#merrill's place for runaway youth

[sophie-i-guess13]

Nighttime Remedies

[I walk the line -- an idiom used to express walking the line between two contrasting ideas. In this case, that would be a redneck and hoodlum playing the piano in the early hours of the morning.]

|Words: 1224|

|Characters: Buck Merrill, Dallas Winston|

|Genre: Fluff <3|

|TW: N/A|

|Tag! @mjmacchio1991  @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @felworthless @the-kneesbees @sodapoppatrickcurtisofficial @thegaygreaser @ralphmaccchiato |BONUS! and a very special thank you to @dar-bit for helping me with the idea and beating my writers block off with a rolled up newspaper<3|

Guys like me aren’t supposed to get nightmares. And guys like Buck Merrill aren’t supposed to play the piano. 

Nightmares had never been my biggest issue, but now that I was in Tulsa, they kept me up more often than I thought they would. It wasn’t anything too bad, nothing as scary as it could’ve been, but on nights like these, I could never keep my eyes stay closed for longer than a minute.

Down in the empty bar, it seemed like Buck was having the same issue. Tonight, he’d retired his dad’s old jukebox and sat himself down in front of the piano he had tucked behind the stairs - right in front of the door that led to the basement and the little operation he had going in the basement.

Each note echoed through the quiet building, lingering in the air heavier than the faded stink of beer and smoke. Ringing out the clearest of it all, I could make out Buck singing along.

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine, 

I keep my eyes wide open all the time-”

For such an old piano, made entirely of sticky keys, splintered wood and a bench that could barely stand, he sure made it sound brand new. He played loud enough that I couldn’t even hear the floorboards creak and groan under my feet as I stumbled down the hall, either.

I stood there, concealed in the darkness of the stairwell, barely daring to breathe as the soft yellow light flooded my eyes and the low, quick notes of the piano filled the rest of my senses. Even from across the floor, I watched his fingers carry across the keys, never giving the silence a chance to settle in. I’m not too sure how long I sat there with my knees pulled to my chest, fingers rubbing the ugly red marks those handcuffs had cut into my flesh.

The only thing I know for sure is that I was damn close to falling asleep, my head leaning against the stiff wall. I only woke up when the dread crept in again, fast and intense, unlike the music that had suddenly stopped.

“You doin’ alright, kid?”

The fear shot through my chest like a bullet as my spine arched back, colliding with the stair behind me. Any guy would’ve laughed about it, me, Dallas-fucking-Winston, getting spooked by getting woken up, but Buck was never like that. Just as he’d sung, soft and slow, Buck pushed his hand out to me. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

I shook my head, sweeping my hand through the air and brushing away the serenity that hung in it. Now on my feet, I shook my head again when he asked if I wanted something to drink. My hands wound up in front of me, twisting the drawstring of my pants around my finger again and again.

  I can’t tell you how it happened, but I ended up at the piano next to him. I didn’t notice until I felt the cool, stiff keys beneath my fingers and Buck’s shoulder against mine. It’s some sort of witchcraft, I swear. That’s how he’s able to get those damn horses, Sylvia and me to follow him without saying a word.

“The bar got real quiet without you,” he said, “couldn’t quite get used to it after havin’ you around for so long.” When I dropped my fist from wiping the sleep from my eyes, I ended up staring at the cracked leather cover of a notebook. A yellowed slip of paper was stuck to the front, a name written on it in strokes too light and gentle to be written by anyone I’d ever met here; Lorelei Merrill. 

“That was my momma’s,” Buck tells me when I reach for it, though he doesn’t stop me. I flipped through the pages, some stained with coffee and ash from a long-gone cigarette. Others were torn and dog-eared, the lyrics of songs I couldn’t name left undecipherable through smeared graphite. “She was real good with music, could play a whole song by ear after only hearing it once. That’s how she and my old man met.”

The closer I get to the end, the more the songs change. Grocery lists are stuck in the margins, reminders for more milk, an oil change, and to finally get rid of those curtains. There are even a few crayon scribbles on the backside of ‘I Saw The Light’. I flip to the next page, careful not to drag my finger across the edge and leave a bloody smear on Buck’s crayon alphabet. Only, there’s nothing written on the next page. Or the next, or the next.

“She took off when I was little.” The question had barely hung in the air before he managed to squash it, his hands curling into fists on the piano keys. “I think she went to Arizona, she was always wanting to visit her girlfriends out there. Not that it matters now, ain’t like I’m headed out lookin’ for her,” he scoffed.

“Can you play any of ‘em?” At that moment, I sounded a lot younger than I would’ve liked, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Back in New York, the only music I’d ever heard live was the harmonica some old guy played outside the apartment. He wasn’t too bad at it, but I never got close enough to hear it too good. He always stunk of cheap booze and stuff I wasn’t old enough to name. Buck, on the other hand, didn’t smell like anything at all.

Sober. 

That’s what he smelt like.

“I ain’t as good as she was, but I can play a little Johnny Cash.” His hands are warm and calloused when they take his mom’s book from me and flip to one of the last pages. He writes a lot like her, but his letters are a lot darker and bolder. They don’t make a ton of sense as I look at them, but I can make out the title written at the top just fine. “I Walk The Line”.

Guys like me, real tuff hoods that aren’t afraid of anything, aren’t supposed to get nightmares. And drunk redneck cowboys like Buck Merrill aren’t supposed to play the piano when his customers have leaked out to the streets and he’s left with nothing but his dad’s fluorescent sign, his momma’s music, and a wannabe gangster from New York.

And yet, here we were. Nothing in our minds but the lyrics falling off the page, tangling with the music as Buck played chord after chord, letting my head lean against his shoulder the whole time and the silent promise that this was gonna stay our own secret. I don’t know how many times he played it through. Sometimes he sang, sometimes he’d hum, sometimes he’d do nothing at all and let the music speak for itself.

“You've got a way to keep me on your side,

You give me cause for a love that I can’t hide

For you I know I’d even try to turn the tide

Because you're mine, I walk the line.”

But if there’s one thing I did know, it’s that I like Johnny Cash a helluva lot better than Hank Williams. He’s a lot better at keepin’ the nightmares away.

[sophie-i-guess13]

That Cade Kid

|Words: 1582|

|Characters: Sylvia, Johnny Cade|

|Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff|

|TW: Implied/Referenced child abuse|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato 

“Jesus! I thought you were Dally!”

Johnny Cade freezes in the middle of the bedroom, shaking hands out in front of him as if I were about to jump him. He stumbles back a bit when I drop my hands and set them on my hips, wiping the last of the water on the hem of Buck’s purple sweatshirt. “I thought you were Dally,” the kid mumbles, anxious fingers pulling at the collar of his denim jacket, “that… That’s the whole reason I came up here, honest-”

Jonathan 'Johnnycake’ Cade. I knew him because he ran with the Curtis boys and their gang and, well, everyone knew of the Curtis gang. We knew of their parents, really, but the sentiment still stands. Dally got along real well with them for reasons I couldn’t understand and it meant that on nights like tonight, Johnny and I were in the midst of a stalemate in Dal’s bedroom. “How’d you even get up here, kid?” I ask before twisting a damp lock of hair around my finger and pushing it behind my shoulder. It wouldn’t make a lot of sense for Buck to let Johnny up here when he knew Dally wasn’t around. “Didn’t think Buck would let you in with all the pigs chummin’ around.”

He’s got real tanned skin, but it turns a colour like curdled milk when my question sets in. I can see the gears turning in his mind, behind those greasy black bangs and dark eyes. He stumbles backwards again, narrowly missing the sharp edge of the dresser before his back is [pressed firmly against the cream wallpaper. Something settles in the pit of my stomach that tells me it isn’t just nerves anymore. Dread curls down my spine like the damp ends of my hair as I take a cautious step forward, fingertips grazing the bed and the ugly grey quilt folded on top. “Don’t sweat it, Johnny, I ain’t about to snitch on you-”

His knees hit the ground before he does, which I better be grateful for. He’s groaning something awful now, with both arms wrapped around his middle. Each breath he takes sounds too forced to be natural, his skin starting glittering under Dal’s dusty light. If I was even half as smart as I think I am, I would've gone downstairs and made a fuss until someone followed me back up here- someone who could at least pretend they knew what they were doing.

All that bleach I beg Evie to put in my hair must finally be soaking into my brain, because I drop to my knees right in front of the poor kid and dig my nails into the shoulders of his thread-bare jean jacket. “You’re alright, kid,” I say before pushing him back against the wall. He moans and wheezes with every little movement, making him sound like that rubber chicken Bruce is always chewing on. “You gotta tell me what hurts, Johnny,” I don’t even try keeping my voice even at this point.

I don’t know the Cade kid well, but I know him well enough to understand why he spends his night either in the Lot, the Curtis’ couch, or here. There’s a reason Dally likes him so much, too. Each breath comes out in quick, strained gasps, he’s broken out into a cold sweat, too. When I speak again, my voice is close to begging as I peel his jacket off. “C’mon, Cade, who hit you?”

He’s got that look in his eye. Not the pleading kind, but the one that I know all too well. It only takes one little look before I’m dying to hop back into the shower- no matter how disgusting it is- and scrub my body like I was shedding a second skin. He’s got the kind of look in his eye that’s far too easy to miss if you haven’t worn it yourself. Two years later, my nose still hurts sometimes. I shouldn’t really complain, I guess, Buck did take me out for a milkshake the day it happened.

Rough fingers brush against my wrist as I drop Johnny’s damp jacket to the floor. Even if the rest of him is burning up, his hands still feel cold. “Don’t sweat it, Syl,” he rasps, “t-this ain’t even the worst of it.”

“I’ll stop worryin’ when you stop soundin’ like you smoke ten packs a day,” I mutter before getting to my feet. Shag carpet would’ve never been my first choice for a floor- especially in a bar, but I hate it even more now. The fibers have left ugly marks all across my shins, they’ve even made my legs feel all tingly, so I stumble back towards the bathroom like a newborn foal. “You’re gonna be alright, okay? I know Dal keeps aspirin here somewhere-”

I find the small, white bottle soon enough, but I’m short on a clean glass for water. When I come out of the bathroom for a second time, however, my eyes catch on the large, thin, bottle of tequila off to the side of the bed. My heart is thundering in my chest, fast enough I can feel the migraine forming behind my eyes. Tequila was never my vice of choice, but it would work in a pinch.

Johnny has too many worry lines for a kid his age. I can feel my throat go dry as I creep across the floor and close my fist around the neck of the brittle bottle. “You drink, Cade?”

He shakes his head, black bangs falling down in front of his face with every slight movement. Then, even if it’s just the corner of his lips, Johnny smiles. “Well shoot, guess I will tonight.”

It can’t be any earlier than midnight by the time he finally starts to breathe a little easier. I’m sure the alcohol’s managed to numb some of the pain, but neither of us is exactly tipsy. His jacket is still cast aside on the floor while one of Dally’s shirts has been ripped into makeshift bandages. I know he won’t mind, Dally doesn’t mind anything if it’s for Johnny. I don’t mind, either.

“I’m sorry for this,” he mumbles suddenly, “you didn’t have to do this, y’know-”

“Don’t sweat it,” I say before standing back up, digging my toes into the carpet while my arms reach towards the roof. “Ain’t my first time playing nurse. Doubt it’ll be my last, too.” Still leaning against the off-white wall, Johnny’s skin has lost its sickly sheen. I’m sure he’s still hurting, but he’s doing a fine job at hiding it. I only speak again when he drags the back of his hand up to his lips, barely stifling a yawn. “If you’re tired,” I start, fighting my own fatigue, “you can take the bed. Dally ain’t coming home tonight anyway, I don’t think.”

His eyes go so wide, you’d have thought I’d just asked him to kill a man. “Not a chance,” he says, a lot sterner than I would’ve expected. Before I can even begin to argue back, his voice cuts through the stale air again. “You were here first, I…I ain’t about to take your bed. Just pass me a pillow or somethin’.”

I decide right then and there Johnny Cade is too good to be a greaser. He’s too good to be running around with the likes of Dallas Winston, but he did anyway. I still don’t know why, and I don’t think I’ll ever figure it out. Covered in the dim lamplight, his dark eyes find mine again. “Get some sleep, Syl, I’m gonna be just fine.”

