A/N: OK, seriously, there's no excuse for taking so long with this. I had some computer issues--the new one didn't want to receive documents from the old one, so I had to figure out a different way to transfer all of my writing--but truthfully, I just haven't really been in the mood for writing anything lately, and I really had to struggle to get this finished. Finish it I did, though, and I made it extra-long too as a peace offering. (Please don't kill me?)

When Tim woke up the second time, he was half-squashed underneath a certain limp, sleep-pliant body. He just lay there for a little while, too lazy to make any real movements, but before long the restlessness got to be too much for him.

Carefully, Tim maneuvered himself out from under Dally—who, miraculously, didn't wake up, even when Tim slid out from under his arm and it thumped down onto the bed—and struggled into a sitting position, with his back against the headboard.

Feeling the urge to have a quick smoke, he leaned across Dally's sleeping form and grabbed the (by this point more than a little squashed) pack of Kools lying on the nightstand. They were Dally's, but he doubted the other boy would miss one or two…

Sliding one from the rapidly emptying pack, Tim grabbed his jacket from its usual spot—hanging on the bedpost—and dug his matchbook out of the right-hand pocket. He lit up, then stretched out on the bed and opened the window so he could tap the ashes off the end of his cigarette without them getting all over in his sheets.

Releasing a sigh, he glanced over at Dally's sleeping form. The tow-headed boy looked deceptively angelic when he was sleeping, lips slack and features relaxed, skin pale and smooth. Tim noted with no small amount of surprise that Dally's face lost its dangerous edge when he wasn't making a conscious effort to look mean--if Tim didn't know better, he'd think that Dally was innocent, still a kid. Good thing he did know better. Dally hated being underestimated by people, and he hated being called a 'kid' even more.

God, it felt so surreal to be sharing a bed with Dallas Winston of all people. If he could've picked who he fell for, it sure as hell wouldn't have been Dally. He was cocky, argumentative, and a total asshole, not to mention the fact that he was a guy.

But, a tiny voice whispered in the back of his mind, he's gorgeous, isn't he? Sex on legs, with that blond hair he refuses to grease and those perfect blue eyes. And he's tough and he makes you laugh and he's about as close as you're ever gonna get to finding somebody that can actually understand what kind of shit's going on in your head.

Alright, so maybe his subconscious could've found someone worse to be attracted to than Dally. There was no fucking way he was in love with him, though. No, none at all. It was just lust, animal magnetism or some shit like that.

There was no way he was in love with Dallas Winston. No fucking way.

When Tim finally got sick of sitting around (and not watching Dally sleep, because that would be just plain pathetic and definitely not the kind of thing a tough hood would even consider doing) and smoking his way through Dally's last pack of Kools, he headed downstairs. Thankfully, it looked like both his mom and step-dad had left for work already. They'd left their dirty breakfast dishes in the sink, and the keys to his step-dad's truck, which were usually left on the counter by the fridge, were gone.

Shrugging to himself, he padded over to the fridge and rummaged through it in search of something edible. He was so engrossed in his search for something to eat that he didn't even hear the steps creaking as someone came downstairs.

"Mornin', Tim," Curly muttered as he walked into the room, eyes still at half-mast like he was fighting off the strong urge to go back to bed and sleep for a few more hours. He slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs and laid his head on the table with a groan.

"Christ, my head hurts," he moaned into the wooden surface, voice a little hoarse.

Tim snorted. "I'd be shocked if it didn't, with the way you were actin' last night. You were fuckin' soused," he replied, shaking his head. To be honest, he was surprised Curly was awake at all; his kid brother was not a morning person (which was the one thing, besides their hair, that all of the Shepards seemed to have in common) and even when he wasn't trying to sleep off a massive hangover he usually slept in as late as he could on the weekends. It was a rare thing to see Curly up before noon on a Saturday or Sunday.

"Yeah. Me and Pete and Alex had a drinkin' contest. I won," Curly replied, a trace of smugness in his voice as he got to his feet and made himself a bowl of Cheerios. Instead of using milk, though, he poured orange juice into the bowl with the cereal. "They're a coupla pansies."

"You're a pansy."

"'Least I don't stay home on a Friday night." He said it like it was some sort of unforgivable crime.

