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Dallas Winston has always claimed to be exactly what he is: a low-life, greasy, good-for-nothing hood. He used to get bothered by that when he was a little kid. His mom liked to call him all sorts of names when she was high. There were fun ones when she was sober. She liked to call him all the different cities in Texas, like Houston and Austin and Antonio. It would have irritated him if those words came from kids on the playground, but Mom said it like she loved him, all yellow-toothed smiles and wrinkled eyes. She got mean when she shot up, though, and Dally didn't find it funny when she called him a mistake and a moron in the same rushed breath.
Dally got sent to his uncle in Tulsa when he was twelve after Mom overdosed. Uncle Pat wasn't mean, but he was angry at the world. It was just about the opposite of what Dally needed in a role model; it made him worse. The bite of trouble he got in New York wasn't enough anymore. He liked the thrill of getting chased by the fuzz and sneaking through fence holes the big guys couldn't slip through, even when it ended in a lock-up for the weekend. Uncle Pat had enough of his chaos and kicked him out by sixteen. He tried going back after getting out of the station for "good behavior" the other day, but Pat had turned him away without hesitation.
The room at Buck's is a blessing. Johnny's a strong kid for being able to sleep outside the way he does. Dally hates it. He can't shut his eyes without thinking someone is behind him, lurking and waiting to strike. He tried lying beside Johnny in the lot once, but his skin crawled with a constant buzz. Buck's barely charging him for it, so he can't really complain, even though he likes to.
Dally will complain, though, about his night at the drive-in. He likes going with Johnny and Ponyboy, usually. Johnny always makes for good company. He doesn't run his mouth; he's typically an echo chamber for Dally's opinions. He normally doesn't choose to hang out with a fourteen-year-old kid, but Pony is more mature than Dally ever was, and probably ever will be. He likes the movies, too, for more than just the hot broads on and off screen. For some reason, hearing him rave about the films on the way home makes his stomach hurt, in a way that somehow feels good.
Dallas left them there tonight, though, fuming all the way to his car and blowing through every stop sign on the way back to the bar, because Johnny Cade somehow found the audacity to call him out. Ponyboy described Johnny like a puppy once, wide-eyed and nervous about everything around him, too new to understand his senses. Dally's not sure where he got the confidence to say something like that, but deep down, he knows that part of the reason he's so mad it that Johnny is right. He could tell how that girl's idle discomfort was growing into real fear, but he still didn't stop. Maybe for laughs, or something. He can't place it. He didn't even feel like an asshole until Johnny shouted at him and, when he looked back down at the girl's face, her lip was trembling.
He stormed out. It was the only thing he could've done.
Buck poured him a pint of the cheapest beer he had on tap, but Dallas didn't mind. He was used to alcohol like this, rough and burning. He had a taste of the expensive stuff once, back when he was sixteen and he broke into a liquor store with then-eighteen Tim Shepard. It was smooth and rich in a way Dally didn't know he was missing, like when Ponyboy saw one film at the soc theatre and swore from then-on that the drive-in was trashy. Steve smacked the kid on the back of the head and said not to 'turn soc on them.' Dally agreed, which is way he continues to down the cheap stuff like it's all he can do.
Dally is jolted from his thoughts by the sudden slam of a stool beside him. Tim Shepard has a certain aura about him when he is angry, smelling entirely of cheap booze and lingering smoke. When he's got true, personal business to attend, he leaves his henchmen behind. If he squints through the crowd, Dallas can spot Roy and Kemal standing at the end of the bar, maintaining their distance, but watching with a sharp eye, on the chance that Tim will need them to step in.
Tim already has a glass in his hands. It's only a third of the size of Dally's pint, and the color is a deeper amber. He brings the rim to his mouth and throws his head back. The ice slams into his lips, dripping melted water down the sides of his lips, while he downs the whiskey in a single gulp. Tim has a good poker face. He doesn't show if it burns, but with the strength at which he slams the glass back onto the counter, Dallas imagines it does. It makes the corner of his mouth quirk up. Tim growls. "Don't get cocky on me, Winston," he snarls, baring his teeth. "I've got three slashed tires on my car, and I'm damn sure your switch will be a bit duller if I take a look at it."
Snorting, Dallas swirls his cup around. A gentle layer of foam bubbles up along the sides. "Yeah? Well, good thing you won't see it, then," he snickers. He's guilty, certainly, but he won't admit it that easily. Tim's a fun guy to mess with. He likes to mirror his tells, the methods in which Shepard uses when he tries to hide his ire. Dally brings his pint up to his mouth and chugs half of the beer. Foam sticks to his lips, but he doesn't bother wiping away. "What 're you gonna' do about it?" he taunts.