I pass him a pillow from Dally’s side of the bed, along with the quilt Buck got from some grandma in the neighbourhood. I know he- Johnny- hangs around with the youngest Curtis a ton, too. Ponyboy’s real sweet and shy, he and Johnny make a good match. I only know that because of Evie. She says Steve and Sodapop talk about him a lot since he’s doing so well in school. Another thing so unheard of for us east siders.

“Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

Johnny nods a final time for patting the pillow out on the ground and laying down, his face contorted with dull pain as he does it. I’m a bundle of nerves as I lay back against the lone pillow and pull the sheets into place. Worried about Johnny, really, even if I don’t have much right to be. He’s Dally’s buddy, not mine. He gets along with the same guys convinced it’s my fault every time he takes his ring back, the same guys who-

“Hey, Sylvia?”

I prop myself up on my elbows before I can stop myself, eyes fixed on the dark silhouette in the corner of the room. “You alright, Cade?”

“Yeah,” he says carefully, “I just wanted to say thanks for this. You ain’t as bad as some people say.”

I have to laugh. I’ve got a reputation that stains my name worse than ketchup on a white blouse, and here comes Dally’s best friend tellin’ me he’s wrong. That’s all the proof I’ll ever need to tell me Johnny Cade is too good to be running with those damn hoods. The smile that crosses my lips is quick and easy- not even the slightest bit forced. I don’t think it fades until I fall asleep, either.

“Thanks, Johnny. You ain’t too bad yourself.”

[sophie-i-guess13]

Something Fun

literal garbage but idc it’s fluff

|Words: 940|

|Characters: Buck Merrill, Sylvia|

|Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Sick Fic|

|TW: Sorta neglectful parenting|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @felworthless @pepsi-and-cigarettes @sodapoppatrickcurtisofficial @the-kneesbees @thegaygreaser @ralphmaccchiato

“Buck?”

I flopped over onto my side, facing away from the neighbouring bed of blankets on the other side of the room. We had the window propped open and the bedroom door shut, but the stifling heat crawled through the screen, making us both toss and turn throughout the night.

“Buck, I can’t sleep-”

I’m not sure how anyone on the block was supposed to sleep when Syl’s coughing like she’s smoked a pack a day for the last fifteen years at ten years old. I’d done alright at ignoring her this far, but I must’ve ruined my own illusion when I reached for the canteen of water beside my head. It was warm inside the metal canister, but it was better than nothing. I pulled my pillow a little closer, even groaned to really sell it before taking a deep breath and holding it for a second.

Holding my breath made it easier to hear the cats rummaging through the garbage littering the alleys and the crickets strumming in the trees, like a midnight orchestra. It made it easier to hear that Aunt Carol still didn’t feel like checking on her daughter, too.

“You’re a real lousy actor,” that very daughter spits. Her words are thick and heavy, with fatigue and whatever infection has built up in her lungs. I hear the blankets shift and the floor creak, I even hear her gasp when a splinter digs into her palm. “I can’t sleep like this, can’t we just do somethin’ fun?”

Back when she was six – when Dad dropped me off the last time – I was stupid enough to believe she couldn’t get any worse. And yet, here we were, six years later as I flop onto my back and bite down on my tongue when my shoulder hits a rough spot. “I ain’t doin’ this, Syl,” I tell her, as stern as I can manage, “I’ve got school in the mornin’, you know.”

For a second, her hacking turns into a giggle. “That’s a load a’ bullshit.” 

I turn my head quick enough to hear something snap. The collar of her nightgown is stuck to her neck as she kneels on her makeshift bed, picking at the splinter I’ll end up pulling out for her. Her hair is a mess of dirty blonde, the colour it always turns in the late spring. It’ll stay that way until November and will only make it more obvious we’re cousins. “Who told you you were old enough to start cussin’, huh?”

“What’s that matter?’ She fires right back. “I saw you the other day- you were walking outta the school! Before lunch!”

I shoot her the meanest glare I can manage at a little past two on a Thursday morning. “How’d you know I was skippin’ school if your school’s on a whole other street?” Her cheeks flush a burning red, but I’m willing to bet money it has nothing to do with whatever she’s come down with. We lay in the thick silence for a while as I watch the silhouette of her hand brushing her hair back and tucking it behind her ear. “My hand hurts,” she murmurs in the darkness, “my throat too, an’ my chest, an’ my legs.”

“An’ what do you want me to do about it, kid?”

I’m on my feet as soon as she tries to stand only to collapse back on the ground with another dry cough. Her skin is warm and damp, each breath raspy as she forces the air through her lungs. “Can you get me somethin’ to drink?”

I’m no fourteen-year-old kid at that moment when she’s clinging to me for dear life. I’m about as old as the foundations of the damn house as I guide her out the door and towards the kitchen, right past the sight of Aunt Carol in her oblivious stupor on the couch. She’s asleep now, and she probably won’t wake up – not really – until Sylvia and I come home in the afternoon for dinner

.I’m about as old as the engine of Dad’s truck that day he dropped me off. It screeched and whistled, threatening to fail, but he just kept pushing it. After all, one truck has gotta be cheaper than a kid.

Getting Syl some real medicine instead of my aunt’s newest home remedy is gonna be worth a pretty penny, too. But, for the time being, Sylvia has her arms wrapped around me and a sweaty cheek pressed against my chest as I hold a class under the faucet, waiting for the water to cool. I comb my fingers through her hair before I can stop myself. She doesn’t stop me, either.

“Sorry for wakin’ you up,” she mumbles into my t-shirt when I pass her the glass. Stars and streetlights illuminate the neighbourhood behind our kitchen’s thin curtains. I can barely read the clock hanging behind my cousin’s head, and Aunt Carol is still snoring on the couch, beside the steady hum of the radio as it searches for a channel.

Sylvia fits under my arm as we walk back to the bedroom, careful to avoid the disruptive floorboards I’ve almost memorized. “Don’t worry about it, I ain’t headed to school anyway,” I tell her. 

Tomorrow is gonna suck, when I’m digging through my pockets for enough change for some medicine I’ll never be able to pronounce, but I already know that. What doesn’t suck right now, is picking the old pack of cards off Sylvia’s bookshelf and shuffling them as she guzzles down the rest of her water.

“C’mon, Syl, I’ll teach you how to play King’s Corner.”

[sophie-i-guess13]

Gimme a run down of what happens after Dallas dies (where Sylvia and Dallas have a dog)

ok I really should have brought this up earlier but Buck is very family oriented (canon bc I put more work into his character than her)

SO. Buck and Sylvia made their own tradition of getting family photos done every year bc no one else in the fam cared about it. Eventually, they rope Dallas into it too. He’s always smoking a cigarette, Buck always has a bottle in his hand, and Sylvia had Bruce on her lap and two arms around her shoulders.

After dally dies, and Sylvia goes on to marry Rob and have Dahlia, Bruce stays with Buck. Every year though, like clockwork, Buck will pull out the old camera, grab a bottle, throw an arm around his cousin’s shoulder and Bruce will hop up into the seat next to her with a pack of Marlboros tucked in his collar.

[sophie-i-guess13]

D.W.

Inspired by a hc that I have now lost *screeching* and a continuation of Dahlias.

“The newer generation has no idea what he’s always on about or why there’s a door upstairs that can never be opened. They don’t even know whose initials are carved in the doorframe; D.W.”

|Words: 3535|

|Characters: OC’s, Buck Merrill, Petty-ass ghost of one Dallas Winston|

|Genre: oh the agony, hurt/comfort|

|TW: Canonical Character Death, Mentions of a Gun, Referenced Suicide|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato

[Circa 1980]

“It's a bar, Jessie, not Fort Knox.”

We all stand there shivering while he whines about something else I don’t have the time to care about. Cars are whipping past as on the road, radios blaring loud enough to be heard through the glass windows and warped metal machines. Just across the road, flashing fluorescent lights catch our eyes. They flicker on and off, just as they always had. Even if it’s only a Thursday night, everyone is antsy with pre-weekend jitters, waiting for the clock to strike and finally being free for the next forty-eight hours.

“This is a stupid idea,” Jessie groans again. My hands ball themselves into fists on instinct, tucked deep in the pockets of a denim jacket Mom patched up for me. She said it was her’s, back when she was a teenager runnin’ around town, but I think it suits me better. Before I can turn to Jessie and chew him out for being a coward, Daniel jumps on him for me, of all people. “We made it this far, Mathews,” he says, slapping Jess on the shoulder, “don’t go runnin’ home now.”

“The bar’s pretty much packed, Buck ain’t gonna notice us,” I say as the screeching cars finally seem to thin out, providing an obvious gap in the road separating me and my buddies from our target. “Besides, we ain’t even headed there.”

Merrill's Bar was a staple of eastside life back in the sixties- when our parents were kids. Now, it’s a seedy joint on a still seedy side of town, refusing to budge even when all the neighbouring buildings are being taken over by junkies or ripped down. Everyone in town knew about the bartender, my mom’s cousin, Buck Merrill. They all seemed to know about how he liked to mumble to himself every time something fell apart in his shitty little bar.

I can see it now from where we’re standing; the window. Everyone knew about the bedrooms hiding up the stairs, from back when it passed as a hotel. From what I can remember, I think there’s supposed to be four up there. One room is Buck’s, one’s for what you’d expect drunk people to use an empty bedroom for, and there’s another for ‘storage’.

What hides behind the fourth door has been a mystery ever since I can remember. What he hides behind the old oak door has been the cause for a million different rumours floating around the halls of Will Rodgers High, and the reason I’m starting to shiver. From nerves or the cold, who can really tell?

Jessie raises a hand, extending his fingers to the roof of the bar. “That’s the window you're talkin’ about, Dal?”

I nod silently as my teeth settle on my bottom lip, tearing the dry skin until I can taste blood. “Yeah, heard Buck talkin’ with Mom ‘bout how it ain’t closin’ right.”

--------------

I’m not really sure what I expected to see when the window popped open and Daniel pulled me inside off the slippery shingles of my uncle’s roof. Maybe some huge, embarrassing secret Buck had been keeping under wraps the last couple of years, instead of just a dirty old bedroom.

The infamous door was across the carpeted floor, with a bare mattress on a bedframe to our left and the creaky door of a closet to our right. It’s pretty dark in here, but pale light still creeps in from the hall through the gaps in the doorframe. The walls are pretty damn thin, too, thin enough that it’s a wonder no one’s broken through them yet to discover what we’ve found.

“Way to go,” Daniel scoffs from behind me, “you’ve got us riskin’ our asses for a bedroom.” Jessie’s already pulled away, heading towards the rickety old closet without a care in the world. Still, he turns back to me, blonde hair falling in front of his eyes in long, shaggy bangs.

“Just lay off ‘er, alright? You do realize we’re the only kids to have ever been up here?”

Mom says back when she was growing up, Jessie’s dad was a real weird guy. Said he kept goin’ back to high school just for kicks, that he watched Mickey Mouse every Saturday, that he didn’t even go by his real name. Now, Mr. Mathews’ really mellowed out. His wife and Mom are still real good friends like they’d been for years, so it only makes sense Jess and I spend just about every day with each other.

Daniel on the other hand? He’s just a dick.

“Besides,” I say as I cross the floor and make my way to the table beside the bed, “it ain’t like anyone invited you, Curtis.”

He’s as arrogant as any twelve-year-old boy could be, thinking he’s oh so special just ‘cause his dad had to take care of his brothers when their parents died. He’s constantly goin’ on about how he’s gonna get out of Tulsa and go to college since his old man never got the chance. I’ve talked to Mr. Curtis a few times, the most recent was a few weeks ago when Mom was at work and Dad forgot to pick me up from school. He offered to give me a ride home, but I just lied and said I planned on heading over to Jessie’s instead.

The bedside table isn’t anything fancy, just a stand for a lamp and two drawers. I have to pull a little bit to open the first one, ignoring Daniel’s hand hovering over my shoulder when he tells me to be quiet. It swings open after a minute, and I’m left to face a handful of crumpled papers, a rusted Zippo lighter, and a red pocket knife.

