Chapter Text
Dallas Winston was a tough nut that hardly anyone could crack open. Some people got a small peek at the nut inside the shell, but never enough to truly know him.
Everyone who read the newspapers knew about Dallas. They knew his tough side; his jail time, his crimes. But they didn’t know his soft side. The only people who have seen his softer side were the gang and the Shepards, and Buck Merril.
Buck was kind of like his father figure, the guy basically raised Dallas. He was strict sometimes, but he usually let Dallas do whatever he wanted as long as he didn’t get himself killed and he was home by curfew. Yeah, Dallas Winston—the cold-hearted hoodlum—had a curfew: midnight. He was seventeen, in eight months he would be eighteen.
Buck knew about his secret, his dark, dirty secret. He met him when he was thirteen, before he properly transitioned.
The man had years of fighting with Dallas before the kid to finally settle down and accept him as a parental guardian and a guide. They occasionally fought, but it was usually dumb stuff, like: who got the last slice of pizza or arguing about how drinking is bad and then get drunk together.
Buck let Dallas drink whenever he wanted, there was only two rules: don’t go past your limit and only when Buck is around to watch him. He didn’t want Dallas being one of those kids that end up dead in car wrecks because he was drunk.
The amount of news headlines that contained the word “teen” and “drunk driving” was too much. And Buck had lived to see a lot of them growing up and he didn’t want to see Dally on that list, ever.
“Kid,” Buck stated, picking a leaf out of Dallas's blonde hair. He had been in a fight again, but this time he was actually pretty beaten up. Usually he’d fight with kids who don’t actually know what they’re doing, but clearly this wasn’t the case.
“You got yer’ ass handed to you," the older asked as he sat down next to Dallas in a stool. The bar was closed since it was Sunday.
“Shudd’up, the guy was bigger than me.”
“And you decided to fight him? You’re gonna get yourself killed one day.” Buck scoffed. At least the kid wasn’t cut up by a blade, just a split lip and a really bad black eye that had probably taken more than one punch.
“Whatever,” Dallas scoffed, as if dying was the least worrying thing to him. And it was, he had basically nothing to lose. “When’s dinner?”
“I ordered pizza.” Buck was dabbing the blood off his face and chuckles. If he didn’t, Dally would walk around with bloody face and hands.
Dallas was starving, he hadn’t eaten since this morning. It was an honest mistake, he had just forgotten to. He’d often ignore the feeling of his stomach screaming at him for food. He was used to the feeling of being hungry, he was underfed as a kid.
“I’m starvin’,” he groaned, pulling back as Buck touched his lip. “Fuck off. It hurts enough.”
“I was just tryna wipe the blood off, you big baby.” Dallas did not enjoy being called that, but he let Buck do as he pleased.
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The pizza had arrived. As much as Dallas’s lip hurt, he hoovered whatever he got. Buck had bought his favourite: pepperoni. He didn’t like plain cheese and he didn’t like vegetables. It’s a shock he doesn’t have scurvy.
He’s incredibly picky about food for a seventeen year old, Buck doesn’t mind it, Darrel’s used to it since he has two younger brothers that have their fair share of foods they dislike.
But you know who did mind it? His dad. He’s been picky since he exited the womb. His mom was nice about it, but his dad always told him to suck it up.
And you know what? He won’t eat steak anymore because of his dad. He likes it, but he doesn’t eat it to spite his dad even if he isn’t around (not dead, just absent in Dally’s life).
“You goin’ to school?” Buck asked as he put the pizza in a smaller bag, the box always took up too much space in his fridge.
“Maybe,” Dallas said. He was registered in school but he hardly ever went. Not since he’d been thrown in the cell. And that was about a month ago. He figured he could go back tomorrow.
He had never enjoyed school, even if he was smart. He’d never like authorities, he’d never like how the teachers got to choose all the subjects. It sucked. He hated that one English teacher that told him that he’d never get anywhere in the “real world”. You can bet he knocked that teacher’s head off. He’s survived the “real world” since he got locked up at ten. He’s been surviving the “real world” since he was born.
He never liked talking about his family. He never peeped a word about what they did, but sometimes it’d just slip out. Like whenever Johnny was complaining about his parents caring about him. He’d always say: “Why’s it matter? My old man wouldn’t care less if I were in a car wreck.” Stupid stuff like that.
He never understood why Johnny cared so much about his parents. They were deadbeats. Even when Dallas’s mom was nice, he didn’t give a hang about her. Or at least he tried to believe he didn’t give a damn about his folks.
Dally had himself and that was all he needed. Sometimes it was nice to have others around to distract him from his invasive thoughts and impulsive tendencies. But he didn’t care about anything or anyone but himself. He had pushed the idea that he hated everything so much to the point he did hate everything.
“Just don’t pick a fight again,” Buck’s voice suddenly interrupted his train of thoughts. Dallas looked up at him with wide eyes before quickly masking it with a bored expression.
“Whatever, old man.”
“I’m hardly older than you,” Buck grumbled. He had a strong dislike of being called old; he was only in his mid-twenties. The kid loved pestering him to get a reaction.
“Whatever,” Dallas drawled, “I’m goin’ to bed.” He went upstairs, ignoring Buck’s loud “good night” and heading to the rooms. He had claimed the one down the hall. A lot of the rooms were used for people who blacked out drinking, can’t get home, or to have sex. Mainly the latter.
His room was known to the regulars that it was his room. He had an unfortunate experience when a couple had walked in when he was sleeping and they laid on him. That was the most annoying thing ever that had happened at Buck’s.
Dally groaned as he lied down, kicking his shoes off and pulling his worn leather jacket off. He put it by his pillow and pulled the blankets over him. He was exhausted from that fight, even if he refused to admit it. He had to get him back. To reclaim his reputation.
Without your reputation, you’re ruined. If your reputation is damaged, you’re ruined. That’s just how it worked in Tulsa. Unless you’re a nobody.