Shepard doesn't give him much of a warning. His right hook comes out of nowhere, landing right on the peak of his cheekbone, somewhere between his temple and his browbone. The force throws him off his stool. Dally stumbles across the floor as Tim jumps up, rounds the chairs, and wraps his hand around his collar. The path behind them clears. Tim throws his into the wall and sends another throw into his face. Dallas groans. With his eyes shut, he balls his hand into a fist. The big class ring on his finger makes him want to smile. He chucks his hand out and lands a lucky shot in Tim's gut.
It gives him just enough room to burst off the wall, giving himself room to move. He and Tim are only scrapping, throwing sporadic punches into each other's frame with no real intention to harm, only to warn. Dally still fights like he needs to, though, like he's still the hungry kid lost in the back alleys of dirty, dark New York City streets, throwing his punches for the sake of being the lucky bastard who gets to pick leftover food from the garbage can behind the corner store.
"Hey!" someone shouts. A rough hand grabs a hold of his collar, firm and twisted, and yanks him off of Tim. Dally licks his lips, hissing at the sore spot at the corner of his mouth. His cheekbone is aching where Tim had landed his hardest throw. Buck holds him in place while he pulls Tim apart. With his arms spread, he stands between them, scowling between the two of them. "You can break this up, or you can take this outside my damn bar," he hollers.
"I'm done with him," Tim swears. He sets his hands on his jacket and pulls it straight over his shoulders. He doesn't look as bad as Dallas imagines he himself does, but some lucky swing seemingly landed right on his nose. The skin is budding red and a small trickle of blood dares to fall from his nostril. Tim presses his lips together, gathering a thick wad of saliva atop his tongue. He reels back before launching forward, spitting at the ground in front of Dally's feet. "Fuckin' idiot, slashin' my fuckin' tires," Tim grumbles, shaking his head. "Bad enough you got the socs on the prowl tonight."
Dally's face twists up as though he had bit into a lime. His brows lower on his forehead. He hadn't though anything he's done tonight was enough to get the socs rowdy, but Tim doesn't lie about that sort of thing. There's been too many close calls lately, in which an unlucky greaser has gotten it so bad that they've nearly run out of spare thread to stitch with. Even Kemal, just a week ago, got a couple cigarettes put out on his cheek when he got jumped. He refuses to wear a bandage over it, so there's a muddled crater of burnt, flaking skin as proof. "I ain't do nothin'," Dallas grovels. "I didn't talk to no one, but that red-headed chick."
Shrugging, Tim scrubs his thumb beneath his nose. The slow drip of blood stops just above his lip and smears across his stubbled mustache. "Whatever," he scoffs. "You oughta' take account of where your gang is tonight."
"I left 'em early," Dallas returns. It's not like Tim cares to hear it. Dally could've started sniffling in sorrow at the thought of Johnny talking back to him, and Tim would've rolled his eyes and tell him to stop acting like a chick. Dally clenches his jaw. "It's not my problem," he insists, but it's clear that he's lying to the both of them.
"Whatever, man." Tim Shepard pulls his vest tighter, fixing it over his shoulders. Roy and Kemal wait quietly behind Tim, keeping their arms crossed tightly over their chest. Dallas can see where Roy's hands dip into his pocket and he imagines he's rubbing his thumb back and forth along the length of his brass knuckles. "When one of 'em turns up cut to hell and bruised like Cade was a few weeks ago, don't say I didn't warn you."
Tim turns and storms past the rest of the crowd, boots slamming into the floorboards so hard that he swears the dirt sticking to the wood vibrates off the planks. Dally swallows hard, barely managing to make it past the lump in his throat. He was, admittedly, scared when they found Johnny. He looked worse than any beating his father had ever given him. He imagines that fact has more to do with the fact that Mr. Cade focused his kicks underneath the cover of Johnny's shirts, but the kid could barely open his eyes for nearly two whole days after the beating. The scar of his face is gnarly, too, still raised and purple and horrific.
Dally can't let that happen again, not to Johnny or anyone else in their gang.
He pulls himself away from Buck's grasp with a huff, running a hand through his tangled hair. The crowd around them dissipates, awkwardly turning back to their drinks and their partners, trying to ease away the tension by slowly bobbing their heads to the grainy jukebox. Dallas shakes his head. "How long you want me gone for?"
Sighing, Buck taps his shoulder. "Just for a couple hours," he says, glancing around the bar. "Shepard's guys are scattered 'round here, so I wouldn't be surprised if he comes back at some tie tonight. Stay out 'til midnight, at least. I'll start clearin' 'em out by then," he offers. Buck smacks his shoulder with an open palm before throwing his towel back over his shoulder and starting towards the bar.
Dallas doesn't bother trying to take Buck's car. He's not too drunk to drive, but he's seething, like an angry bull with plumes of smoke trailing out of his ears, and he's never been good for the road in that state. It gives him more opportunity to fuck up, too, and he's got a point to prove to the fuzz at the station that, maybe, they might be wrong calling him a hood. Dally knows that's impossible, though.