Long story short, nothing important, and we are no closer to solving the mystery of what hides behind door number four. The drawer creeps closed, sealing itself with a heavy thud when I stand back up again and brush the hair from my eyes. “Nothin’ in here,” I mutter, momentarily distracted by Willie Nelson playing downstairs. At least it ain’t Hank Williams, I tell myself, Buck only puts him on when he’s in a mood.

Dan’s watching me from the foot of the bed when I turn around, arms crossed over his chest before his eyes shoot back down to the table. “What about the second drawer? If you wanna play detective, you gotta do it right.”

Dad always told me not to bother getting in any fights because he and Uncle Tim would settle any score for me. I appreciate it, but I don’t think either of them is gonna be much help when Tim’s on parole and Dad hasn’t returned any of my letters yet.

I don’t really mind, he says it’s hard to find some peace and quiet when he has to share a cell.

Mom, on the other hand, is a firm believer in equality. Why wait for the men in my life to settle things with Dan when I could pop him in the mouth myself? “I’ll check it later, alright? What have you even been lookin’ at?”

Our shoulders crash against each other when I move around him, facing Jessie’s back when he turns away from the closet. Over top of his band t-shirt, he’s got on a black leather jacket, hands tucked in the pockets. “Guys! How sick is this?”

It really is a cool jacket, even if it’s been hanging in the closet for God only knows how long and is heavy with dust and something else I can’t make out. Maybe… paint splattered on the side? It’s a dark patch right beside the pocket, but it’s too dark to tell. And really, who’d bother painting in a jacket like that? I know the sixties were a ‘different time’, but that just seems-

“The fuck, Jessie! Put it down!”

I can feel something crack when my shoulder collides with the peeling paint beside the window, dull white stars linger in front of my eyes as I try to regain my bearings. When my vision clears just enough, I see Daniel crouched on the other side of the room- just underneath the light switch, Jessie with his hands in the air, and a gun on the floor.

I should be scared- terrified even, of the fact that for a moment, the barrel of a gun was level with my chest. But none of that scares me now, not as bad as the voice coming up the stairs following the thump of cowboy boots on the ground.

We freeze like deer in headlights when Buck’s fist raps against the door, his voice thick with booze and fatigue. “Quit the racket, Dal,” he snaps, “not tonight, kid.”

We all wait for a moment, holding our breaths until our faces turn blue and lungs feel like they’re about to burst. Suddenly, still with his hands in the air, Jessie makes his way over to me. “Dahlia-”

“He can’t know,” I fire back, trying to ignore the throbbing in my right shoulder, “Buck doesn’t have a clue we’re here-”

It must have been some sick joke. The one day the door decides to magically open all by itself, even after all the times I’ve listened to Buck complain about not bein’ able to open it, Jess and I are standing right in his line of sight.

--------------

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just leans against the doorframe and looks around the room as if the wall had opened up revealing a secret to him. Jessie’s head bounces against mine after a minute as he whispers into my ear, “is he gonna kill us?”

“I can’t tell,” I answer honestly. Buck has always been a fun guy, all wild stories and weird jokes that don’t make a ton of sense. Now, he drags one hand down his face when his lips split in a tired smile, one hand still on the doorframe. He chuckles to himself before moving inside the room, swaying back and forth until he sits at the foot of the bed and drops his face into his hands.

“You fucking dipshit,” he laughs aloud, “I fuckin’ told you not to go carvin’ up my fuckin’ door.”

Now I understand why everyone’s convinced Buck lost something other than his tooth when he got in that fight years ago. He’s got three underage kids breaking into one of his bedrooms with a gun on the floor. And what does he do? Talks to himself. Of course, leave it to Daniel D. Curtis to be the ‘gentleman’ he was raised to be in this situation. “Mr. Merrill?” He asks cautiously, “are you alright?”

“I haven’t been in this room in fifteen years,” he admits, looking up at us as we form a line in front of him, with me sandwiched between the two boys. I can see the tear-streaks painted across his face when he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his flannel and combs his hair through with his fingers. “The door was stuck, thought it would just be better if I left it alone,” Buck scoffs in response. He goes on for a bit longer, spewing nonsense and half-assed thoughts that don’t make a lick of sense.

“You think he’s drunk?” Dan asks me, the back of his hand brushing against mine for too long to pass for an accident. “He’s gotta be,” I mumble back. I make sure to leave out the fact that I haven’t seen Buck sober since Mom asked him to drive me to school back in the second grade. Daniel moves back to the wall before anyone can say anything, fingers reaching for the light switch he’d hidden under a moment before. “Don’t,” Buck orders gruffly, “the light hasn’t worked since- since…” the words die on his lips, and we’re left wrestling with our doubts as he gathers his thoughts.

Then, he stands up, hands resting on his belt. “Now, you three wannabe hoods are gonna tell me what the fuck you’re doin’ here,” he snaps suddenly. “Where do your folks think you are?”

“I’m havin’ a sleepover at Danny’s,” Jessie answers immediately.

“I’m havin’ a sleepover at Jessie’s,” Daniel tries hesitantly.

Buck’s eyes flicker back and forth between the three of us, pupils wide in the dark before they finally land on me. “Mom thinks I’m spendin’ the night with June Randle.” I know that ain’t the answer he’s looking for when I hear him sigh and watch his eyes flicker to the empty closet behind us- and the empty hanger.

I suddenly get the feeling that Jessie really shouldn’t be wearing that jacket when Buck falls back to the bed, his mouth hanging open as my friend digs his hands back into the pockets. “There’s a switchblade in there somewhere,” Buck murmurs hoarsely, “you better give it back to your old man. He’s been waitin’ for fifteen fuckin’ years.”

I don’t take my eyes off of the man sitting in front of me, but I catch Jessie shrug the jacket off in my peripheral, something clutched in his fist. Buck takes the jacket from him, laying against his lap and tracing the splotches lazily. “You boys get on home now, before I decide to call your parents an’ let ‘em know what you’ve really been up to.”

Like the stray dogs I find in the alley, Dan and Jessie move to the door with their heads down and hands stuffed deep in their pockets. They both pause at the door when I drop down to the bare mattress beside Buck. They don’t look back at me though. Instead, they focus on the doorframe, and what I can only imagine Buck had starred at earlier. “What is it?”

“Letters,” Daniel answers. In the hallway’s light, his eyes glow bright blue. “D.W. and S…something.” Then they leave, and I’m left with a cold draft running down my back as Buck coughs and digs the heels of his hands back into his eyes.

“We were just curious,” I explain, kicking my feet back and forth as they barely rub against the carpet. “We- I didn’t think you’d get this upset, I don’t even know whose room this was-”

“I didn’t expect you to, Dally’s long gone.”

We sit there, listening to each other’s heartbeats and the flood of country music flowing from the old jukebox. I don’t know how much time passes between the two of us before I finally gather the courage to get the answer every kid in Tulsa’s been dying to hear. “Where’d Dally go?”

The jacket is tossed onto my lap when Buck stands up and heads towards the closet. “I thought hell for a while,” he spits, “but now I’m sure that ain’t the case.” He teeters back and forth on his feet, moving blankets and boxes on the top shelf until he finds what he was looking for and sits beside me once more. “That door wouldn’t budge for fifteen years, but pops right open when three assholes climb inside.” The lid of the box pops open and we’re met with wrinkled pages and faded pictures. “If there’s one thing Dally hated more than kids, it was kids goin’ through his shit.”

I feel like a little kid again, sitting in for story time at the library. Only this time, I’m in a dead kid’s bedroom.

I learned that night about a kid named Dallas Winston. He rolled into town all the way from New York after hopping a train. Why he came here was a mystery- still is, nearly two decades after his death. We flip through picture after picture, article after article about a teenage menace getting hauled off to the station and about his bail being posted.

After some time, when we near the bottom of the box, the pictures fade to a trio. One girl stuck in the middle of two boys; one in cowboy boots and the other in a leather jacket. “I told your momma Dally was no good, that he’d only get ‘er in trouble, but Syl never liked listenin’ to me anyway.”

Buck studies each picture carefully, flipping through the memories he hadn’t seen since 1965. I, on the other hand, rummage through the cut-up newspapers until one headline catches my eye. “‘Delinquent’ youths turned heroes after daring fire rescue”.

The sketches are rough and aged, but I can make out the vague shape of his face and the name printed below each of the three drawings. Johnny Cade, the infamous Dallas Winston, and the only name I sorta recognize, Ponyboy Curtis- Daniel’s uncle.

“Johnny and Ponyboy saved some kids from a church fire back in ‘sixty-five,” Buck tells me, gently pulling the article from my grip. “The roof caved in before Johnny could get out- a beam fell on him and broke his back. He died in the hospital.”

I learned that night that Dallas Winston supposedly didn’t care about anyone other than Johnny Cade, a kid too good to be stuck on the east side with parents that didn’t love him. “We had a fight before it happened,” Buck admits, tears burning in his eyes again. “God, I said so much shit I didn’t mean. It was real ugly… Ended up bein’ the last time we spoke, too.”

He told me about the murder wrap, too, and how Dally let the two kids hide in the bar before giving them the name of their hideout; Jade Mountain.

“Tried gettin’ rid of his jacket after what happened, too. Just couldn't do it, I guess.”

The pictures are scattered around us, the bloodied jacket laid across my lap when I tilt my head to the ceiling while my fingers brush through the carpet. “So Dally went an’ got himself shot all because his friend died?”

“Pretty much,” Buck coughs into his fist.

“That’s stupid.”

Grandpa Sam says it ain’t nice to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t think it counts if the dead are a selfish seventeen-year-old too stupid to realize someone loved him the way he loved Johnny- that they could still be hurting.

Buck sniffles before collecting the pictures and tucking them gently in the box again, his movements slow and chopping as the liquor finally burns him out. “Yeah, well, Dal wasn’t known for his brains, Dahlia. There ain’t much we can do about it now, anyhow.”

That’s when my hand drops on top of Buck’s and my hair falls back in front of my eyes. I don’t really care about that anymore, though, not when I have an idea bubbling in my mind. “But if you could do somethin’- say somethin’, would you?”

“Christ, Dahlia,” Buck sighs tiredly, “I was joking, honey. Dal ain’t gonna hear me beyond the fucking grave.”

“C’mon, Buck,” I groan, like a little kid asking for her millionth piggyback ride, “you said it yourself, maybe Dally was keepin’ the door shut- an’ what about the light? That can’t be a coincidence. M-maybe he’s waitin’ on an apology.”

Buck looks at me, his eyes glossy and dark brown, just like Mom’s. “I do this, an’ you let me go to bed, yeah?” When I nod, he extends his hand to mine. “Shake on it.”

We do, and the anticipation burns through my veins, itching worse than poison ivy.

Buck turns so his back leans against the foot of the bed and his forehead tips towards the ceiling while his eyes flutter shut. “I hope Johnny Cade was worth it, you selfish prick. You better know I didn’t mean a fucking word of what I said that night, either, Dallas. Y-you were never a bad kid, just a little messed up, It was never your fault, man. None of it was your fault.”

The apology tumbles over his chapped lips easier than I could’ve ever imagined; as if Buck had it written down in his memory for years. Considering he was able to keep Dallas a secret for that long, it really wouldn’t surprise me.

Slowly, his eyes creep open and his smile turns from one of pity to hurt. His hand is warm against my shoulder as he reaches for the jacket laying atop my legs and folds it in half, scanning the fabric for the bloody reminder of what he’d lost. “Don’t sweat it, kid,” he says heavily, “it was a sweet idea. Put the lid on the box, yeah? I’ll call your mom an’ let her know you’re here.”

He rises to his shaking legs and carries the jacket back to the closet- to seal off the memory for another decade or two. Before enough time has passed for me to make any sense of peace with the truth, Buck returns for the pictures, the ones that paint Dallas Winston as anything other than a merciless hood who deserved to die.

“Do you miss him?”

He takes the box from me and brushes the dust off the top, a sad smile still painted on his lips when he lowers his gaze to me once more. “A little bit more every day.”

That’s when the light turned on.

[sophie-i-guess13]

Hound Dog

|Words: 1872|

|Characters: Sylvia, Tim Shepard, Dallas Winston|

|Genre: Teenage Dumbasses, Fluff near the end|

|TW: Mention of a gun, animal neglect, implied underage drinking|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato 

I had a few ideas of what Sylvia wanted from me when she came through the door of her cousin’s bar. Like a drink or two, maybe a dance. Maybe she wanted to spend the night. But, in her typical fashion, she just had to prove me wrong. That’s the only reason I’d be sitting in the passenger seat of Tim Shepard’s t-bird and squinting through the rain-splattered windshield.

