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Johnny Cade had a bad habit.
He missed the bus a lot.
Well, technically, it was never his fault. He couldn't predict when his dad was in one of his bad moods. Plus, he didn't have an alarm clock.
The point still stood though. When he slept at his own house, it was hard falling asleep at all. It was always an accident, but he wouldn't get a wink of sleep until he knew his dad was passed out on the couch and his mom was in her room. When they retired for the night, he did too. Three hours after them, at least.
He naturally didn't get much rest. Not when his dad's footsteps echoed so loud throughout the house. Not when his mom's shrill voice cracked through the tense, dark silence. Not when he didn't feel safe in his room.
But having a roof over his head was better than sleeping on a bench.
(Not really, though.)
It was a crisp Wednesday morning, the middle of winter, the air having that cold bite to it that never seemed to go away. Johnny opened his eyes and dread immediately coursed through his body.
Behind the blinds of his bedroom was sunlight. That meant that either he was a nickel away from being late for school, or the sun had decided to wake up early. He honestly couldn't tell which one was more likely.
Right on queue, his bedroom door opened. He bolted up so fast he nearly toppled over his bed.
A shadow bled against his floor, dark like spilt ink. His dad stood in the doorway.
His father had eyes of a wolf—pitch black, dark, and clouded with anger that never seemed to settle. They were cloudy with that signature haze of liquor. Not good.
The man scratched at his beard for a moment, took a puff of the cigarette in his hand, and tapped an empty bottle of hard alcohol against his hip.
Johnny went rigid at the sight of him. Shit.
The man blinked hard, eyes hazy, trying to piece two and two together through his drunken state. "The fuck? Ain't you supposed to be at school?"
His dad hadn't said it because he cared about his attendance. Far from it. He said it because he was wondering why the hell he was still here.
Johnny did that thing where he physically couldn't speak because his vocal cords tightened into a knot. Fear blossomed through his blood, holding his limbs down, and he just sat there, frozen.
"Well?"
That got him moving. He managed a small noise in the back of his throat before jumping out of bed and frantically scrambling for his things.
"Ridiculous, how 'yer late again," his dad commented, the exasperation in his tone cold and annoyed. "S'the point in goin' to school at all if ya can't even show up on time?"
He didn't sound furious just yet. That made Johnny move faster. Maybe he had time to make it out the door before then.
As he rushed, his father just watched him, kind of like a hawk would watch a rodent before swinging down and capturing it with its talons. He swung the liquor bottle in his hand absentmindedly, like a taunt. Like a thing to frighten him with. He knew how much it scared him. He knew.
Johnny didn't look at him as he gathered his satchel and searched for his notebooks. Where even were they? It was like he couldn't think properly under the stress of being observed. He was close to losing his mind with how antsy he was. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding.
This was it, his thoughts yelped the entire time, he was going to get slugged. He was done for. It was over.
"Not even gonna look at me?" His father asked, venom dripping from his lips.
Johnny kept his eyes on the ground. No, he wasn't. He couldn't. He refused.
That would just be another thing to add onto the already horrible start to his morning—He already missed the bus, school probably started in less than ten minutes, and he just really couldn't do this right now. He just wanted to go and go fast.
Scrambling now, he grabbed his denim jacket, tugged on the first pair of jeans he found, and threw his bag over his shoulder. He made a run for the door. If he got out fast enough, if he just hurried, if he just slipped past quickly—
His dad slouched against the doorway, blocking the exit. The only exit.
There was a crooked grin splitting across his face, chipped teeth on full display, and Johnny froze.
"Please let me through," he breathed. He just wanted to go to school, was that so much to ask?
His dad tilted his head in a hazy way. Grinned. Swung his bottle loosely in one hand.
"Why should I?"
——
Johnny walked to school with a fresh black eye and a bloody nose that morning.
It wasn't like it was anything new.
His heart had long since stopped pounding, and all he felt was numb from his hands to his mind. That was normal when he lived through beatings like that—he almost fell into a state where he couldn't feel much of anything. He preferred that over the horrible fear that rooted itself into his stomach, though.