He wanders around the streets aimlessly, slightly cold from the gentle breeze floating down the street. Dallas doesn't pay special attention to his destination, simply following the path his feet take him on, humming beneath his breath and stumbling when he starts to trip over little potholes in the pavement. He almost lets himself become entirely distracted with wasting time that he forgets his mission, but the angry warning of the socs being 'on the prowl' echoes in his mind.
When Dally starts dividing his attention and the houses begin to look familiar, he glances up in time to see the quiet home of the Mathews' just a few feet off to his right. Two-Bit sits on the porch, his head thrown back against the back of the wooden frame lazily. He's cradling a half-empty beer bottle that's probably warm by now. The condensation has completely dripped away from the glass now, soaked in a little puddle in the fabric of his jeans. He blinks when he sees Dallas, then slowly sits up, a meek smile painting his face. treking up the porch steps. "Dal. Hey."
"Get up," he says, kicking his toes into the leg of the chair. "Grab your keys."
"Huh?" Two mutters, glancing around. His eyebrows furrow together as he sets the bottle on the ground, stretching out his arms. Two hiccups. "I can't drive right now, Dallas. You're lookin' blurry, but you're right there," he explains.
Dallas rolls his eyes. He fishes the beer off the ground and chucks it to the side. It lands with a bristling sound atop a bush beside the porch, cradled by the overlapping branches and weak leaves. He nods towards the door. "I'm drivin'," he says. "Shepard said the socs are lookin' for trouble. Where'd you leave Johnny? Did the kid get home?" he asks.
Two-Bit shrugs. He shoves his hand into his pocket, fishing his keys out from the depths of denim. "Dunno'. They dropped me here, went walkin' 'round for the rest of the night. That was a few hours 'go, though," he explains. He stands up and trips over his own feet. Dally braces him with his own two arms, and Keith manages to become stable on his own. "I went inside for a while, but Mom asked me to leave if I was this drunk. Gave me my keys. I just decided to wait it out on the porch."
It's not a secret that Keith Mathews has an alcohol problem. Even Dallas couldn't outdrink him if he tried. Any money he's ever managed to swipe has gone to his next case, and that's disappeared faster than Dally could really blink. He tosses the keys through the air and starts bumbling down the steps. Two-Bit's never been one for sorrows, though, so even though his words are disappointed and cold, he clicks his tongue and throws his arms into the air. "Let's go, then!" he yells enthusiastically.
For the first thirty minutes of their drive, Dallas feels stupid and misled. He doesn't see a single car out of place. There's not a single inkling that anything is out of place in Tulsa, which only make Dally grip the steering wheel tighter. Tim probably did this on purpose, some sorry excuse to get him out of Buck's bar. Maybe Shepard wants him kicked out of Buck's place entirely, just to ensure the territory is his own entirely. Dally tells himself that's stupid, though, in the hopes that Tim wouldn't stoop so low as to wish him homeless.
He almost drives past the park on instinct. He doesn't like it there. The fountain tries too hard to be beautiful, like something sacred and elegant could ever really exist on this side of Tulsa. The money to build it could've been used for something else, like a food pantry or as funds to get ambulances to actually come to their neighborhood when they're called. But the glimmering light in the midst of the grass isn't the moon, but rather, the beaming red taillights of a running car. Dallas swings the wheel and slams on the brake, plowing into the park so hard that the car bounces. Two-Bit slams his hands on the dash as Dally throws the door open. In the distance, he sees a group of guys huddled around that damned fountain. "C'mon," he grunts.
Dallas jumps out of the car. After a few steps, with a little more altitude, he may not be able to identify any faces, but he has a clear view of the sight before him. There's a guy laying on the ground, strewn away from the water fixture, with a bunch of other guys using their hands to shove something under the water. Their sleeves are soaked nearly up to their shoulders, with one boy climbing out of the water. They're all dressed in nice khakis and ironed sweaters, with neat, soft hair atop their heads. The guy in the fountain shakes his flask as the henchmen pull up.
There's a kid in the fountain; one they're shoving beneath the surface for long enough that his legs stop kicking. They pull him out for a mere three seconds, but it's long enough for Dally to see the familiar purple tank and wet mop of auburn-brown hair plastered down the kid's head.
"Shit," he curses. His hand flies into his pocket as he breaks into a sprint, Two close on his tail. He rips his switch out of his pocket and, without an ounce of hesitation, jumps into the fray. Dally's fists are swinging, using the leverage of his ring and the butt of his knife to send the socs stumbling. They recognize him quickly once they let go of Ponyboy. Two-Bit's tailing the guys in the back, chasing them off back towards the car in the playground. Dallas flips his knife open and starts slashing it around. He doesn't hit anyone at first, just cuts long gashes into the sweaters of the socs.