We move along down the road, the only sound being that of the rain beating against the car and Elvis’s voice coming from the radio. Tim’s headlights reflect off the streetlamps we pass, even the occasional broken bottle tossed in the middle of the road. Each time the light shot back at us, it got caught in his eyes and hair, the vibrant contrast of black wild curls and clear blue eyes, all tied together with a jagged pink scar running from temple to chin. “Likin’ the new tires?” he asks, lips still twisted into a scowl so it would look like an insult to anyone else.

It still hurts to breathe too deep, but that’s the least of my worries. That wasn’t the first time Tim had taken a cheap shot at my ribs, but I knew it wouldn’t be the last, either. “You should be thankin’ me, Shepard,” I say casually, “told ya’ you were due for an upgrade.”

“Just admit you slashed my tires ‘cause you were jealous,” he mutters without even a hint of sincerity. It took me a while to figure out when he was bluffing- the last time I fucked up we both ended up in the Curtises kitchen and bandaging our wounds. My eyes dart up to his rearview mirror before I respond. For a girl who always seemed so cold and cool, Syl’s pressed against his window like a little kid at a toy store. “An’ what do I have to be jealous for, your fat head?”

“How ‘bout the fact that I have a car, and you’re a fuckin’ freeloader-”

“Pull over!” Sylvia cries out suddenly, already pulling at the handle of her door, “That’s the house!”

The street is still dark but through the occasional crack of lightning, I can make sense of where we are. “Your house is three up, doll,” I mumble. It must have been soft enough for her to have not heard me because she pushes the door open and trudges through the rain. “She ain’t headed home,” Tim tells me as he turns the key and lets the engine die. “Sylvia’s been obsessed with the dog in that yard ever since I met her.”

She’s teetering back and forth in her high-heels as she leans over the metal fence, running her hands over the slim, grey body beneath her. I can’t make out her words- since they’re all slurred together with cold and liquor, but they don’t hold the same edge I’m always used to hearing from her. “So you drove her to visit a mutt?”

There’s a second icy gust of wind when Tim forces his door open and pops the collar of his leather jacket. “Get your head outta your ass, Winston,” he groans, just loud enough to be heard over the clap of thunder, “we’re helping her take him!” Before I can get any more clarification, Syl’s voice cuts through the rain once more. “Hurry up,” she calls, “the thunder’s freaking him out! You’ve got the thing?”

I don’t know what thing she’s talking about. I don’t know why I’m spending my night out in the rain while Sylvia crouches in the mud, trying to soothe some mangy old dog that’s probably older than we are, but here I am. The rain beats down on us, even going as far as to wind down my back and under my t-shirt like a serpent. “You got a plan or anything?” I shout to Tim when he slams the trunk closed and heads towards the rickety old house, bolt cutters hanging in one hand. “Not really. Just cut the chain and get ‘im to Buck’s, I guess.”

In all honesty, stealing a dog doesn’t sound like the worst way I could spend my time. But, there is no way in hell that thing is coming anywhere near my bedroom. The street stays dark for the most part, except for the occasional shot of lightning through the clouds like the cracks through Buck’s drywall. The thunder’s got the dog on edge as he paces back and forth against the fence, sometimes even raking his paws against it. He doesn’t bark though, which means his owners inside have no reason to look outside when Tim and Sylvia hop over the chain link.

Blue jeans turn muddy and hair is plastered flat against their foreheads. Watching Sylvia drop to the ground and not caring for the grime caked under her nails as she pulls at the thick leather collar pushed against his throat. “You’ve gotta hold ‘im still,” Tim orders rough grit teeth and a white-knuckle grip on his bold cutters, “I can’t cut the chain if he keeps moving!”

Years ago, he might have been a good looking dog. Now, with ribs sticking out far enough to count, white and cloudy eyes, and a torn ear, he was everything but pretty. His thin fur was grey and matted, yet somehow still thin enough to see the bald patches on his chest and stomach. If it were any lighter, we probably could’ve seen the ticks and fleas crawling all over him, too. “I’m trying,” Syl huffs in response, “it ain’t my fault the thunder’s freaking him out! Dal, get down here an’ hold him!”

He whimpers and cries, straining against Sylvia’s arms as she tries to hold him still and Tim grabs hold of the rusted chain in one hand. “Syl didn’t invite you to just stand there,” Tim spits, rainwater and a few choice words falling from his lips when the chain slips from his hands and the dog jerks back further into Sylvia’s arms. In all honesty, she didn’t invite me at all. She walked into the bar, dark lips twisted into a smile and flipped some bleached hair over her shoulder.

That’s all it took before I was following her out into the night and the passenger side of Tim’s t-bird like a- well, like a dog.

“Shut up an’ give the chain.” I grumble, narrowly avoiding the dog’s tail when he whimpers again. The metal is cold and slick with rain, but still rough with years worth of rust. It pushes into my palms, nearly deep enough to slice the skin while Tim runs his fingers back and forth searching for the weakest link. “I keep tellin’ you, Syl, you need to find a guy who’s willin’ to steal a dog. Not the kinda guy you’ve got to lie to-”

“Just cut the chain, Tim-”

The metal goes slack before my hands drop to my sides. “Makin’ a move on my girl, Shepard?” I’ve always had a temper. It’s gotten me in trouble before, and that’s all it was getting us in now. Too many things happen at once. Thunder rolls overhead, Sylvia groans, and Tim laughs. Lightening cuts across the sky, like a knife slashing through fabric. “Shut up, Dal,” Tim snarls, “I wouldn’t get with Syl if she was the last chick this side of the equator.”

I see her lips move, even see the initial shock cross her dark eyes, but no sound comes out. All I hear is the incessant ringing in my ears and the smell of gun powder. I can see it now, the steel chain resting at my feet, cut short to a jagged end, illuminated by the hazy yellow glow of a porch light. Tim already has a hand on Sylvia’s arm, hauling her to her feet and dragging her in the direction of the road.

I follow in a blind panic, adrenaline burning under my skin just as it had all those nights before I showed up in Tulsa. At least back in New York people wouldn’t justify your murder saying you were on their property. I can hear the man of the house hollering after us, he’s got a deep voice, but the words all slur together. Exactly how you’d expect some asshole who leaves his dog out in the rain to sound.

That fucking dog.

I never should have looked back, but I did, anyway. I was supposed to gauge how far away he was, maybe if he planned on re-loading and taking another shot at the three kids running out of his yard, but I see the dog instead. His belly is against the soaking grass, tail and ears gone limp. In an instant, I freeze. The man lumbers down his stairs, shotgun hanging over his thick shoulder.

He growls another insult my way, fist waving in the air as he talks. The dog tries to sink lower into the mud as if it would be able to swallow him whole. Behind me, an engine roars back to life and tires squeal on wet cement. I should’ve gotten in the car. We should’ve counted our losses and realized that we’re greasers, not heroes.

But that motherfucker never should’ve kicked his dog.

“Thanks for this,” Sylvia hums in the early hours of the morning with her head on my chest and my arm wrapped around her shoulder. It hurts to breathe and every inch of my body aches, but all of that seems worth it now. She’s still trembling, despite being wrapped under all the blankets I could find in my room and Buck’s sweatshirt from last year’s rodeo season. We’re all freezing, but that meant Buck was willing to share his moonshine. It burned on the way down, but at least I could feel my fingertips again as they traced her shoulder.

“God, can y’all knock this shit off? You’re making me sick.”

Tim’s standing at the foot of the bed, greasy black curls still pressed to his forehead and one bloody fist wrapped in an old t-shirt. “Nah, this is what you get for makin’ me run in the rain with a dog and batshit old man chasing me,” I spit back. Sylvia smiles against my chest before sitting up and pushing her hair back from her face. “And for implying you’d have a shot with me, you arrogant prick.”

He leaves not long after that, drenched in rainwater and defeat. No sooner had Tim Shepard closed the door and wandered back down the hall, had the dog- Bruce, wiggled out from under my bed and stared at us.

“Hey, Dally-”

“He isn’t sleeping on my bed, babe.”

“C’mon, Dal, it’s just for one night, babe.”

I’m a greaser. The kind of guy known for getting into drunken fights in bars and empty parking lots. I steal, I lie, I cheat. I’m not a good person, nor have I ever claimed to be one. Hell, I fight guys twice my age and weigh more than two of me, and win.

But sometimes, when a hood is left to face his girlfriend and her dog, you just have to accept defeat and move over.

[sophie-i-guess13]

Piercing

Thank you to @apricot-colored-feathers for letting me use this headcanon! Make sure to check out their rendition of it, too!

|Words: 1619|

|Characters: Dallas Winston, Sylvia|

|Genre: Stupid Fluff|

|TW: Underage Drinking, unsafe piercing practices|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato 

You’re flat on your back, basking in the warm feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. Beside you on the thin mattress, Sylva’s hair is cast against the covers, strawberry-blonde against off-white. Warm and calloused fingers are wrapped around your hand, the one not unscrewing the cap to a bottle you’d snuck from the basement.

Buck already hated cleaning up after his clients and was in no way ready to throw you and Sylvia into the mix of people he needed to babysit. That’s why the two of you are up here, listening to his shitty music reverberate through the beams as dozens of feet danced into the night on the floor below. It’s a nice night in your bedroom- cold, but with the hazy moonlight coming in through your window, mingling with Buck’s new neon sign just outside, it really isn’t that bad.

It’s a Monday night in December, the last of 1963, and Mrs. Curtis’s sister came down for the occasion. Oklahoma’s a long way from Green River up in Utah, but Soda says they haven’t talked much since his momma left. That’s why you’re laying here, with her head on her shoulder and the smell of her perfume strong enough to drown out the stink of Jack when you finally pop it open. The idea of someone coming all the to Oklahoma to visit family is a concept you can’t seem to wrap your head around.

Your mom had three brothers living in New Jersey, yet none of them ever bothered the drive to visit their sister or their nephew. Now that you think about it, you can’t really blame them, either. Your dad was the worst, but she was no prize, either. They deserved each other. They deserved to be alone together, stuck in their ways, knowing they’d forced their only son halfway across the country. They didn’t deserve to know you were alright, either.

“Hey, Dal?” Like a fish on a hook, her voice yanks you back to your bedroom in Tulsa, rather than the gross little apartment back in New York. Her fingertips are dancing back and forth across your skin, the dull blue veins that always pop out more when you’ve been drinking, the scars fused to your knuckles like carvings in stone tablets. “I think I’m gonna pierce my ears,” she says slowly, drawing out each word as if you’ll miss what she’s saying if she speaks any faster.

She doesn’t look much like Buck- even if they’re cousins. Buck’s hair is a dirty blonde whereas her’s is right between ginger and blonde. Her smile’s real small, too, only one-half of her face curls upwards, like a burning piece of paper. Buck smiles broad and proud, chipped teeth on display. The only thing they have in common is muddy brown eyes and dark lashes.

Rolling onto her back, Sylvia’s wide-eyed gaze lands on your ceiling and the minuscule cracks going through it. “I might get Tim to do it,” she says again before letting her fingers drum against your sheets, in perfect time with Patsy Cline singing out downstairs. You’d been so focused on the way her hair falls over her shoulders, how her lipgloss makes her eyes that much more vibrant, even if she’d care if you pulled her back against you. It’s cold in your bedroom, after all. All that melts away like an early spring snow when his name falls off her tongue. “The hell you need Tim to do it for?” You scoff. It had been a while since you and the eldest Shepard had a reason to fight, but things were constantly changing when Syl had your ring on her finger.

I can’t get ‘em done at a salon, dipshit.” She laughs once, eyes closed and knees curled up to her stomach before they flop to her right, brushing against your hand and inviting your touch. “Y’know what my momma’s like, says only thugs and hookers get piercings.”

“Doesn’t your momma have her ears pierced?”