He must've been... what, twenty minutes late now? Pony was probably wondering where he was. They had first period together (Which was chemistry; Pony was one smart cookie, being so young and taking such an advanced class) and sat on the opposite ends of the classroom, usually shooting each other exhausted sighs and toothy grins.
Really, Johnny liked school. Genuinely. It wasn't like he was great at it—he was a lousy student, with C's and a few D's sprinkled in—but he liked being there. Especially because he and Pony got to hang out together. Especially because it meant he wasn't home.
Sometimes, Johnny didn't even really know why he still lived at that old place. Sleeping in his own bedroom—a room so small he could touch the walls by simply standing in the middle—was like an act of suicide. Sometimes his old man trudged into his room just to holler at him or beat him stupid, and Johnny didn't have a lock on his door, so it wasn't like he could keep him out.
Two-Bit had asked him about it one time, when Johnny was retiring for the night instead of sleeping over at the Curtis household. Something like: "Why're you even goin' back there at all, Johnnycakes? Won't your folks just mess you up like they do every day? What's the point? What's keepin' you there?"
Johnny didn't know. Not really.
But he didn't say that. Instead, he said: "They're the only family I've got."
And Two-Bit just looked at him. "Hey, the hell? What about us? We're more your family than those bastards'll ever be!"
And then Johnny had said: "By blood, I mean."
He only had one biological family. He didn't want to lose that.
So, no matter how awful his mother was, how aggressive his father was, how horrible they both could be as a unit—they were all he had. At least having his parents alive a roof over his head and a place to sleep was better than having nothing at all.
Plus, if he ever ran away, then he'd lose the only family he actually felt comfortable with. Safe around.
There would be no more staying up late working on homework with Ponyboy, no more visiting Soda during his shifts at the DX, no more driving practice with Steve, no more grocery runs with Two-Bit, no more meals to help Darry put together, and no more smokes with Dally.
He'd die. He'd truly, honestly, actually die.
His thoughts did that thing again, where they were too loud. Maybe it would be better if you did.
A car honked next to him.
Jumping madly, Johnny turned, instinctively curling in on himself like a scared little pup. His eyes pressed shut and he clutched onto his satchel for dear life. A car honking at him usually wasn't good. The memory of that Soc's thick metal rings burned behind his eyes, and his blood immediately went cold. He waited for something to come, waited for something bad to happen, waited for someone to get out of their car and beat him stupid—
Then, "Johnnycake!"
Oh?
Johnny opened his eyes.
Sure enough, on the side of the road, pulled over in a car that was definitely not his was Dallas Winston. Ever the guy with the stolen vehicle and the devilish grin.
Dally had his arm rested against the open window, his pointed teeth prominent in his wide grin, blue eyes sharp and bright and full of that impish glimmer he was known for. Typical. "Heya, Johnny! Watcha doin' all the way out here for?"
Johnny shifted on his feet. "Goin' to school," he said simply.
Dallas raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to come over. "To school? Ain't class in session by now?"
He walked up to the car and shrugged. "Missed the bus." He didn't want to bring up the other predicament he found himself in that morning.
He didn't need to. Dally took a closer look at him before the spark to his eyes dimmed a little bit. "Jesus, kid, the hell happened to you?" Reaching over the open window, he aggressively wiped his thumb across the stream of blood beneath Johnny's nose.
Johnny winced at the touch, but let it happen—Dally did what he wanted, and he didn't complain. He did huff in annoyance when Dally wiped the blood on his denim jacket, though. "Yikes. That eye ain't lookin' so well, either. All kinds of purples and reds, that thing."
Self-consciously, Johnny reached up and brushed his hair slightly over his eyes, just to hide what was noticeable. He didn't like that the beatings he received were obvious all that much. "Just my old man," he said softly, "Nothin' new."
Dally got that look on his face then—that look that Johnny's started to notice lately. Where his eyes fell into viper-like slits, his eyebrows screwed together in something like anger, and his lips pressed into a thin line.