The curly-haired boy in the flannel turns to him with a snarl. He reeks of booze, but Dally can't tell if it's coming from his breath or from the flask he emptied on Baby Curtis' head. He's soaking wet and stumbling as he orders, "Back off." He slurs and hiccups, and he nearly wants to laugh in the soc's face. How does he possibly imagine he's a good match for Dallas Winston?
Dally doesn't waste time. He steps forwards and throws his hand out, slashing the tip of his knife across the guy's cheek. The soc howls, his hands coming up protectively around his face. He clutches the skin as though Dally had completely sunk the knife into it. Blood seeps out relentlessly through his fingers, down in little trails that seep into his wet clothing and spread like ink. "Get the hell out of here, you hear me?!" Dallas hollers, seething. He waves his knife around threateningly. "Go!"
The soc huffs, stumbles, and looks at him with a judging glare. It looks, almost, as though whether he still can't decide between relenting or standing his ground. Reluctantly, he backs away, which leads into a quick sprint, during which his hands are still glued to his wound.
Dallas huffs, catching his breath. He glances off to his right. Two-Bit is hunched over on the ground, hauling Johnny Cade to his feet. The kid looks shaken but relatively fine. He's got a small bruise on his jaw that spreads up to his cheek and he's awkwardly cradling his ribs as Two supports his weight, but he's okay. He instantly hates Tim Shepard for ever putting the picture of a beaten, bloodied Johnny back into his mind. It wasn't worth it. Dally turns back to the fountain and, instantly, all the relief that flooded his veins washes away. Ponyboy isn't standing up or hauling himself out over the edge of the fountain basin. He's floating on the surface of the water, limp and pale.
He sprints faster than he's ever done before, feet slipping across the dewy grass towards the fixture. He throws his switchblade onto the ground and throws himself into the water. Dally wraps his around Pony's chest and he yanks him towards the dirt, hauling his body over the concrete walls. They land with a loud thump, but Dallas has Ponyboy wrapped tightly enough in his arms that the kid doesn't feel it. He shifts Pony onto his back, his wet, cold clothing picking up all the dirt and leaves littered in the grass. Dally leans down, brushes the kid's hair back, and hovers his ear above the kid's mouth.
He waits for one second, then two, and when five seconds pass, the kid still hasn't taken a breath. Dallas holds onto his own inhale. Ponyboy's lips remain parted, cold and blue.
Dally scrambles. He presses his pointer and middle fingers together like they do in the movies and sticks them into the side of the kid's neck, pressing straight down on the artery that runs vertically up his throat. There's no pulse. "Shit. Shit, kid," he rushes. He pats his hands down the length of the kid's arm and flips his hands over, laying his fingertips over the kid's inner wrist. Dallas reaches across his body and places his other fingers on the opposite wrists. He waits, but nothing comes.
His own heart is beating so hard that he can hear it echo in his ears, like the organ is trying to fling from his body. His hands are trembling. "Fuck. Fuck, don't do this to me, kid," Dallas mutters. He grabs the front of his shirt and shakes, but Pony's head just flops around as though his neck is a spring. Dally lays him back on the ground. He intertwines his fingers and twists his wrists out, then presses the flat of his palms into Ponyboy's chest, just beside his heart. Dallas takes a deep breath, locks his elbows, and starts pumping.
He counts each press aloud, a harrowed whisper passing from his lips. The beat is steady. By the tenth push, Dallas props himself further up on his knees, a better angle for pressing the heel of his palms into the kid's chest, and he feels the way Pony's ribs give way to his force, crunching and grinding together beneath his hold. Dally's stomach rolls. A whimper passes through his lips at the feeling. Two pumps per second, he tells himself. He reaches thirty and pulls himself back towards the kid's face.
Ponyboy's skin looks remarkably white in the moonlight. It's like looking into a mirror, past all the hardened experiences and immovable anger. Dally tips the kid's chip up and opens his mouth. He takes a deep breath in before forcing the air through the kid's lips and repeating the process a second time. When Dallas sits back up, the kid hasn't started breathing.
He starts pumping on Pony's chest again. His eyes are watering now, enough for tears to slip down his cheeks. Dally can't remember the last time he cried; he's certain it's been years, at least four, since he's had honest-to-God tears bubbling down his face like this. He sniffles and clenches his jaw, but he can't stop them from coming. His arms are burning as he repeatedly pounds on the kid's chest. Ponyboy is a good kid. He was one of the first people Dallas met in Tulsa. Dallas was sitting on the sidewalk outside the grocery store. His uncle was inside collecting the week's food, but Dally had gotten himself kicked out by being a nuisance. Uncle Pat didn't defend him, either, just let the store owner drag him to curb kicking and clawing and told him to be patient. He sat with his knees bent up under his chin, drawing little figures in the pile of dirt between his feet.