She sits up quickly before scooting to the foot of your bed and reaching for the jacket she tossed to the floor when she came in. “Yeah, think that’s her whole point. I brought the needle an’ everything even got a pair of her earrings.” The last part comes out a little muffled, now that she’s close to falling off your bed as she rifles through the pockets of Buck’s old jacket. When she turns back to face you, however, her smile is nothing short of victorious. The two silver rings catch the dusty light of your bedroom, shining in between her fingernails like timeless heirlooms, rather than sterling silver she’d pulled from her momma’s jewellery box. “She hasn’t worn ‘em in years, not since her first husband kicked the bucket. I don’t think she’ll notice if I start.”

Sitting up and leaning back on your hands, you cock an eyebrow before Sylvia takes to the jacket again, searching for whatever else she’d drug along with her. “I got the needle here somewhere,” she calls, “snuck it outta Home Ec. since Dad doesn’t trust Mom with sewing needles no more-” She’s got that determined look in her eye when she wipes the hair back from her face, three stolen trinkets resting in the palm of her right hand. Her gaze changes the moment you close your eyes and take a quick sip of the whiskey clasped in your fist. The child-like wonder has vanished and is replaced with something much more serene as she slips back onto the bed and curls against your side.

When her breath hits your neck, you know the liquor burning under your skin isn’t the only reason for the steady heat blowing across your face. “You ain’t lettin’ Tim Shepard stick you with a needle, doll,” you say slowly. She’s wild and uncontrollable, you’ve known that since the first day you met her, but you’ve gotta believe Sylvia isn’t that desperate to disappoint her parents. Showing up with your jacket slung around her shoulders was trouble enough.

“Why don’t you do it, then?”

t has to be the whisky talking when you don’t say no immediately. “Do I look like I know you to pierce your ears?” You ask instead. Her laugh starts slow and quiet, like the faraway rumble of those cars that passed you the first time you decided to just be friends. “That’s the fun part, Dally. I can pierce one of your ears, an’ you do one a’ mine.”

“Guys don’t wear earrings,” you complain half-heartedly. Sylvia just laughs again, this time going as far as to press her lips against your cheek before speaking. “Yeah, but you’d look real tuff with one.”

Surprisingly enough, no one storms upstairs when the needle pushes through your earlobe and Sylvia uses the bottle on your bedside table to soothe the sting and wipes the drop of blood off your pillowcase. She tried to, at least. It isn’t the first ugly stain on your pillows, it won’t be the last, either. Buck doesn’t even storm upstairs when it’s her turn and ends up screaming- even if it fades into drunken giggles before you can ask if she’s okay.

Buck only comes to your room twice that night. Once, to tell you and Sylvia you sound like dying cats when you’re spinning around and she’s singing along to Your Cheating Heart. He looks you both up and down, looking far too old for twenty-one. Sylvia stops in her tracks before stumbling into your arms. Even under her cousin’s tired gaze, you don’t push her away or act like it wasn’t a big deal. It was a little past one in the morning when that happened, the last Monday of 1963 reduced to a happy memory.

Happy. It’s a good word to describe how you felt at quarter past three, on the floor of your bedroom with your head tipped back against your bare mattress and Sylvia’s cheek pressed against your chest, cheeks as red as your t-shirt. Her hands are trapped under yours, too, the silver ring looks more like a missing piece now that you each have a small silver loop hanging off your ears. You’re too busy watching her shoulders rise and fall with every breath, mapping out each faded freckle over the bridge of her nose as if they’ll be gone the next time you hold her this close.

Sylvia’s never been afraid of you. Not when you were drinking, or when you knocked on her window after a fight you almost lost. Hell, she didn’t even shy away when you were kneeling over her holding a needle. Sylvia’s never been afraid of you, even after the countless opportunities you’ve given her to cut you out of train-wreck life for good.

Sylvia wasn’t a damn thing like your mother. She didn’t treat you anything like your father- even if that’s all you ever thought you’d become.

Sure, you already had two rings keeping you connected (not counting the one on her finger) but neither of you had to constantly relight the spark that had drawn you two together in the first place. When the time comes, she’ll leave you. That is to say, if you don’t leave her, first.

But for the time being, she was asleep with her head on your chest while your fingers raked through her hair. Your head was already starting to pound, eyes darting in and out of focus as the music beneath you finally died.

And standing in the doorway with a burning cigarette and a shit-eating grin, Buck Merrill watched you fall asleep with his cousin’s head over the heart you claimed you didn’t have.

[sophie-i-guess13]

Teenage Wedding

Ok this is an idea I had earlier and I’m making it your problem <3

|Words: 1175|

|Characters: Tim Shepard, Sylvia, OC’s|

|Genre: Fluff & Angst|

|TW: Canonical character death. Dead Dallas Winston is too much fun to write|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991  @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @felworthless @the-kneesbees @sodapoppatrickcurtisofficial @thegaygreaser @ralphmaccchiato 

The sweat was rolling off us in waves that day, I swear to God, all cramped together in that tiny little church. August sun crept in through the stained-glass windows of Mary and Jesus, sending a cascade of red, yellow, and blue down on the aisle of splintered wood and cigarette butts.

Buck sat in one of the front pews, one hand rubbing against the back of his neck as he listened on with the rest of us to Father Daniel’s sermon on the sanctity of marriage and God’s will. It’s an old church, one that’s been here on the east a helluva lot longer than any of us. I can’t even imagine how many of our folks tied the knot in this joint; y’know, if they made to the alter before the baby was born. 

That’s where Rob’s standing now- in front of the alter, fingers drumming anxiously over the pants of his hand-me-down tux. Across from him in a short blue dress and a bouquet in her hands, Evie teeters back and forth on her heels. I can see the sweat rolling down his temple from here, even if I have to lean a little further into Curly to see past Sylvia’s mother.

In the warm light, it only makes the purple shiner on his cheek more obvious. I think that’s the worst present I could’ve gotten the newly weds, but at least I got him home in one piece.

Some bachelor party it turned out to be. The two of us shut the door behind us at close to four in the morning, bloody and victorious,  only to find Sylvia with her head in her hands at the kitchen table. She started hollering once she recognized our boots on the floor and the bruises painting our skin. Her rant was directed at me, for the most part, going on about if my idea of a ‘good time’ was getting her second guy pumped full of lead before she could even call him her’s, maybe I shouldn’t bother showing up to the wedding at all.

If I didn’t show- and didn’t think to drag the rest of the boys with me, it woulda been a real sad lookin’ service. Rob’s folks are to the left, while Buck and his aunt sit together on the right side. The rest of us hoodlums are scattered around in the back. None of us mind though, guys like us aren’t necessarily meant to be smoking in the back of God’s house.

On the bright side, Curls and I did get the first look at Sylvia when she came down the aisle on her daddy’s arm. Dressed in white lace and blonde curls rolling down her shoulders, I can almost forget she’s hungover and Rob’s got a warrant out for his arrest.

Some ‘blessed occasion’,  alright.

I can’t help but think it’s a good thing you’re dead when Sylvia pushes away from her father and stumbles into her soon-to-be husband’s arms. You really woulda hated this kid with every fiber of your being; and not just because he was in my gang.

The rest of the ceremony passes like a bad dream, over in an instant. There’s no vows, just a quick movement or two as they exchange rings and wait for Father Daniel’s final instruction.

There’s a lot of cheering and cause for celebration when Mr. and Mrs. Cook lean into each other and seal the deal. After that, we all flood to the yard, desperate to escape the stifling heat. We’re all in such a rush, I don’t think even Sylvia takes a moment to stop at your grave for a goodbye. Even if it’s a sarcastic one.

That’s all I’m thinking of now as I stand in their living room, rocking a baby back and forth in my arms. It’s a damn good thing you’re dead, Dally, otherwise that rumble could’ve been a hell of a lot uglier. I can hear Syl snap at him, telling him it would hurt less if he stayed still. A few choice words still tumble over his tongue. Sylvia laughs, Rob groans, and I hold Dahlia a little bit closer, even if she is a deep sleeper. 

The feeling of a worn old leather jacket much to pretty familiar to her by now, but I can only imagine how she’d scream when she reailzes who I am. Babies don’t like huge scars across faces.

Once I’m sure she’s fast asleep, I turn my eyes back to the family photos littering the lawn. His hand in wrapped around her waist in the first one, whine she has one hand against his chest and the other resting on her stomach. In all that white, it was impossible to see the baby-bump, even if she was only a week or two along.

It’s a good thing you’re dead, Dally. You would’ve made a big fucking fuss about Sylvia moving on. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t sulk about it.

“Tim? C’mon in, you’re next.”

Rob meets me in the hall, wiping back his hair and the last bit of blood dripping from his broken nose. He takes his daughter from me in an instant, cradling her close to his chest and whispering into her hair. “Syl’s at the table,” he mentions before moving into the living room and dropping down onto the couch. “She’ll fix you up just fine. You heading home tonight?”

I’d nod, but Sylvia pipes uo before I can get a word out, dark eyes glittering like wet cement under a street-light. “He better,” she chuckles, “I wouldn’t trust Curly and Angela to hold down the fort longer than need be.”

Jesus. When did we grow up, huh?

Guess you’re the wrong one to ask, since you’re still seventeen.

As I drop down into the chair beside her and shrug off my jacket, letting her poke and prod every new bruise and cut, I can’t help but think it’s a damn good thing you’re dead.

You would have never built a life for her the way Rob has, I ain’t saying it to be petty, either. I’m saying it because it’s the truth and there ain’t a soul that doesn’t know it.

I look around the cluttered kitchen, the cereal boxes and baby bottles littering the darken counters, all the way to the finger-paintings hanging on the fridge and the bills tucked together on the table beneath Syl’s first-aid kit.

She moves soft and slow, dragging the rag down my battered arm, looking so close to calm I almost laugh. What happened to you- and Johnny- shook all of us, but I know she took it much harder than any of us could’ve dreamt of.

Sylvia deserves everything she has right now; a decent house, a cute daughter, and a husband that really loves ‘em both. Even the air of serenity leaking in through the kitchen window.

It’s a good thing you’re dead, Dally, I’m saying it as a friend to the both of you.

Besides, you never liked kids, anyway.

[sophie-i-guess13]

Dahlias

Okay essentially this is what happens to Sylvia after Dallas’s death. Also, if you’re one of those people who like music and fics, I recommend Almost (sweet music) by Hoizer. Mostly for the line “I laugh like me again / (s)he laughs like you.”

|Words: 2584|

|Characters: Sylvia, OC’s, Dallas Winston|

|Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet|

|TW: Canonical Character Death|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato 

I have plenty of scars. Most on my hands and arms, even a few on my legs from all the times I’ve stumbled through the house in the dark to get to her bedroom when she starts to cry. Hell, I even have a scar on my shoulder from that one night at Buck’s. You remember that, don’t you? Don’t even get me started on the one on my hand- all ‘cause you couldn’t hold a chain right.

I don’t have to worry about turning my knee varying shades of blue, green, and purple when I wake up and pull the sheets back into place, though. She’s getting better at sleeping through the night, now we just have to work on getting her to stay in her own bed. She’d woken up with her daddy this morning and let me get a little bit of extra sleep. Now, she’s sprawled out on the sheepskin rug Rob’s great aunt or grandmother or something was so keen on giving us.

It’s coated in two generations worth of dog hair, burnt tobacco, and whatever else Great Aunt Sandra managed to spill and never clean up, but now my daughter loves to spill her Cheerios over the rug and pick them up, one by one, waiting for Daddy to get home. I can hear reruns of The Flintstones going on in the living room. If I look over my shoulder, I can watch her staring at the tiny silver screen, too.

She looks real cute when she does it, legs crossed with her dry cereal splattered around in front of her and lopsided pigtails. I think that if the opportunity presented itself, I’d be able to sit and watch her all day. Listen to her babble and stumble around the house as she plays with her toys, watch her eyes go as big as the dinner plates when the doorbell rang or a bird flew past the window.

But I’ve never had the luxury of sitting back while others tidy my mess, and that ain’t about to start anytime soon. Not unless Rob hits it big with whatever scheme the Shepard brothers have him roped up in.

So I turn back to the sink and drop my hands back to the warm, soapy water. I can feel the small cuts and scrapes painted across my skin when my hands scrub clean her sippy cups. I’ve got plenty of little reminders of the life I once lived on my fingers, but more than enough reminders of what it means to be a mother on my chest. No one tells you how nippy babies can be, but we’ve weaned her onto bottles now. Momma can go on and on about how “breastfeeding will strengthen our bond”, but if Dahlia and I were any more bonded, you’d think she was still inside me.