It showed up whenever he talked about his folks. It also showed up whenever Dally eyed that scar on the side of his face for too long—the one he'd gotten from the Soc with the metal rings.
"So... you're walkin' to school?"
Johnny shrugged. "S'only ten minutes."
Dally seemed unimpressed. "If you're already late, then what's the point in goin' at all?"
"I like school." It was a simple matter. He really did, but none of the guys would ever get it. Maybe Pony would, but never in the same way. For Johnny, it was more like an escape than a pastime. A break from life. An excuse to get up in the mornings.
But he never voiced all of that. Instead, when he said he liked school, he looked more like a geek who took honors classes. Which he didn't. The guys laughed at him about it. He stopped caring about getting made fun of after a while. They all meant well. Most of the time, at least.
But instead of laughing, like Two-Bit and Steve and Soda would've done, Dally grinned fondly at him, reaching a slender hand up and ruffling his black hair. "'Betcha do, Johnnycake." Then his irises lit up, his whitish-blond eyelashes making his eyes appear wider than they really were. "Hey, wanna ditch?"
"Ditch?"
Johnny wasn't exactly a goody two-shoes—far from it, actually. It was just that he's never skipped class before. Not because he cared about being a good student, but because he's just never seen the point in it. It wasn't like he ever had anywhere better to be than at school.
"Yeah," Dallas grinned, pointed teeth catching the sunlight, "Let's go grab lunch. Do somethin' fun."
Johnny thought about it. On one hand, he had a paper in English that he needed to start. And he'd miss talking to Pony. And he wouldn't get to poke his head into Two-Bit's class during sixth period to say hi. And he wouldn't get to stick a foot out for Steve to trip over when they passed by in the halls. Those were the little things that made his school days nice.
And on the other hand, he could hang out with Dallas.
And honestly? He kind of needed that. Especially after the morning he just had.
So he sighed. Took his satchel off his shoulder. Opened the backseat door and tossed it in. He never directly agreed, but Dallas pumped a fist up victoriously, like even getting Johnny moving towards that car had been a victory.
Opening the passenger's seat and sliding in, Johnny's hand came up and touched the dashboard. "This ain't your car," he stated simply, turning and raising an eyebrow.
Dally huffed out an amused chuckle and patted the steering wheel. "Chevrolet Corvette," he said, turning to the wheel and caressing it with a finger, "She's real nice, ain't she? Picked this ol' girl up at the farmer's market. Some little Soc broad's. Neat, yeah?"
Yeah, it was a tuff lookin' car, alright. Shiny, new, recently polished. But Johnny was logical, always had been, and he said the obvious. "What if the fuzz gets us? We're in broad daylight, Dal, anyone who sees you in this thing will guess pretty quick that this ain't yours."
Dallas threw his head back and laughed—an incredulous but humored thing. "Where's your faith in me, kid? I've never let us get caught."
It was true. The cops had nothing on the two of them as a unit.
He started the car up again and swerved back on the road, the action aggressive enough to send Johnny flying into the side of the door. He hit it hard and squeaked in response. "Golly, Dally, ain't anyone ever taught ya how to drive?"
"You don't even got your license yet," Dallas hummed casually, "You can't say smack about how I drive."
Nervously, Johnny planted his back into the seat and gripped the side of the door with one hand. If he knew one thing, it was to hold on tight. Dally was a reckless driver.
——
The local Dairy Queen was Dally's favorite place in the whole world. So they stopped by, got themselves a few cokes and two hamburgers, and took a seat in one of the booths.
"Jesus, kid, slow down. You're gonna get a stomachache at this rate." Dally commented between bites of his hamburger with all the pickles picked out.
Johnny lowered his own burger in his hands and tilted his head, cheeks flushing. He was pretty hungry, and he didn't like when people watched him eat, but he supposed it was fine with Dallas. Mostly because Dally had no say in the way people ate—he was on his third burger and he sure looked it. Plus, he licked his fingers whenever he finished one instead of using a napkin like a normal person. He had horrible table manners and knew it, so he didn't get to judge.