"That's pretty," a little boy had said. Dally looked up in surprise. It's not a word he's ever heard describe something related to his being, whether it be himself or a product of him. Just his mother, and he had only heard that in the crumpled letters she tried to keep from him in the living room drawer. The little boy had a gaped-tooth smile, and he clutched his little fingers around the large hand of a grown man, most likely his father. "You look tuff. My brothers say I'm tuff. My name's Ponyboy."
Dally snorted. "Shit name, kid," he responded. The man- Mr. Curtis, as he learned- stiffened and furrowed his eyebrows, but Dally ignored him. He never cared to exist for the matter of pleasing adults. "Dallas." To this day, he's still not sure why he gave Pony his name so easily. He knew better than that, after all the years living in the city. There was something about the kid, though, like he carried the warmth of the sun in his smile.
Ponyboy looked nothing short of elated when Dally responded. As his father pulled him away, Ponyboy waved erratically, bouncing on his feet. "See ya' later, Dally!" he called. At the time, Dallas hadn't heard anyone call him 'Dally' in over a year. It was nice. When he met the kid again through their gang, it felt almost like fate, if Dallas believed in such a thing.
"C'mon, Pone," he sobs, shaking his head. "Don't die on me. C'mon," he begs. Dallas tips the kid's chin back again, digging his fingers into his skin. "Don't let 'im die. Please, God," Dally says, before descending towards the kid's mouth. He lets the first rescue breath into his lips. Dally leans back, taking a deep breath in when, suddenly, Ponyboy takes in a harrowing gasp. He makes these awful choking noises as he starts coughing, his body convulsing as water spits from his mouth. Dally gasps, adrenaline flooding his body as the kid breathes. He rolls him onto his side and slams his hand into his back. "There you go. There you go, man."
Ponyboy's spit is a mix of watered-down vomit, splattering across the ground sporadically. He digs his hands into the grass, and the blades give way to his weak grip. Dallas holds back a cry as Ponyboy starts shaking his head, pulling himself from his grasp. "No, no, it's okay," he tries. Pony squirms as he tries to get away. Dally pulls his shoulders back and guides the kid's face towards his own. "It's me, Pony. Dallas."
Pony's eyes are hazy, but Dally can track the exact moment he recognizes the greaser, because the fear in his face softens into terror. It's no longer an active threat that's haunting him, but the overlooking panic that comes with remembering your last moments. Dallas wonders if the kid knows he died.
He settles for yanking Ponyboy to his chest, soaking the last bits of his shirt. "You're okay," he whispers. He comforted his mother like this when she died, laying on the cold kitchen floor while foam spewed from her mouth and her eyes rolled back. No one was coming to help them in their shitty apartment, and Dallas knew she wasn't going to make it. But Ponyboy will, and Dally will make sure of it. He cradles the kid's head to his chest. "I've got ya', kid," he promises. "I've got ya'."
"You're cryin'," Ponyboy mumbles. His voice is worn and croaky, yet he still fails to pronounce the stiff syllables of his words. he barely fights to keep his eyes open any further than the swollen squint he holds, and when Pony's hands attempt to reach up to his face, his strength fails, and they fall weakly into his lap.
Dallas chuckles to hide the cry bubbling in his throat. He's never been happier to hear Ponyboy's voice. He wishes desperately that he could listen to the kid talk about Newman's latest role, lost between the cinematic framing and the characterization of the poor fellow. "Nah, kid," Dally says, shaking his head. He doesn't bother wiping his face yet; somehow, he doesn't care if Pony remember him like this. he's just glad the kid will be around to remember. "You hit your head?"
He scans Ponyboy's face for bruises but finds none, nor any blood mixed into his sopping hair. Pony hums. "Don't think so," he slurs. "Dally?"
Footsteps echo within his ears, the sound of dirt and rocks being stomped behind them. Dally smoothes Pony's hair back. "Yeah, kid?"
"I feel sick," he admits. "Tired. My chest hurts."
Guilt gnaws at his chest. He put Pony there, broke his ribs and kept pounding on them for a couple of rounds. Maybe he only did it to save the kid's life, but it still makes him shameful. He's used to hurting guys who really deserve it or, at the very least, have pissed him off. "You should sleep," Dallas tells him. "We'll get you home. Throw up if you need to. Just sleep for now."
Ponyboy hums and nestles into him. Dally is frozen. He lets the kid curl up there like a kitten, bound tight within the confines of his wet jacket and beating heart. Two-Bit is huffing by the time he reaches them. Johnny is standing beside him with his chin pressed into Two's shoulder. Keith's hand is clung tightly to the back of his head, preventing him from turning around. "Is he-" Two gags into his fist. "Glory, is he- he ain't-"
"I got 'im breathing," Dally whispers. "He's alive."