No, I did not name my only daughter after you, you cocky asshole. Dahlias have always been my favourite flower and- well, I had to tell Rob I was pregnant with his child four weeks after our wedding and through six inches of bulletproof glass, so he decided he didn’t get an opinion on her name.

It’s a pretty name for a pretty girl, named after a pretty flower. Never mind they’re the same ones I left on your gravestone the first time I was brave enough to visit.

We have a small house- even by eastside standards. I don’t have a bulbous stomach anymore, but getting around in the kitchen is still a tight squeeze with all of Dal’s stuff lying around. The kitchen blends right into the dining area, which is exactly between the door to our backyard and the front door. That door, the one that faces the back of the park Bob Sheldon died at, is to the left of the living room.

I think the living room is my favourite place in the whole house. We’ve got a little television, an old beat-up sofa and recliner and a coffee table smack dab in the middle of the ugly rug. It smells like coffee most of the time- since drinking coffee while she watches cartoons is Rob and Dahlia’s morning routine. I really don’t know what that poor fool is gonna do when she has to go to school. In those early hours, the sun bleeds in through the three panes of glass behind the television and paints my floor like a kaleidoscope. Most of all, I love what the sun and her rays do to my pictures on the wall.

We were nineteen. Two teenagers- children, really, with veins crawling with liquor and lust. No one thought we’d last the week, but here we are, three years later. The photo in the center was us on our wedding day, his arm looped around my waist while my eyes strained to look everything but hungover. My curls were products of Angela’s hairspray and Evie’s drugstore curlers, making me into a budget Dolly Parton. If you squint, you can see my hand pressed against his chest and the ring he’d put on my finger.

If you look closer still, you can see the chain of your St. Christopher on my lace-lined throat. It didn’t seem right to wear another man’s ring on my wedding day, even if Rob told me he didn’t mind.

From there, the pictures branch off in our own family tree. We have everything from Christmas Eve and Morning, to Halloween (Dahlia was really into cowboys that Fall), even Rob’s first mugshot as a married man and “Baby’s first time visiting Daddy in prison” because I thought it was funny. The one I’m staring at now is the newest to the collection- and the reason for the new scar on the back of my knuckles.

Your memory’s been plaguing Buck’s for long enough. I’d tried doing it a million times before, but storming into your bedroom with a garbage bag and a blinding fury only seemed to get harder. I hated every damn second it took to empty your dresser and chuck what was left of your clothes into those black bags. I hated tiptoeing over your carpet and seeing the shapes staring back at me, the stains we’d left all those times we thought Buck had no idea we’d helped ourselves to his secret stash.

I hated seeing our initials carved into your door frame.

I hated the fact that I cried into Rob’s chest for most of the evening when we decided everything of yours that couldn’t be donated or recycled would just be burned. Buck and Dahlia had fun though, tossing sticks into the burning pile behind the bar and away from prying eyes. I hated the feeling of my flesh bubbling when I barely stopped Buck from tossing away your red t-shirt.

It was easily the rattiest piece of clothing I’d ever seen you in, but I’d seen you in it too many times to just let it go up in smoke. It sits in the bottom of my dresser most days, I’ll make use of it eventually. I don’t wear it, of course. When he’s gone, I usually wrap myself in one of Rob’s over shirts if it gets cool enough.

Dahlia squeals suddenly, the sound slicing through the air and cutting off the last bit of Fred Flintstone’s next clever idea. It’s an odd mix of a giggle and typical baby-babble, but it’s a sound like no other and only heard when Rob’s keys jingle in the doorknob.

You probably met him a while back, though I doubt you’d remember him. Rob Cook was a skinny sonuvabitch back in high school, all gangly limbs and a nose he hadn’t quite grown into. He ran with Tim and his gang- has been for about six years now. There’s a warm gust of late-summer air blowing through the open door when I wipe my hands on the dishcloth hanging from the oven door and purse my lips and cross my arms over my chest. Dahlia waddles towards her daddy, swaying back and forth on her tiny feet until he scoops her into his arms.

She settles almost instinctively, curious fingers already distracted by the shiny buttons of his leather jacket, or a single strand of his greased-back hair. Everyone says the sixties are dying- they are- but you should know as well as anyone that being a greaser isn’t something you just quit.

“Tim says hello,” he says as he kicks off his shoes and makes his way back into the living room, pausing for a moment to glance at the t.v. “My parents do, too. Wondering if you wanna head over for dinner sometime this week.”

Now that we’re older, he’s really grown up. He’s still got some acne dotted across his chin, but it’s mostly covered by stubble now. His hair’s quite a bit darker now, too- not nearly as dark as Johnny’s was, but a nice, rich brown. Rob has eyes I can’t describe. I’ve spent too long staring at them in all different settings, trying to make sense of the millions of different shades swirling around his pupils. It’s a nice change, I think. Something different than just cold blue staring back at me all the time. Dahlia really did take after her daddy in every way; from the same even tan, to the same wide nose, even the way her hair rested and curled around her chubby cheeks.

“That’s just fine,” I drawl in response, “remind me to get your momma’s casserole recipe. Y’know, the one with the- “ Contrary to the things you read in magazines nowadays, I really didn’t have a problem with my in-laws. They were honestly the only couple my parents’ age who didn’t seem to hate each other. Marg adored me and the granddaughter I’d given her, and Samuel came around constantly, always making sure his son was treating me right and that I wasn’t about to waste my money on a handyman when he could clean my gutters for free.

Well, he’d clean them as long as I promised he could buy Dahlia her first bike, that is.

The subconscious part of my mind forces my feet to carry me across the floor and into his arms’ reach. I don’t even notice until his fingers hook through my belt loops and pull me towards him and all I can smell is burnt tobacco and Old Spice.

He’s never come home smelling like perfume I can’t afford or hairspray I don’t use. He’s never come home with lipstick stains on his collar, or the scent of hard liquor on his breath. He’s never done anything to scare me. Never raised a fist or a hand to me, I don’t even think I’ve ever heard him raise his voice. I spent too long trying to convince myself I didn’t deserve it; that I didn’t deserve to be loved by a guy like him. Jesus, I even rejected his first proposal ‘cause I thought he was joking.

Now, I sink into his arms and tuck my head just beneath his chin, relishing in the low chuckle I can feel at the base of his throat. “How are the boys?” I mumble. He just laughs and shakes his head. It’s still a gang, I guess, still pulling different stunts I thought Tim and Curly would’ve let die with their youth. Then I remember Tim and Curly ain’t you.

The Shepards and Buck are the only of your buddies I still talk to nowadays. I keep in touch with Evie and Kathy- Angela, too, but what’s left of the Curtis gang won’t even look my way when we pass in the grocery store. The joke’s on Steve Randle, though, he’ll have to see my face every day when we both drop our kids off at preschool.

“Y’know how they are,” he says in return, “word’s goin’ ‘round with some guys from the southside tryna start something. Might go down there and set ‘em straight one of these nights.” He holds me a little tighter as the sentence hangs in the air, the sinister meaning leaves a taste like soap in my mouth. “Don’t worry about it, Syl, you know I’m coming home to you.”

I realize then and there I didn’t mourn you like a girlfriend is supposed to. I didn’t miss the weight of your arm around my waist as we strolled into my cousin’s bar, not the smell of your aftershave or the way your clothes felt against my skin. Thinking of it, I didn’t do a damn thing like that for you. I did that for Rob. For my husband.

I didn’t mourn you like a girlfriend would mourn for a lover. I knew the title never fit me, and I finally know why. I didn’t lose a lover the night you died, I lost a friend. That’s what I miss. I miss the nights you chucked pebbles at my bedroom window until I pulled it open and saw you standing there, Buck’s car keys caught in your fist and shining in the moonlight- as corny as it is.

I’ll always miss those midnight adventures and the nights we spent together, speeding down the freeway cursing our parents’ names until our voices were raw.

I realize now, as I sink back onto the sofa and let Dahlia crawl across the floor to pick away at what’s left of her cereal, that I don’t miss you. Rob’s arm is cast over my shoulder, lips pressed against my temple and eyes on our daughter. It doesn’t hurt to say your name anymore, to picture your smile, or think about tearing your t-shirt apart and turning it into a few new rags.

The sixties are dying alongside the life I lived with you. I’ll never walk into that bar again and find you in the crowd, I’ll never call one of my girlfriends up in the middle of the night and fill her in on how you messed up again. I’ll never lean against your shoulder when we’re stuck watching some shitty flick at the Drive-In, and I’m okay with that.

I have plenty of scars I’ve earned throughout my lifetime, most with stories I don’t remember. I know where I got the one on the inside of my forearm, though. I know where the scar on my earlobe came from, too. Letting you pierce my ear with a sewing needle wasn’t my smartest idea, but it made for a good story, even years after it happened. Even years after you died.

The scar across my heart is new and still burns more often than not- burning with grief I thought for so long I had no claim to. I didn’t lose you the way your gang did, the way your family did, but it hurt all the same. I resented you for it for longer than I should have, too.

I’m five years older and five years wiser. If I’ve learned anything from soothing a baby and bandaging up my husband after yet another rumble, it’s that scars can heal.

It may take a while, but scars heal. You don’t have to forget about them, but there will come a day when they don’t hurt anymore.

I doubt you’ll care, you never seemed interested in my approval anyway, but I think it’s time I admit it. If not for you, then for me, you selfish asshole.

I’m okay, Dally. I forgive you.

[sophie-i-guess13]

A Crowded Table

Ok this is probably one of my favourite fics I’ve written for this series <3

|Words: 1079|

|Characters: Buck Merrill, The Curtises|

|Genre: Fluff|

|TW: N/A|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato 

Mom’s been real stressed lately, and I finally know why. They talk about it in secret when the dinner table is close to empty- save for the dishes and two bodies on opposite ends of it. Try as they might, my folks aren’t as sneaky as they claimed to be back in their teen years.

I know Dad’s been coming home later than usual, his shirts stained and dirty, and smelling like the type of liquor he wouldn’t dare touch around me or Soda, or any of the kids for that matter.

But now, I’ve only got the truth to face as I slide the door open and listen to Momma holler to Soda “not to sit so close to that damned television!”

Dark brown eyes and wind-tousled hair, it’s a colour a lot darker than Soda’s. And an awkward smile, too, the one that says 'I’m not supposed to be here.'

I know Buck Merrill, just not well enough to call him a friend. We’re in a few of the same classes at school- American History and Phys. Ed., if I can remember correctly. For a kid known for bumming around rodeo grounds, getting held back, and having a bedroom in his dad’s bar, he really ain’t as bad as everyone paints him to be.

He acknowledges me first with a subtle lift of his chin, like the way I’d seen all those cowboys do it in the movies. He keeps his hands in his pockets, but I can still see the denim ripple and move as his fingers drum against his thigh anxiously. “H’lo, Darry.”

I nod back, stiff as a board and just as confused as Sodapop when the math book came out. Sure Buck and I were both grease, and we were still smack-dab in the middle of the east side, but I can’t remember the last time I saw Buck Merrill talking to someone without four legs and a mane. “Evenin’, Buck,” I manage.

Before I can help myself, I’m pulling at the collar of my school sweatshirt. Maybe it’s the way he’s shifting back and forth on his feet, or the thin trail of sweat winding down his neck and hiding beneath the collar of his button-down. Maybe it’s because when he gives me another forced smile, I realize he smells like Dad when he comes home too late.

“Sylvia ain’t here,” I tell him. “At least, I don’t think Soda’s that good at hidin’ girls in his room yet.” Instead of his face screwing up and fists clenching at his sides like you’d expect from most guys, Buck just shrugs his shoulders and smiles again, all in that lazy cowboy-ish way he’d been raised on.

“I ain’t worried about her, she’s at home with my aunt. Grounded for the week for sneakin’ in past curfew.” Slowly, he pulls one hand out of his pocket, the plaid sleeve bunched up around a thin and bony wrist. Through his fingers, I can see the dull shine of a pocket knife. If his fingers were any thinner- or hands any smaller, I would’ve been able to recognize my father’s initials carved into the side of the red finish. “I’m, uh… I’m actually lookin’ for your old man, Darry.”