"'Least I ain't dumb enough to go anywhere when I'm sick," Tim shot back, taking a long swig from his beer can. "Unlike somebody I know." He sent Curly a pointed look.

Curly scowled into his cereal bowl, jabbing at the soggy mess with his spoon. "It was one time," he grumbled, "and I was hardly even sick when I left."

"Yeah, well you were sure as fuck sick when you came home."

"Whatever, Tim," Curly grumbled, getting up and dumping the remains of his breakfast in the trash. Leaving his bowl and spoon in the sink, he stalked out of the room. (Not too heavily or loudly, though—he still had a killer hangover.)

Not even eighty feet away, Dally woke up to an empty room. Still half-asleep, he rolled out of bed and grabbed his cigarettes off the bedside table. Shaking the pack, he was momentarily confused to not hear anything sliding around inside. Then it dawned on him; looking inside, he saw that it was empty. Swearing, he muttered, "That bastard oughta get his own fuckin' cancer sticks…"

Jamming his feet into his sneakers, he stepped out into the hallway and went downstairs quickly. Hearing someone banging around in the kitchen, he walked as quietly as possible over to the front door and slipped outside. Shutting it softly behind himself, he started off down the sidewalk. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him forcefully that food was, indeed, required to live. Grimacing, he started off in search of somewhere to get breakfast, preferably a breakfast he wouldn't have to pay for. (Translation: anywhere where he could get away with stealing whatever he ordered.)

It wasn't until later on that morning that Tim managed to find Dally. He'd been looking for him for a couple of hours already by that point, but--and wasn't that how it always seemed to happen?--it wasn't until he gave up that he actually found him. He'd been wandering down the alleyway between Spencer's Discount and a seedy-looking bar (although that wasn't saying much, since every bar on the North Side was pretty seedy-looking) when he happened upon the shorter boy leaning against the wall, having a smoke. Where he got the cigarette from Tim had no clue--he'd used up the rest of Dally's pack earlier that morning, before the blond boy woke up--but, knowing Dallas, he'd probably jumped some poor kid and stole his smokes. Dally glanced up when he heard footsteps approaching, but when he realized who it was he averted his gaze and took another drag on his cigarette.

Narrowing his eyes, Tim walked up to him. "So, what was with your little disappearin' act this mornin'? Not even a 'goodbye' or a 'thanks' or nothin'?"

"Nope," Dally muttered, flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette.

"Well, fuck you then. I shoulda known better. God forbid Dally Winston sticks around for anything when he can run away from it like a scared little kid," Tim snapped, his irritated expression deepening into something far colder and harder to read. "Is that what you do?" he demanded harshly. "Run off whenever you can't deal with what's goin' on? Huh? Tell me, is it?"

Dally dropped his Kool to the ground and, not breaking eye contact with Tim, ground it out with the toe of his sneaker. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, away from the wall that he had been leaning against, and kept on walking until he was less than a foot away from the other boy.

"You listen, and you listen good, Shepard," he began coldly, hard blue eyes like chips of ice as he spoke. "I ain't some goddamn broad you can walk all over and I sure as hell ain't a fucking sissy, either. I ain't a girl, so you. Don't. Treat. Me. Like. One," he spat out, glaring ferociously, teeth bared in something very animalistic that closely resembled a snarl. He reached out and gave Tim a shove, not hard enough to make him take a step back but plenty hard enough to make his point.

"Don't you worry, I won't," Tim said, his voice just as icy as Dally's. "Not unless you keep on actin' like one, anyways."

"I'm just as much of a man as you are," Dally continued angrily, as if he hadn't even heard the other boy's reply, "Hell, I'm more of a man than you are."

Tim clenched his jaw angrily, biting back a vicious retort. Arguing with Dallas Winston was like trying to set up a ladder and climb to the moon—you could try all you wanted, but it was never going to work. It was better just to let him think he'd won the argument, whether or not he actually had was beside the point. Dally was as bull-headed as they came; trying to get him to see someone else's side of things was damn near impossible. Tim was good, damn good, but he was no miracle worker.

Instead, he met the shorter boy's gaze, surprised but not overly so by the stubborn fire he could see burning there, and gave a jerky, reluctant nod.