Two's chest collapses, his eyes shutting with magnetic force. He nudges Johnny's head with his hand. "Hear that, Johnnycakes? He's alive. Pony's alright."
Dally wants to scoff. He certainly didn't say the kid was alright. He's still a bright-red risk of pneumonia and punctured lung, and Dally's halfway convinced that he'll choke up again if he looks away for too long. But, he's distracted by Johnny's repeated head shake, clutching Two's leather jacket with conviction. "They were drownin' him," he argues.
His heart breaks at the sound of Johnny that way. Not even his parents can make him sound so scared and broken. "Johnny," he mutters. "Johnny, come here."
"No," Johnny grunts. His voice cracks relentlessly. He shakes his head, hiding his face as deep into Two-Bit's chest as he can manage. "No, I can't- I can't see him-"
"Jonathan," Dallas spits. Johnny's whimpers cease. "Johnny, I ain't ever hurt you before, and I ain't ever lie to you. He's okay, alright, man?" Dallas watches as Johnny peeks around the stiff fabric. He nods his head towards his lap, beckoning, "Come here."
Johnny peels himself off of Two's side, but he doesn't let go. Two-Bit allows himself to be led, his wide eyes trailing constantly on Pony. When his feet meet Dally's side, Dallas holds out his hand. Johnny's won't stop shaking. He tugs on Johnny's arm until he drops to his knees. When his warm fingertips trace atop Pony's heart beating within the confines of his veins, the tension in Johnny's body melts. He collapses onto his hip from his knees and whimpers.
Dally swallows. "Johnny, what happened?"
Johnny scoffs. He thumbs at his cheeks, but his tears keep flowing. "Ain't you see, man?"
"Now, you know that's not what he meant, Johnnycakes," Two-Bit interrupts. "You two were fine when I left y'all. How did you end up in the park at this hour? Why ain't Ponyboy at home? Darry oughta' be freakin' right now."
"Darry hit him," Johnny blurts.
Dallas blinks. "What?!" he bellows, so loudly he's scared he'll jolt Pony from his slumber. The kid proves to be too busy recovering to notice.
It's as though the moment Johnny's mouth opens, he starts spilling. "We fell asleep in the lot. Pony ran home as soon as he noticed, but Darry was mad, 'cause it was almost two by the time he got through the door. They started fighting and Darry hit him so hard he flew 'cross the room," Johnny cries, hiccuping. "I don't know why he'd do that. He was never like my parents."
While Dallas doesn't think Darrel Curtis Jr. could ever get to be as bad as Mr. and Mrs. Cade, he won't defend his friend on this. Breaking curfew ain't worth hurting he kid over. Beside him, Two-Bit sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What happened after?"
Sniffling, Johnny shifts. He pulls his knees to his chest. "That guy- he was the one with the rings, who- who jumped me. He was the red-headed broad's boyfriend, too, the one from the drive-in. He was real' mad at Pony and I for talkin' to her." Johnny tightens his hold around himself. "I saw you slice him. You didn't kill 'im, did you? Dally, please, say you didn't-"
"Christ, Johnny. No, I didn't kill no one." Dallas looks back down at the kid in his arms. Ponyboy is still scarily pale, but his lips are pink now, and a red flush pokes at his cheeks. That curly-hair guy would've deserved it, had he sliced him in the gut instead of the face. "We gotta' get him home. He's real' cold."
Two shrugs. "Keys are in the car," he reminds."
Dally shakes his head. "Nah, man. You can't drive, and I ain't lettin' go of this kid yet," he insists. He slides his arms beneath Pony's back and his knees, grunting as his knees and back creak. He shifts and nods at Johnny. "Keep your arm 'round him. We're walkin'."
They stop briefly to take the keys from Two's ignition. Hopefully, they'll return soon enough to pull it off the park's premise before any complaints roll in, but it's not a task highly ranked on Dally's priority list. His arms start to go numb as they walk; it could be from the physical strain of hauling Ponyboy through the quiet streets of their Tulsa neighborhood, but Dallas has a sinking feeling that the effect of the cold water soaking into his skin, and the cool breeze blowing against the fabric that furthers the tingling in his tissue.
The Curtis porch is a beacon of hope. The light is still clicked on outside, as though they've been waiting for Ponyboy to return, like he would find comfort in the people who had ridiculed and hurt him. Dallas tightens his grip on Pony's limp, cold frame as he climbs the steps. Two-Bit slinks in front of his and pops the screen door open, pulling it to the side while Johnny opens the front door and steps inside. Dally angles himself sideways and carries Ponyboy into the light of the living room.
