ash when he gets the chance. Johnny leaves his underwear on, but Dally strips to the nude, leaving his whole self on display. He’s never been self-conscious before, but there’s something about the way Johnny looks at him with open curiosity that makes the heat creep up his neck.
He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. This isn’t about that right now. This isn’t about him.
They step into the sticky cove of the shower together, the hot water beating down on Dally’s back. Johnny usually looks small, but with his hair plastered to his forehead and his arms wrapped around himself, he looks downright miniscule. It makes Dally’s heart hurt.
“Switch places with me,” He says, and Johnny blinks, but does it. He shuts his eyes and lets the water run over him like rain. His shoulders slump.
Dally washes Johnny’s hair, careful to not get shampoo in his eyes, then he takes a washcloth and soaps it up. He washes every crevice and limb, going carefully around each blossoming bruise or cut. Johnny is so damn skinny, he still hasn’t grown into his years, and Dally wonders if he ever will.
He hovers with the washcloth above the cleft of Johnny’s ass.
“Johnny,” He says, desperately, reverently, “Why don’t, uh, why don’t you do this part?”
“I…” He says, voice small, “I don’t want to.”
He furrows his brow.
“You have to,” He says, with a bit more force than he means.
Johnny’s face twists into an unhappy line. He sucks in a breath and it shakes.
“I’m scared,” He admits. Dally reaches over and touches the back of his hand, running his thumb over the dip between thumb and wrist. It’s tender - more tender than Dally can ever remember being, even when he was a kid. It feels weird, unfamiliar in a way that makes him uncomfortable, but it’s okay if it’s for Johnny. It’s always, only for Johnny.
“I know, baby,” He says, but even that doesn’t feel like enough, so he leans in, pressing a kiss to Johnny’s forehead, and murmurs, “I’m here.” Against his hair. He wraps his arms around Johnny’s shoulders, resting them there like they’re dancing. Johnny tucks his head against Dally’s neck, squeezes his eyes shut. He takes the washcloth from Dally, gets it wet again, and dips it between his cheeks. He jerks a little against him when he gets to the most tender places. Dally holds him close, hums a tune he heard on the radio the other day, while Johnny washes and rinses himself.
When he’s done, the two of them stand together, dripping, for a few minutes. Even under the hot spray, Johnny shivers, and Dally wonders if it isn’t the shower that’s made him grow cold.
Eventually, the water starts to actually get cold, so Dally turns it off and goes to get a towel for each of them. Thankfully, Johnny’s left a couple shirts and stuff here over the last few weeks, so it’s not hard to find something that fits.
He looks away when Johnny gets dressed, ‘cause it feels like the right thing to do.
They climb into bed wordlessly. Dally doesn’t want to stop touching him, so he doesn’t, trailing a hand over his back, his arms, as they lie there together, dozing off.
“I keep thinkin’...” Johnny says after a minute. Dally jerks out of half-sleep and does his best to listen.
“That’s dangerous,” He says.
Johnny laughs, a hiccuping little sound.
“Shut up. I keep thinkin’, like, about that house on 21st street.” He knows the one. It’s a little fixer-upper rancher, but it’s got a decent back yard and a real fence. The previous owners even kept a garden, and they’d give out fresh tomatoes to the neighborhood kids in the spring. That was years ago though, and now it’s all overgrown and shit, but with some love, it’d be back in its glory days in no time.
“Yeah? What about it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s embarrassed. Dally shifts forward so his arms come around on both sides of him, holding him close.
“Just, like… I keep thinkin’ about buyin’ it. Like, if it’s still on the market once I’m outta high school, yanno? You an’ me could, like, go in on it together.”
He feels a laugh bubble up in his throat. Like hell he’d have enough money to buy a house, even a shitty, rundown one like the one on 21st. Like hell anyone would sell to him.
“See!” Johnny huffs, “I knew you’d laugh.”
Dally swallows.
“I ain’t laughin’,” He says. He clears his throat, “I’m sorry. Tell me about it. Tell me what you’re thinkin’.” He surprises himself by how desperately he wants to know.
Johnny sighs, and is quiet for a moment, but as he thinks, he starts to play with Dally’s fingers.
“I’d want a dog,” He says, quietly, like it’s a big admission, “One of those big, like, scrunchy-face dogs.”
“What, like, a bullmastiff?”
“Yeah, they’re tuff.”
“They sure are.”
A dog like that would crush Johnny like a twig, but now seems like a good time to keep that particular thought to himself.
“What else?”
“Uh, you’d get a job at the gas station, fixin’ cars with Soda, and I’d - I’d go to school, maybe become a teacher. I think the kids could use a teacher like me. Someone who understands ‘em, yanno?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
It’s funny how easily he can see it - Johnny, his hair cut to a respectable length, studying at the kitchen table. The dog is asleep underfoot, and Dally is fixing up dinner. Since this is a fantasy, hell, they’d have a jar full of cookies on the counter and he snags a couple as he works. Johnny finishes early and comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around his stomach. They'd sway together like they're dancing, Johnny humming some radio tune in his ear,
“I like that.” He admits into Johnny’s shoulder, “I like that a whole lot.”
“Me, too,” He says, a smile in his voice at last.
It’s a fantasy, of course. Dally knows he won’t make it to thirty. Hell, some days he doesn’t know if he’ll make it to eighteen. But tonight, he holds Johnny tight and hums some Elvis, and he can almost smell the cookies from the kitchen.