"Sorry," Johnny grinned sheepishly. Dally never liked when he apologized for things, but the word slipped out. "Haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
"How come?"
"Didn't have lunch money, 'n my folks don't ever cook. Last I ate was at Pony's place."
"Ah."
Dally never judged him for things like that. It was nice—Soda always got weird about his lack of nutrients. He always said: "You're skin and bones, Johnnycake! You expect muscle to build on those arms when you're eatin' every three days?"
It made him feel weird, when someone brought up how little he ate. It wasn't like he was starving himself. His parents just didn't provide that for him. Sometimes food was just unavailable, and sometimes he just forgot.
The guys worried about that kind of thing, though. Sometimes he didn't understand why—it wasn't like it was in his control, so what was the deal? Plus, even if he was truly struggling, Darry would never let him go hungry, no matter how much Johnny protested about being another mouth to feed.
Why were they always worrying about him?
"You should eat more," Dally said suddenly, but in a casual tone. "Can't fight in rumbles when you don't got the muscle for it."
And...
Johnny agreed.
If it were anyone else, he'd shrug it off and try to change the subject. But not with Dally. He was usually right.
"'Kay," he said between bites of his burger, "I'll try."
Dally hummed in response, a fond smile tugging the corners of his lips upward. And then he dropped the subject. Johnny liked when he did that—when he understood that there was a time and place for conversations like that. So they both turned back to their food.
Then Johnny did a double take. Dally's attention was on his own cup of Coke, but his grin was still there.
It was... odd, seeing Dallas smile that way. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before.
It wasn't the wild one that bled over Dally's face when he talked dirty around girls, and it wasn't the impish one he wore in rumbles, and it wasn't the fiery one that hid the anger in his heart.
This smile was... humored. Genuine. It stood out amongst his elfish features. And Johnny, for some reason, was the rare exception to see it in all its glory.
A small grin tugged at his own lips. He went back to eating his burger. They were both content in the presence of one another.
That was the thing with them, wasn't it? He didn't know why, but sometimes, it felt like Dallas actually enjoyed his company. Tolerated him more than he tolerated others. Smiled at him more than he did around the other guys—actually smiled.
And maybe in turn, Johnny felt a little safer around him than he did around anyone else.
Then that thought surprised him—Dally was the furthest thing from a good person. How would anyone in their right mind feel safe around him?
He had a long file down at the police station. He jumped small kids and messed them up good. He stole, he lied, he cheated, and he had so much hate in his heart that it manifested into fights and nasty glares.
And yet, Johnny knew that Dally was his buddy. He had his back.
That must've been it—nobody wanted to mess with the Dallas Winston, who carried around stolen car keys in case he needed to plunge them into a guy's waist, who was always on alert like a mutt with its ears perked up, who could take three Socs in a fight with the world's worst hangover and win. Dally was one tough greaser—therefore, around him, Johnny was safe from every rotten thing in the world that could gnash him between its teeth.
But Johnny lied to himself a lot. That wasn't just it. That was barely it.
He also just genuinely enjoyed Dally's company.
"Whatever happened to that eye, anyways?" Dally asked casually in between bites of his burger, mouth full of bread and cheese, "Looks like you got clobbered good."
And then that thought about there being a time and place for certain conversations died out. This was the time and place for that subject
Johnny closed his eyes, the memory coming back to him. The rough hands pushing him back against the wall, the bottle of liquor shattering against the floor, the fist slamming into his eye, the kick sending him flying nose-first into the corner of his bed frame.
"Just stumbled a bit, s'all," he said instead of saying any of that out loud. He didn't really know why he refused to talk about it—his parents had always been a sort of sensitive subject for him. What they did to him was even more so.
It was just... embarrassing. To admit that they could kick him around like a football and he'd let them.
Darry looked unimpressed. "Johnny," he warned.
Oh, this was an interrogation. He was being serious.