"Oh my God," Sodapop rushes, launching up from the couch. His eyes are frantic as he tries to understand the scene in front of him, his own baby brother looking half-dead and silent. Ponyboy is never silent. Soda's head starts shaking and there are already tears in his eyes. "Darry! Darry, quick-"
Dally steps around him, heading straight for the couch. "He ain't out lookin'?!" Dallas grumbles. "Not his problem, I guess, since he wanted to smack the kid 'round so badly."
Two sucks in a quick breath. "Glory, it ain't the time, Dallas-"
"Pony!" Darry hollers, running around the corner of the hall. He leans over, hands reaching out for the limp boy splayed out on the cushions, but Dally turns around and shoves him away by the shoulders. Darry looks up, pained. If the little lamp on the end table was a bit brighter, Dally would've seen the tears starting up in his eyes. "What happened to him?"
Darry snarls. "Maybe you'd know, if you went after him. Maybe they wouldn't have had him in the fountain long enough for his heart to stop beatin'."
"What?!" Sodapop gasps. His watering eyes finally bubble over. "Is he- no, no-"
"He ain't dead," Dallas grunts. "He's alive. Your dad taught me those uh- those chest things. Compressions. When you push on their chest, to uh- it does- fuck," Dally sighs. "That don't matter, not now. He needs dry clothes and a towel. His ribs are broken. I- I had to, so we need to watch those. He needs blankets, too. It's cold and he didn't have a jacket before he got wet. Jesus Christ, don't you people pay attention?!"
Sodapop swallows. He gives a gentle nod and dips out of the room into the hallway.
Two-Bit wraps his arm around Johnny's shoulder, nodding towards Sodapop's path. "I'm takin' this kid to bed," he announces. Then, he angles his head down towards Johnny's head, with a gentle smile on his face. "C'mon, Johnnycakes. Pony's bed is callin' your name."
They disappear quietly. Dally has the gall to let his gaze trail away from Ponyboy. He hesitates, first, as though he'll stop breathing just because he's stopped watching, but he settles for letting his eyes drag over his sopping figure for a few seconds longer, then tips his head up towards Darrel. He stands a few feet away with his hands shaking at his sides. His shoulders are stiff, yet they tremble with every breath.
Dally made an unfortunate entrance into the Curtis living room on the tragic date of Darry's birthday. Even then, when Sodapop and Ponyboy were a mess of tears and sobs on the floor while Steve and Johnny danced awkwardly around them, Darrel Curtis Jr. stood stoically in the corner, with his arms crossed over his chest and a hand over his mouth. He never once cried, Two-Bit had said, not once in the few months that have passed since.
Now, though, Darry stands like a harrowed statue in the quiet lull of the living room. Dally ignores the ragged breathing passing through the kid's lips in favor of watching the steady streams lining Darry's cheeks, two thick waterfalls that drip off the corner of his chin and onto the floor, unidentifiable amongst the trail of fountain water he and Pony have left behind. He doesn't make a sound while he cries, like his tears are entirely uncontrollable. "Will he-" Darry pauses, swallowing. His words are abnormally timid, as if this is the first time he's not known where to go from their current problem, like he's never been awarded the pain of no foresight. "Will he be okay?"
Steaming, Dally whips around, growling like a rabid dog. Not even Shepard can get him this angry. He grabs Darry by the collar and shoves him into the wall. Picking a fight with Muscles is typically a death sentence, but now, Darry doesn't even bother in attempting to fight back. Dally leans in so close that spit flies across his face. "You should've though about that earlier, 'fore you backhanded him so hard he hit the floor."
Dallas tightens his grip hard enough for the collar to twist. It's wet and soaked with lines of tears. "That's a good kid right there. You have a damn good kid on your couch that you don't deserve to have there. And he was dead," Dally huffs. His fingers quiver, along with his lower lip. "He was dead. You almost lost him, and it would've been your fault for sending him out there."
He wishes he could keep going, to spit in Darry's face and make him truly aware of the gravity of it all, but his throat is already tightening. Darry doesn't get to see him like this; no one in the gang should, and he only made the exception for Ponyboy because the kid died. Dallas can't get that out of his head. He died in that stupid, ugly, hopeless fountain, and Dally had dragged his lifeless body into a pile of dirt and broke his ribs. He pulls way from Darry, disgusted and nauseous.
He's swiping his hand beneath his nose, then, smearing around the leaking snot. Dally turns around, catching sight of Sodapop standing idly in the hallway. Dally walks towards the front. "I'm takin' a smoke," he grunts, storming through the living room. He swings the door open and slams it behind him before Soda even dares to move. He nearly busts back inside to do that work himself, but Dally can see their shadows moving through the window, so he settles for collapsing into the porch swing. It creaks beneath his weight.