It wasn't much, but it was the best Dally was going to get. Arguing with Dally was pretty much useless, but that didn't mean he was going to swallow his pride and let Dally have everything his way.

"I know you ain't a girl, Winston," Tim ground out, taking a slow step closer so that Dally was forced to crane his head back to keep eye contact with him.

His tone took on a slightly joking quality as he added, much less seriously, "You'd be missin' some real important parts if you were." He held up his hands and gestured at the tow-headed boy's distinctly flat chest, making a crude motion like he was cupping a pair of breasts.

Dally smirked, more because of the ridiculous-looking gestures Tim was making than because of what he'd said. "Nah, I'd just look more like you."

Tim immediately ceased his air-groping and scowled at the shorter boy. "Dally, hate to break it to ya, but I'm older and taller than you. I'm the guy here." He couldn't help it; he knew it was just feeding the beast, but he couldn't bring himself to keep his mouth shut. Dally was in for one hell of a surprise if he thought Tim was going to be the chick.

Shaking his head, Dally gnashed his teeth and took that one last step closer to Tim, so that he was pressed up against the black-haired boy from chest to mid-thigh. He slid his arms around Tim, and then, quick as lightning, moved one of them to reach up and grab hold of Tim's curly black hair. Smirking viciously, Dally yanked the other boy's head down none-too-gently and smashed their lips together, rough and fast, almost desperate in his haste.

He forced Tim's mouth open--not that Tim was fighting it or anything, he was getting just as much enjoyment out of it as Dally was--and shoved his tongue inside, exploring every corner and crevice before biting down—hard—on the older boy's lower lip. The coppery tang of blood hit his tongue, and he pulled back sharply. Tim, panting for air, looked down at him with a hungry expression on his face.

Smirking, Dally released Tim's hair, disentangling his fingers from the soft strands with a little difficulty, and took a step back, out of Tim's reach. "Who's the man now?" he sneered, then turned and walked away, deliberately not looking back.

Scraping together the last vestiges of his composure, Tim belatedly called out, "Still me!"

Dally didn't give any sign that he had heard him, though, and just kept walking, a definite swagger present in his step.

It was almost two days before Tim saw Dally again. The blond had spent most of that time at the Slash J, exercising the horses and irritating the stable hands and just generally making a nuisance (albeit an occasionally helpful nuisance) of himself. He usually stopped by at least a couple of times a week, to keep up his riding skills and (although he wouldn't admit it) to spent a little time with the horses.

There weren't many things Dallas Winston liked, aside from the obvious—smokes, booze, action, and, apparently, Tim—but horses were definitely one of them.

His favorite horse—in other words, the one he spent the most time babying—was a bay Quarter Horse stallion that went by the name of Shan. (His real name—the one the announcers used at races and rodeos—was Shanahan Dancer, but Dally never called him that. It was too long, and besides that, he liked the sound of 'Shan' better.)

Coincidentally, or maybe not so much in this case, Shan was also more than likely the most ill-tempered, ornery horse in the whole of Oklahoma.

He and Dally went together like fish and water, so it was really no surprise that it was Shan's stall the blond-haired Greaser was in when Tim stopped by in search of Buck Merril, who could often be found at the Slash J when he wasn't throwing a party or trying (usually unsuccessfully) to pick up a broad.

Stalking down the isle, his footsteps echoing loudly in the mostly quiet barn, Tim headed for the office at the far end. Glancing inside, he saw that it was empty and cussed under his breath, turning away to storm back out to his car.

"Goddamn it, Merril!" he growled, kicking at the door of the nearest stall.

"Christ, Tim, what's got your panties in a knot?" Dally snorted, appearing in the doorway of a stall across the isle. Tim jumped, startled. He hadn't realized there was anyone else there. He hoped Dally hadn't seen his reaction; the blond would pounce on that moment of weakness like a starving cat on a mouse if he even suspected that it had happened.

"Fuckin' Buck Merril," he answered irritably. "Been duckin' me for the last week. The bastard owes me money." He shot Dally a dark look and added, "Money he probably gave to you."

"Me?" Dally asked innocently. That right there was a dead giveaway. Tim had known him for years, and the only time he had ever heard that particular tone was when Dally was trying to lie to someone. Dally just didn't do innocent, not unless he was trying to get away with something, and anybody that had talked to him for more than half a second—or hell, even really looked at him for more than half a second—would know that. "No clue what you're talkin' about, Shepard."