Now I understand how Sodapop must feel, tucked in Dad’s chair with his brows furrowed while the letters swim in front of his eyes. Every little piece falls together seamlessly as I stand there, mouth gaping like a fish caught on a hook.

“He’s been comin’ round the bar a few nights a week, j-just helpin’ me with stuff, y’know? Like, uh, fixin’ the leaky tap or the lock on my bedroom.”

Before I can say anything, the floorboards creek behind me and Momma’s voice echoes down the hall. Our house has always been like that, no matter where you are, the house creaks and groans along with your every move. “Now who are you talkin’ to, Darry?”

I tilt my head back and play the role of a naive fifteen-year-old, the kind that wouldn’t notice the way Buck shakes his head desperately. “Buck Merrill, Momma,” I shout, “Dad left his pocket knife at the bar the other night.”

I can hear the blood pumping in his veins, the heart hammering against his thin chest. If it were any windier, I’m sure what’s left of the boy on my front step would’ve blown away. Still in the kitchen, I crane my neck and catch sight of my mom. She’s smiling to herself, wiping damp hands on her apron and mouthing along to Loretta Lynn.

“Don’t tell me he ain’t stayin’ for supper?”

He goes at least three shades lighter after that, like spoiled milk. “I really shouldn’t,” he mutters- more to the knife in his hand than to me. “I don’t wanna take up any space, I know y'all are already runnin’ pretty low on it.”

I don’t bother explaining to Buck that he’s already thinner than the chicken bones tossed on the street behind the dingo, or that Momma has a serious issue with taking in kids that were never her’s in the first place. Just look at Two-Bit Mathews and Steve Randle, or that one quiet kid in Ponyboy’s class this year.

“Get on off your high horse, Buck,” I chuckle before extending my hand out to him. For a moment, he almost drops Dad’s knife into my open palm.

“C’mon in, Buck, we’ve always got room for one more!”

His hand fits comfortably in mine as the grip turns into a sturdy handshake, calloused palm to calloused palm. When he smiles at me this time, it ain’t as awkward and almost seems grateful, even if we both know we’ll act like nothing happened in gym class Monday morning.

He makes sure to wipe his boots on the mat before following me through the slender hall and towards the crowded kitchen, where Momma and Dad are already dishing up plates and Pony and Soda argue about who gets to sit next to our special guest.

“See? What did I tell you,” I laugh as I usher Buck through the chaos and towards the rickety old stool we liked to use as an extra seat in a pinch. I drop down into the chair beside him while both of my brothers sit across from us with Momma to my left, and Dad to Buck’s right. “There ain’t nothing wrong with a crowded table.”

[sophie-i-guess13]

Midnight Visitor

im back guys let the spam posting commence. On that note please block the tag MOVING if you don’t wanna see it <3

|Words: 1081|

|Characters: Johnny Cade, Buck Merrill|

|Genre: Hurt/Comfort|

|TW: Absent Parents, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato 

Dad made sure to reach me a lot of things before he took off. Things like how much a good pint oughta cost, how to keep my boots clean, even gave me a lesson or two about it anyone asks, I’ve been twenty-one for a few months now. I wasn’t, obviously, but no one seemed to notice. He taught me a few other things, too, like the jukebox’s sweet spot when the records start skippin’ again. You gotta kick the left side, not the right.

The one lesson Dad never bothered teaching me, was how fucking messy his ‘buddies’ could get. I’d kicked ‘em all out an hour ago, back to their crying wives and kids they refused to raise, but I was still cleaning. Wiping down the tables and counter, tryna clear out the stink of smoke and weed before it could climb upstairs and suffocate us in our sleep. I guess it really wasn’t all bad, though. Sure, I was exhausted and falling asleep with a broom in hand, but it ain’t like I could make the joint look any worse.

Half a decade’s worth of blood, grime, and booze had already seeped into the floorboards and the best I could do was pray it wasn’t sticky in the morning. At least it was quiet. The jukebox had finally died down and Dad’s records were packed away behind the bar. I liked thinking at night. When it was just me cleaning up, all my thoughts got to run rampant like the drunken shadows I’d locked out an hour before.

I thought about money a lot. How much I had, how I was gonna make more, how much I’d need to get away from Tulsa and get a ranch. That’s what I was thinking about tonight while I swept the floor, trying to brush away the footprints of the same men I’d come to rely on for income. I was close to finished when the doorknob started turning- tried to. The sound changes from the deadbolt holding the door shut, to a weak fist pounding away at the wood.

“Dal, i-it’s Johnny, man. Y’know, Cade?”

I was already pretty critical of opening my door in the middle of the night, but even I knew about that Cade kid. His parents were always at each other’s throats, more than once lettin’ their kid son get tangled up in the middle of it. He reminded me a bit of Sylvia, in a way. Only, I don’t think Sylvia would go walking over here at close to one in the morning. Not unless something was really wrong.

He’s a small kid, real thin and short. The jacket he’s wearing looks like it could slip right off him with even the slightest breeze, but I bet it would be easier for him to see. He’s got long, shaggy bangs that cover his eyes, I’m sure they’d reach his nose if he ever combed them. “What’s with all the racket, kid?” I ask with arms crossed over my chest. Dally says I’m awful at lookin’ tuff, but the kid in front of me damn-near falls off the porch step.

“I didn’t m-mean anythin’ by it,” he stammers, chin pointed up at me and black eyes shining with the light leaking out from the bar, “I was just lookin’ for Dally, h-he said to come ‘ere if I needed help-”

It starts off slow and thick, like syrup, winding down the front of his face until it falls over his cracked lips. Johnny Cade’s staring at me, shivering like a newborn fowl, and I can’t drag my eyes from the line of blood rolling down his chin until it stains the front of his dirty t-shirt. “L-look, I’m sorry man, I-I can just head to the Curtises, their door’s always open-”

The Curtises were mighty good people, and poor Johnny Cade would probably be better off with them, instead of some kid runnin’ his old man’s bar, but he’d already come all this way. My hand caught the damp collar of his denim jacket when he began to step off the porch. He tried to fight, to get outta my grip, but it was kinda useless. I don’t think he weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

My eyes catch on the burning red light of the neon sign when I pull Johnny inside, ignoring his protests when I finally fling him towards the middle of the floor. I really should get around to fixing that sign- the one you can probably see from Kansas with Merrill’s & Bar glowing through all hours of the night. The Hotel part fizzled out four months ago and I ain’t in any rush to climb up there and fix it. The last time I tried doing my own handiwork was with the help of Mr. Curtis Senior, and I ended up falling off the roof.

He ended up missing his youngest son’s Christmas concert ‘cause he drove me to the hospital, too. I think I still owe his wife for those Christmas cookies.

Despite the humid temperature, Johnny doesn’t stop shivering. His teeth clack together over and over again, like Sylvia’s nails drumming against the bar whenever she wants something. “You ain’t walkin’ all the way there the way you are,” I chuckle as I wring out the rag I’d chucked in the sink. It’s by no means clean, but I don’t think it’ll give him an infection or anything. With a wave of my hand and my eyes fixed on the dishes in the bottom of my sink, I beckon Johnny Cade over like a shepherd. “Clean yourself up, alright? Have some water, too. I got aspirin upstairs an’ you can sleep in Dally’s room. He won’t mind.”

Dallas can bitch and moan all he wants about me letting this kid sleep in his room, but I ain’t changing my mind. Johnny stands there, looking around hesitantly before bringing the rag to his nose and lips. I nod to him before climbing the stairs and catching sight of the ugly, red, fluorescent lights once more.

Maybe I should just scrap the Hotel & Bar altogether and change it to something more fitting- like ‘Merrill’s Place for Runaway Youth’. Dad ain’t coming home for a couple months, Lord knows the Curtises are already feeding more kids than they can afford, while I’m sittin’ here with an extra bedroom and some of my old man’s wisdom to spread to today’s hoodlums.

[sophie-i-guess13]

A Wannabe

|Words: 612|

|Characters: Dallas Winston, Buck Merrill|

|Genre: Hurt/Comfort|

|TW: Underage drinking, implied/referenced child abuse|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato 

I trusted you just about as far as I could throw you that first night. You hit me with your car and kneeled over my body in the streets, pleas and what I’m pretty sure was begging rolling over your lips. I really hated you then, but I wasn’t stupid.

You knew Tulsa a helluva lot better than I did, and I was a twelve-year-old kid, still wearing his old man’s bruises like they were something to be proud of.

I was proud of them; wore them like medals as I prowled the streets, showing I’d fought with guys a lot bigger than you and walked away. But like I said, I was twelve and stupid. It was there, in the passenger side of your souped-up ride, that you told me stupid would get me killed.“’Specially in a dump like this, with no one to watch your back,” you said. Christ almighty, you sounded like such a redneck, it took all I had in me not to laugh in your face right then and there.

That’s all you were, really. A wanna-be. I realized it when you took me to your 'house’. It’s a bar, still in your daddy’s name, with his picture hanging on the wall next to the dusty bottles you were forbidden to touch.

I realize it when you dragged me along to my first rodeo for the “true experience,” as you called it. God, you’re an idiot. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that we had fun that day. I’d been used to sneaking in and out as I pleased, but the creaks and groans of your humble abode still throw me off guard. You say that’s how you know I’m back. “I don’t stay up for you, kid. Christ, you think I care about you or somethin’?”

Lie about it all you want, Buck, but there’s a reason you’re in my bedroom, dragging a wet cloth around the fresh cut under my ribs. Rumbles aren’t a big deal here – not now that I’m older – but you still go on squawking like a goddamn chicken whenever I push your napkins to my bloodied shirt. You say you don’t want me bleeding on your floor since it “lowers the property value” but I don’t buy your bull. You comb right over all my other scars and bruises, I’m glad you don’t gape at them like the guys would.

“Stop moving, dipshit, you’re making it worse.”

I wash my words down with the bottle of your daddy’s Jack. You’re nearing twenty-two (in three months), but you’ve finally realized he ain’t coming back for you. I probably coulda told you in a nicer way, but you were kinda being a dick so I’m not about to apologize for it.

You’re a lot of things, Buck Merrill. A wannabe.

You’re a wannabe cowboy, with your dirty old boots and belt buckle big enough to use to shine your teeth.

You’re a wannabe hood, with your moonshine festering in the basement and chew staining the inside of your lip.

You’re a wannabe brother, as you press the third bandage onto my ribcage and pull back when I wince. You curse just as bad ad I do, vexing every Soc that had ever tried to pick a fight with me.

“I was fine,” I mutter into the bottle. My voice is hoarse and dry, but I look away before you cluck your tongue in disapproval and drench my side with more antiseptic.

I can lie all I want, but I don’t think your that much of a wanna-be anymore. At least, not with one thing.

You still can’t ride a bull worth shit.

[sophie-i-guess13]

Not Part of the Plan

|Words: 379|

|Characters; Buck Merrill, Dallas Winston|

|Genre: Fluff|

|TW: N/A|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato 

Summers in Tulsa are meant for three things, and three things only; girls, beer blasts, and rodeos. Nowhere in the list does it mention wandering into the Dingo, dragging a manipulative twelve-year-old with me.

He's twirling his straw between his fingers, waiting for the waitress to come back with our orders. Our table is bare, for the most part, except for the half-a-million bloodied napkins as I try and keep my blood inside my mouth. Across from me, leaning back against the red upholstery, Dallas wears his scars and bruises like a medal. His eyes latch onto mine in an instant, colder than the blade that guy had against his throat fifteen minutes ago. "Would you stop lookin' at me like that?" He snaps. "Didn't your momma ever tell ya your face would stick?"

"Didn't yours ever tell you not to pick fights with guys twice your goddamn size?" I snarl back. I don't regret it -- not until I watch him shrink back a bit in his seat and tear at the paper wrapping on his straw. "I mean, really kid, you think you were gonna take 'em on with a bottle? They had knives for Christ's sake!"

I hear the patter of shoes against the linoleum as the waitress returns, plates of burgers, fries, and two cokes on the tray she's carrying. "Rough day?" She asks between sideways glances at Dallas and me. He avoids the question by digging into his meal like he'd never eaten a day in his life (he's a scrawny little bugger from NYC, this is probably the first meal he's had outside of the bar.) Still, I nod and try not to wince when my tongue ran over my teeth. "Yeah, guess you could say that."