Dally sits on the porch long enough for his legs to start aching. One of the living room lights snuffs out behind him, leaving a single dim glow hidden dully behind the blinds. He smokes his way through four entire cigarettes, twisting his toes atop the ashy, brittle logs as they flatten into the porch. Ponyboy's the only person in this damn house who never complains about the wood getting stained with white ash, because he's the only one who contributes this heavily to the mess. Dally heightens the pressure in his foot, hoping it'll seal itself into the grain.
The porch steps creak as Steve Randle starts up the stairs. He looks awful. His hair is tussled and ungreased, sticking up awkwardly from the cowlick in the back, right around the crown of his skull. His t-shirt is ratty and his eyes are dark and tired. His appearance is something between rolling out of bed in the midst of the night and laying restlessly until the break of dawn. Still, he tips his eyebrow up at the sight of Dallas Winston slopped on the porch like a beaten dog. "Why 're you soakin' wet?" he asks.
Dallas sits back without missing a beat. "Why are you here?"
Steve rolls his eyes, waving his open palm towards the door. "Soda called. Said somethin' happened to the tagalong, but he wouldn't say what." Huffing, Steve walks towards the entrance to the house. "He's lucky he didn't wake up my Pops. He would've kicked my ass, man. What could have possibly happened that needed me here at four in the damn mornin'?"
"They tried to kill him," Dally blurts. There's no need to sugarcoat it for a guy like Steve. If he wants to spend every passing day pretending like he doesn't care about anyone else, he has to live with that, too. Dally wouldn't have called him out on it before, for something along the lines of avoiding hypocrisy, but he's only two hours out from learning how wrong he was for thinking that tactic works, and it's still raw.
Steve blinks. "What?" he gawks. "Who?"
Dally shrugs. "Socs," he explains, taking a long drag from the butt end of his last cancer stick. "Chased him 'n Johnny 'round tonight. They were hammered." Dallas can't stop his head from shaking side to side as he replays the scene in his mind. "They kicked Johnny 'n left him down while they drowned the kid in the fountain."
Steve goes quiet, then. The porch is kept alive only by the sparse cricket chirps and the inaudible burn of his cigarette. Steve's brows furrow together as he digs his hands into his front pant pockets. His emotions are twisted and, for a moment, Dallas almost allows himself the oversight to think Steve Randle is only a few seconds away from saying something profound.
Instead, he huffs. "Damn," Steve mutters, looking up from the ground. "What do you think he did to make 'em mad?"
His entire body goes stiff on impact, immovable and uncontrollable. Dallas is uncharacteristically silent as he flicks the cigarette out of his fingers. It falls to the ground with a silent splatter. Dally brings his boot up and smashes the heel into it. He stomps across the porch, the planks trembling beneath the impact. He storms towards Steve so violently that his friend gulps and looks around. He remains in place, though, as Dallas reaches his front and towers over his face. "He wasn't breathin''," Dallas growls. His lungs shudder with each deep breath. "He wasn't breathin', and his heart wasn't beatin'. His ribs are broken now, because I had to pump 'im back to life. He was dead, Steve, so if I ever hear you say somethin' like that again, it'll be your body they find in the water next time."
Steve blinks at him, silent and stoic. It makes Dallas' own emotions that much more remarkable, with the way he breathes so loudly it's the only sound he can hear within his own ears. His shoulders drop down from where they are tensed up by his ears, and his fingers twitch where they hang limply at his side. Steve drops his eyes. He swallows thickly, but Dally barely notices it within the bounds of his own dilemma. "...is he okay?" he whispers, the first wisps of genuine concern in his voice.
Dally huffs. He feels suddenly breathless. "I don't know," he says, shaking his head. "I don't. I don't."
"Hey," Steve says, reaching out with an open hand. It lands on Dally's shoulder with a warm grasp. It attempts to be firm and grounding, but Dally can barely feel it through the wet, heavy fabric of his thick, brown jacket. He tips his head down towards Dally's tipped-down hin. "Hey, you're shakin', man." Dallas hadn't realized, but he can sense the way his shoulders are trembling beneath Steve's curling fingers. Steve gently presse his back towards the porch swing. "Come on, man. Sit down."
Dally stumbles backwards. The back of his knees hits the edge of the swing with a thud, and he goes falling backwards into it. His elbows collide into his bent knees, but he doesn't even feel the way his knobby joints dig into each other. His head fall into his palms as a cry starts falling from his mouth but, unlike before, he isn't able to stop it. He wrings his eyelids shut and hides his face behind his open hands.
Steve hesitates from beside him. A hand hesitates over his back, hovering somewhere above his curled spine until he presses down with a firm force. Dallas sobs, shaking his head. "He was dead," Dally cries. Wet splotches cool his lashes. "He died. He died."
For once, Steve Randle is silent, and Dallas Winston weeps.