Johnny adjusted his hair back over his eyes. His gaze was glued to the table. He sunk further into his denim jacket that was far too big on him.
"He pushed me against the wall," he said after a moment. He didn't have to clarify who—Dally knew. Johnny knew that he knew, because Dally got that look in his eyes again. Where his bright blue eyes squinted coldly and his lips pressed shut. Like there was a storm cloud right over his head.
"He slugged me good. Kicked me back against my bed. Hit my nose good." Even recalling the events made him shiver. "Then... I was on the floor for a bit after that. He kicked me 'round some more until he got bored 'n left."
There. It was all out.
Like he hadn't said anything at all, he finished his burger. He wiped his hands with a napkin. Took a sip of his coke. He looked back up.
Daly’s face was cold.
Johnny blinked. "What's the matter?"
And for a second, something in Dally’s face shifted—he hesitated, like he finally realized that his face was dark and stormy. Like he was second guessing himself. Like he was conflicted.
Then his eyebrows unknitted slightly, eyes closing as a long sigh escaped his lips. "I just can't stand seein' you getting banged up like this, Johnny. Feels like it's every day now, seein' you with a new bruise."
Oh. Johnny looked back down at the table.
"I can't control them," he said quietly, fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves, "They're just... like that."
"Yeah, but you can control yourself," Dally huffed, gesturing to him, "You're a good man in a rumble, Johnny. You can take down a guy half your size. Why do you let him just—just do that to you? Knock you around like you're nothin'?"
Johnnys eyes found Dally's. There, he caught something sincere and genuinely concerned in his blue eyes.
"I don't know," he admitted.
"You don't know lots'a things," Dally sighed, the words lacking their usual malice. "Any more injuries I should be worryin' about?"
Then Johnny really thought about it. "Well, his liquor bottle shattered," he thought out loud, reaching up and tugging the collar of his shirt down. "I fell all over the shards. Had my jacket on, but my neck and my hands got a little cut up."
Sure enough, there were wounds and bruises where he had pulled at his shirt—some pretty old, some new. Blood dotted a few of the small cuts that littered his skin. Nothing crazy, but they were there.
Dally stared at the wounds and that dark look returned to his face. "Anythin' else?"
Then Johnny straightened his back and lifted his shirt slightly. Sure enough, there was a nasty bruise or five beginning to form, colors ranging from red to green to purple. "Forgot about these. He took his time kickin' me."
Dally saw them, inhaled sharply, and slammed his hands down on the table. It spooked Johnny so bad that he flinched hard. "I've about had it with your folks, Johnny! They're awful to you! Why do you even—why do you still live over there? Why d'you bother, when this happens?"
Johnny stared at him with wide eyes.
The worst part was that he didn't have an answer for him. He truly didn't know. The only thing he did know was that he didn't think he had it in him to leave.
So he shrugged. Closed his eyes. Slouched over himself. "I got nowhere else to go."
"Now that just ain't true—" Dally huffed a disbelieving laugh, "The Curtis kids would take you in like a stray pup in a lick of a second. Two-Bit's Ma would be happy to have ya. Hell, you could live with Steve. His dad sure ain't great, but at least he doesn't beat him stupid."
And that all could've been true. Johnny had options. He had people who truly cared about him. People who would take him in without a second thought.
That didn't mean he would sift through those options, though.
"I don't wanna be a problem," he admitted quietly, fiddling with the straw in his coke.
Dallas sighed heavily—an exhausted, worried thing. "Johnny, your old man is markin' you up so bad that you don't got a sliver of skin that ain't bruised. Nobody would think twice about letting you stay with 'em. As long as it keeps you away from this—"
To get his point across, he reached over and pinched Johnny by the cheek—right around the bruised skin. Johnny winced in his hold, black eye squeezing shut on instinct, but Dally just shook his face. "You don't deserve this, Johnny."
And Johnny just stared at him. Blankly.
But he did, his thoughts growled. He deserved every bruise and every cut and every bloody nose.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Dally must've read his thoughts, because his face crumbled slightly. "Come on, kid. You don't."