It isn't until the waitress has left after shooting me a quick glance and a smile, that Dallas laughs. "Christ, you really are a dumb hillbilly, aren't you?"

I shoot him my meanest glare, but I think my black-eye and swollen nose kinda ruin the effect. "What now, kid?"

Shaggy blonde bags fall across his face, giving me a moment of reprieve. "She was flirtin' with you, dipshit."

At the same time my jaw drops, my tooth chips in half.

Not what was supposed to happen in August.

[sophie-i-guess13]

Blood Versus Water

|Words: 1408|

|Characters: Sylvia, Buck Merrill, OC”s|

|Genre: Hurt/Comfort ig?|

|TW: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Alcoholism|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato  

The house hasn’t changed since the last time I’d been here- a couple months ago, back in May. It’s still in desperate need of new shingles, planks for the broken porch step, and a new paint job. The flakes of chipped white litter the yard, landing in the unkempt grass beside the dying flowers Aunt Carol planted when I came over.

She said she’d plant Orange Milkweed ‘cause it was native to Oklahoma, said they could withstand the summer, and she wouldn’t need to care for them. That’s all Aunt C really cared about- especially after living on the East side her whole life. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it looked pretty and stayed out of her way.

If those flowers were already wilting, I could only imagine what was going on with the girl inside.

“Was wonderin’ when I’d see you again, come on now, get inside.”

I catch the doorknob between my fingers as Aunt Carol pushes it open and turns her back to me immediately after. For being Dad’s sister, she really doesn’t look anything like him. It’s a mystery if they’re full siblings or if ol’ Mr. Merrill wasn’t as faithful as he’d promised at the altar back in the thirties. I can smell something burning as I step over the threshold and catch sight of my aunt tossing some hair back over her thin shoulders. “How’s work been?” She asks, words all slurred together until I can barely make sense of her question, “bring me anything?”

I know it’s wrong to say you hate your family, but Aunt Carol makes it so fucking easy. I’ll admit, I’m just as much to blame for her problems, though. She’s let me stay with her ever since her brother decided being a parent wasn’t his forte, and I had to be grateful for that. I was grateful for that. Then, once I looked old enough to stand behind the bar, Dad came back and filled me in on his ‘money-making ways’.

Maybe thanking my aunt for all those nights I spent on her couch with moonshine and a few bills wasn’t the best idea, because now shit like this is all I hear when I decide to darken their doorway once more. “I’m just here lookin’ for Sylvia,” I say, dragging my eyes around the six-hundred square feet I can see without stepping too far into her mess.

Gary was Aunt Carol’s second husband, and about as unpredictable as the bulls down at the rodeo grounds. Some days, he was husband of the year, spending his paycheck on everything that needed fixing, and then some. Other times, he took off for days at a time. Maybe weeks, if we were lucky. I liked him about as much as I liked his wife.

Well, I guess I can’t say that- since they ain’t even married, but he’s Sylvia’s daddy and all. Aunt Carol’s still wearing her first husband’s name around her finger like a neck full of pearls, raking in the spoils of being a ‘veteran’s widow.’ She won’t tell anyone he was a twenty-something year old kid who got on the wrong end of a rifle in boot camp, though.

“That man,” Aunt Carol huffs between a puff of her cigarette and scrubbing the caked-on grime in her sink. There’s a bitter laugh coming from her direction as the water runs still, her back still turned to me. “Couldn’t handle his little girl comin’ home late and took off. Serves her right- she shoulda known better than to come home dressed like that.”

I hated my aunt for plenty of reasons, but hearing the way she let Syl’s name fall out of her mouth topped the list. I turn my neck to the left, just enough to catch the door to Sylvia’s bedroom- and the signs she’s taped to its surface- in my peripheral vision. Light is scattered across the floor, leaking in from the gap between the carpet and the oakwood. “She’s been sayin’ your sick,” I mention casually. Aunt Carol doesn’t turn around, or even glance in my direction as I cross the floor and rest my hand on her daughter’s doorknob. “Gary treatin’ you alright?”

“It ain’t me you’ve gotta be worried about,” she scoffs. Ash trails from the end of her cigarette, dirtying the dishes she’d just cleaned in an attempt to look like a decent human being. “Sylvia’s puttin’ him through the wringer.”

I’ve learned to take everything she says with a grain of salt. Not even a grain anymore, more like a few cups full. So, I knock the back of my hand against my cousin’s door. ���I can take her for the night, let you tidy up and calm down.” I don’t doubt that Sylvia can be a handful from time to time, but I do doubt the idea that Gary had nothing to do with pushing her over the edge in the first place. Aunt Carol doesn’t say anything. Maybe she’s glad I’m getting out of her hair, maybe she’s finally choked on her smoke.

Maybe she’s been growing something other than Milkweed, if you know what I mean.

I couldn’t care less about what’s finally made her shut up though, not when the door finally swings open and Sylvia darts towards the door before I can get a good look at her. The hot summer air races through the mesh fabric of the screen door, messing Sylvia’s hair as she loops the laces of her converse around her fingers. Neither of us bother giving Aunt Carol any explanation as the door flies open and I fish my car keys out of my pocket.

“What’s that all about?” I ask once we’re settled into the front seats of my car. Sylvia doesn’t answer me, but I’d been expecting that. I can’t see what Gary was so upset about, now that she’s wearing a pair of shorts that almost reach her knees and a sweatshirt of mine from my freshman year of high school. The only two things that don’t fit the picture are the silver necklace hanging from her throat and the toilet paper bunched up in her fist and held against her nose.

I’m not going to ask her about it; I know better than that. The best I can offer her is a spot on the floor of my bedroom if she ever needs it, and she’s already told me it’ll be a cold day in hell before she willingly touches the floor in that place.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that,” she groans as the car lurches forwards. “Really, it don’t even hurt that much.”

My fingers ache as they wrap around the wheel and steer towards the green light a few feet ahead. Beside me, Syl’s turned her eyes back to the window, watching all the houses we pass. “That’s kind of a shame,” I mutter quietly, “I hear a chocolate milkshake’s one of the best remedies for a bloody nose.”

“That’s why you came over, you needed to bring me to DQ with you so you don’t look like some lonely loser?”

She sounds a little nasally, and her words don’t hold nearly enough venom, but at least she’s talking to me. That’s a good enough way to tell nothing’s broken. “That was my first idea,” I say as I pull into the parking lot. “But now, I wanna know what you’re doin’ with Dally’s necklace.”

I barely have enough time to shift gears before she’s thrown her door open and sped off across the cement. “Sylvia Marie,” I call after her, “we’re talkin’ ‘bout this, he’s a thug!”

“Buy me a milkshake first, an’ I’ll tell you anything you want!”

She pauses at the door, blonde hair still flying across her face and shoulders in the wind. Despite the bloody rag held against her nose and gleaming silver saint pressed against her skin, she’s smiling. Smiling at the idea of getting a milkshake, smiling at the thought of being out of her house, smiling at the idea of avoiding her mother for the next day or two.

Smiling at me.

I know it’s wrong to say I hate my family- especially when all it seems to do is shrink, but I can’t find a place in my shriveled heart for Aunt Carol and her husband. I’ve only got so much room, and I think Sylvia occupies it all.

[sophie-i-guess13]

Devil In Disguise

last time I post a fic tonight I promise <3

|Words: 842|

|Characters: Sylvia, Buck Merrill, Dallas Winston|

|Genre: Once again, I have no idea|

|TW: Referenced child abuse if you squint|

Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato 

It’s the ugly bickering and casual strum of a guitar that drags Dallas Winston out of bed and down the hall, not the hot July sun bleeding through the pitiful excuse for curtains hanging in ‘his’ bedroom.

No one had really called it his bedroom, but who else would it belong to? It isn’t like Mr. Merrill came around, and it isn’t like Buck was hiding any more kids under the floorboards or something. The stairs groan louder than the voices chewing into each other as he creeps down to the main floor of Buck Merrill’s bar, just to see the thin, lanky cowboy drag the back of his hand across his face while looming over a girl.

She’s pretty, Dallas doesn’t have to get any closer to realize that. Her eyes are much deeper than that of the boy in front of her, like fresh soil in the fields a few miles past the city limits. Her hands are caught on her hips, index fingers with short, painted nails wrapped in the belt loops of a hand-me-down skirt.

Her lips curl like a piece of burning paper, only at the edges, deep enough to leave lines and dimples on her cheeks and under her eyes. “Watch yourself,” she teases, each word hanging in the air thicker than the stench of festering moonshine. “Just admit you’re angry I’m makin’ more money than you, and step aside.”

The stranger doesn’t turn her gaze to the staircase, still trapped in late morning shadow as Buck forces the heels of his hands to his eyes, head tipping back, and cowboy hat tumbling to the ground as blonde bangs sweep across his forehead. “Your momma ain’t sick, Syl,” he groans tiredly, “now would you quick tryna swindle my customers?” He drops his hands to his dirty jeans, wiping his palms before tilting his chin down, back to 'Syl.' “I know they ain’t fixin’ on wastin’ their pay on your new lipstick-”

“How’d you know about my momma?” She snarls. She reminds Dallas of the ghosts he left in New York then and there. Like the end of a burning match, her smile crumbles to ash, leaving a dark stain on the wooden floor. She looks like the empty shells wandering the concrete, loose hair wrapping around her shoulders in excuse for a jacket, more bruises circling her wrist than the bangles hippy chicks were so into these days. “It ain’t like you’ve seen her, anyway,” she mutters through her teeth as one hand moves to her hair, twirling an auburn lock around and around. The other hand has moved to her back pocket, curled tightly around a wrinkled stack of bills.

She’s vicious, pacing the floor like a rabid dog, eyes colder than a razor’s edge. Her tongue darts out between her teeth for a second, wetting her lips before freezing in place. “You headin’ to the rodeos after lunch?” Buck asks suddenly, his voice soft enough to nearly disappear amid the sounds of anxious feet and Hank Williams’ guitar. She nods stiffly and drops her hand from her hair, letting it trace the doorknob she’s about to twist instead. “With Kathy. She said that Mathews boy is gonna be there with the Curtis kids, y’know, the ones with the weird names?”

He must realize fighting with her is like pouring gasoline on a grease fire, praying for the flames to die before the bar burns down instead.

“You go hustle some kids your own age, ya’ hear? I don’t wanna see you comin’ round here again,” Buck calls to the wind as Syl steps out, catching sight of white-blonde hair and the boy beneath it for a fraction of a second, and giving a fraction of a wave in return. “Your roommate’s awake.”

That’s the first time Dallas meets Sylvia. It’s a warm morning in July, and she is absolutely furious at the man Dally would later learn, is her cousin. It starts when Buck ushers the boy towards his car, muttering under his breath about the morning’s events, and giving a swift slap to the shoulder when the younger boy gets the nerve to ask, “who was that chick, anyway?”

“That chick,” he grumbled back, “was my cousin. Her momma and my old man, they’re brother and sister. Tried keepin’ her in line after her daddy took off- you can see how well that’s goin’.”

Dallas Winston and Sylvia would always be described as a disaster. As compatible as a jerry can and a lit match, they could only go for so long until someone got burned.

But, on a boiling July afternoon when Buck was too busy talking himself out of trouble to notice the wallet missing from his back pocket, and Sylvia was too busy stirring her coke in the bottle with her straw to notice cold blue eyes fixated on her, none of that seemed to matter.

She was hell in three-inch heels and he was a boy, back breaking with the sins of his past.

Tulsa never stood a chance.

[sophie-i-guess13]

what’s one thing about that AU that u always want to talk about but never seem to get to ? i have nothing specific in mind, just want to hear anything u want to share about it since it’s cool (understatement of the year)

I freaking love you omg /p

I think I’m getting better at writing their relationship as time goes on, but I’m really trying to write Dallas and Sylvia’s relationship as a friends-with-benefits kind of situation. It’s kind of like they were both kids that had somewhat sucky lives and just found away to cope (albeit, in their own toxic ways) with it? If that makes sense?

Like sure they care about each other, but would they consider themselves a couple? Plan an actual future together??? Not at all.