Something big and brown appeared over Dally's shoulder, crowding into the doorway behind him. It turned out to be Shan, butting the blond hood on the shoulder with his nose, demanding attention with all the imperiousness of a spoiled child that has never heard the word "no" before.

Fighting back a smile—for some weird reason, Shan's antics always made him grin; maybe it was kind of like how parents always thought their kids were the most adorable things ever even when they were making a mess and crying up a storm and getting their grubby little paws into everything—he reached up and stroked the horse's neck.

Tim watched the motion in surprise—he'd had no idea that Dally liked horses. Sure, he knew he rode them and stuff, but not that he actually cared enough to spend time with them and pet them and shit. Hell, from the looks of things Dally was fonder of the goddamn horses than he was of Sylvia! He certainly seemed to enjoy spending time with them more, judging by the small but genuine smile that had crept onto the blond's face despite his attempts to disguise it as a scowl.

"Look, just, y'know, tell him I'm lookin' for him if ya see him, OK?" Tim sighed, pushing all thoughts of Dally and fondness to the back of his mind. He could think about that later, when he was in the privacy of his own home. Preferably in his room with the door locked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll let him know," Dally muttered, rolling his eyes. He slid his hand up to rub behind Shan's ears, and was rewarded with a snort and some seemingly random ear twitching from the dark brown stallion.

Tim's eyes followed the motion of Dally's hand, now absently rubbing behind Shan's left ear, and he wasn't surprised to see that Dally's knuckles were scraped up and swollen-looking. He was used to seeing them like that--Dally got in way too many fights, and his hands were always pretty busted-up looking afterwards. It was the first time Tim had ever really noticed how Dally seemed to have no concept of the pain caused by his injuries, though. He wasn't being careful at all about bending his fingers, and he didn't even flinch when he dipped his hand down to scratch under Shan's chin, despite the pain the motion had to have caused him.

Frowning, Tim shook his head. What the hell? Since when did he give a fuck whether or not Dally was in pain, or notice how he handled it? God, he really was going soft. He never used to give so much as a second thought to things like that, about anybody, except maybe his family, and now here he was contemplating Dallas Winston's knuckles. Pathetic.

Tim cleared his throat and said, "Alright then," awkwardly, half a beat too late because of his impromptu inspection of Dally's hands.

"...yeah," Dally answered after a pause, flushing a little when he realized how awkward and lame he'd just sounded. He couldn't think of anything else to say, though, so he kept his mouth shut. Tim stood there for a moment longer before turning abruptly and heading back out to his car, completely skipping the whole "goodbye" part of the conversation.

Dally watched Tim walk away, feeling--for some inexplicable reason--like there was a humongous butterfly crashing around in his stomach.

The sound of Tim's car roaring to life reached his ears, announcing the older boy's departure, and he turned his attention back to Shan, who was making it abundantly clear that he hadn't liked having to share Dally's attention for even a few minutes. The bay stallion tossed his head impatiently, the look in his dark eyes reproachful.

Dally shook his head. "What're you all worked up about, ya spoiled brat?" he muttered, stroking the horse's silky neck. Shan just snorted loudly and pawed at the ground with his hoof.

Cracking a grin—a real one, not the bitter-parody-of-a-smile kind or the wolfish one he used when he was trying to pick up a broad—Dally gave the fiery stallion's neck one last pat and left the stall to go get his tack. The weather was perfect for going riding.

Two hours later, Dally shouldered the Curtis's screen door open and strutted inside, letting it slam shut behind him. Steve and Soda looked over at him from the couch, where they were watching TV and, judging by the smears of chocolate ringing both of their mouths, eating cake.

"Hey," Dally said by way of greeting, "Either of you guys up for catchin' a movie or somethin' later?"

Soda and Steve both answered at the same time.

"Sure thing, Dally."

"Alright."

The two younger Greasers looked at each other and grinned, reaching out to twine their fingers together on top of the couch cushion between them.

Dally made a face. "Jesus Christ you two're sappy. Lemme know when you're done givin' each other puppy eyes and shit, OK?"