But he did.
"Johnny, look at me."
Dally tugged at his cheek again. Hesitating for a moment, Johnny inhaled sharply before turning back to him.
It was the way Dally's blue eyes—usually hard and piercing with hate—were softened at him that made Johnny second guess himself.
Then he took the time to really look.
Dally's eyes glimmered in the morning light, the sun from the window next to them hitting his irises in a way that made them look like two oceans. Those oceans held things that would never see the light of day—words, thoughts, feelings. Dally would never let them see the surface. He was too prideful for that. Too stubborn.
But that was the thing. Johnny saw them just fine underneath the waves. He saw the concern. The sincerity. The care.
In a way, he was special like that. He understood.
"You don't deserve these bruises, Johnnycakes. You didn't do nothin' to earn 'em." Dally said firmly, and Johnny knew he meant it. "You should be out gettin' high on life and talking to cute chicks. Not gettin' the devil beat out of ya every time you breathe wrong."
And maybe he was right. Dally was usually always right.
He was wise like that—when you really needed it, Dally had words to say that could make you hate yourself a little less. They were rare, but they were powerful.
Dallas pinched his cheek again, a simple action that didn't fail to make Johnny's heart feel all warm and soft. "You're the best of us, Johnny. It ain't fair that you got it the worst."
And all Johnny could manage was a small noise in the back of his throat. But it wasn't frightened, or surprised, or like any of the other little sounds he made. This was unnameable, but no doubt sincere. Understanding. Accepting.
Dally seemed to soften at it—he usually did. A little smile pulled at his lips, sharp teeth poking out of it, the fire in his eyes igniting again. "How about this. You go 'n sleep at Darry's place tonight, yeah? Ain't nobody gonna hurt you over there."
Johnny thought about it. The Curtis couch was truly much more comfortable than his own bed. Plus, the Curtis kids were hospitality monsters. Soda always threw a blanket on top of him without asking if he needed one, Darry always made a cup of coffee for him in the mornings without saying a word about it, and Pony was the one who woke him up for school so they wouldn't be late for the bus.
Their affection was quiet like that, in a way where they just did nice things without a second thought, because they were used to it. They were just genuinely nice kids. People you could count on. People you could rely on.
But he'd already spent two nights over there that week. He didn't want to be a bother.
"You ain't gonna be a bother," Dally said suddenly, like he could quite literally hear his thoughts.
And he was usually right, so Johnny sighed. "Okay," he said finally.
Dallas grinned at him, pinching his cheek one last time before letting go. "Good choice. Now finish that coke so we can get out of here, yeah? Let's go find a guy to mug."
Again, there was a time and place for certain conversations. Their time for this one had passed. The way Dally immediately let it go was what Johnny liked about him so much.
Fondly, he tilted his head, fumbling with the straw in his cup again. "I ain't mugging nobody. I'll keep watch for the fuzz while you do your thing."
Dally leaned back against the booth and crossed his arms, that impish grin threatening to split his face open. "See, that's why I like you, kid. Always got my back."
And that was all Johnny needed to know that Dally did truly tolerate him. He grinned right back.
"Can't have you back in the cooler yet," he said simply, taking a long swing of his drink. "You just got out, like, three weeks ago."
"Damn right I did. You know those cops love seein' my face though."
More like they were sick of it. But Dally believed what he wanted.
When Johnny finished his coke, he stared at it with a soft smile, finger tracing the rim of the cup. "I'm done. We can go."
Dally stood up from the booth, cracking his knuckles and cocking his hip to the side. "You wanna stop by the DX before we hunt for some action? Get some cigarettes?"
Johnny stood up as well, brushing his hair out of his eyes and smiling fondly. "Yeah, sure. Steve workin'?"
"Guess we'll have to see." And with that, Dally reached a hand out and tussled his black hair as they walked out. "You're an okay kid, Johnny. You know that?"
Yeah, he knew. He didn't need to say it though—his grin said it all.