Averting his eyes from the lovey-dovey display in front of him, he stalked into the kitchen and went to get a beer. He wasn't really all that thirsty, but it was an excuse to leave the room. (Not that Dally needed an excuse to do whatever the hell he wanted…) He didn't want to watch Soda and Steve act like lovesick girls around each other—on top of the fact that it kind of weirded him out, for some strange, stupid, infuriating reason it made him think of Tim.

More accurately, it made him think of how he and Tim had acted like a couple of blushing virgins around each other only a couple of hours previously, blushing and smiling dopily and just generally making total idiots out of themselves.

It was unacceptable—Dallas Winston was smooth, charming, cool. He didn't blush and he didn't feel awkward and he sure as hell didn't get tongue-tied. Yet, that was exactly what had happened.

Shaking his head in disgust—if anybody got wind of the way he'd been acting lately, and especially the reason why he'd been acting like such a pussy the last few days, his rep would be totally and completely shot to hell—he grabbed a beer can out of the fridge and popped the tab on it.

He took a long swig, welcoming the slight burn as the alcohol made its way through his mouth and down his throat, but wincing slightly when it made contact with a small cut on the inside of his cheek. He'd gotten in a fight earlier that morning on his way down to Buck's place, where he'd been planning on hijacking his car for the day. He'd whaled on the other guy something fierce, taking out all of his frustration over the whole Tim situation on him. The guy had gotten a couple of swings in edgewise, though, hence the small gash on the inside of his right cheek from where it had "gotten caught" between his teeth and the other guy's fist. (Unfortunately, he'd learned later on that trying to hold the reins right with swollen, bruised-up knuckles was pretty damn hard. It hadn't stopped him from taking Shan out for a run, though—since when had pain ever stopped Dallas Winston from doing anything?)

Leaving the beer can on the kitchen table, he cut himself a piece of chocolate cake—it looked like Soda and Steve had really gone to town on it; the plate it was on was already almost empty—and ate it leaning against the counter, dropping cake crumbs all over the place.

Thankfully Darry wasn't around to bitch at him about making a mess. (Darry was about the only person, except for Tim of course, that had the guts to ream him out if he did something to piss him off.)

He was just finishing it off when Pony came wandering into the kitchen, empty cup in hand, and headed over to the fridge. "Hey kid," he said.

"Hi Dally," Pony mumbled back. It was obvious he wasn't paying a whole lot of attention to the conversation; he was too busy digging around in the fridge and muttering things to himself under his breath.

Deciding that trying to have any kind of interesting conversation with Pony at the moment was kind of a wasted effort, Dally dumped his plate and fork in the sink—somebody would end up washing them later, he really didn't care who as long as it wasn't him—and reluctantly went back into the living room, hoping fervently that he wouldn't be walking in on anything he'd rather not be witness to.

Thankfully, it looked like Steve and Soda had finished up with their sickeningly sweet display of affection and were slouched on the couch watching the Perry Mason show. He eyed them both from the doorway for a minute, waiting to see if anything was going to happen that could possibly trigger his gag reflex (or any less-than-innocent thoughts about Tim, he was trying to avoid both scenarios) before deeming it safe to go sit by them.

The two lovebirds were hogging up the whole couch, so he flopped down on the floor and stretched out on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows so he could watch TV without getting a massive crick in his neck.

"So Dal, whatta ya been up to?" Steve asked, faux-casually.

"Whatta you care?"

"What? A guy can't even ask a goddamn question anymore?"

Dally rolled his eyes at Steve. "Shut your trap, Randle." He added grudgingly after a long pause, "Headed down at the Slash J, worked the horses a little bit. I ain't been down there as much 's I shoulda been lately."

Steve raised an eyebrow at him. "Shoot, since when d'you care what ya should be doin'?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "And here I thought you went around tryin' to break rules."

"Rules are for sissies and broads," Dally sneered in response. "You a sissy, Steve?"

Steve just rolled his eyes, used to Dally's standoffish attitude. "Don't even go there, Dally. I'm about as much of a sissy as you are." He smirked.

Dally bristled, narrowing his eyes dangerously. Steve was his buddy, sure, but that sure as hell didn't give him any right to go around calling him a sissy. 'Nobody calls Dallas Winston a sissy,' he thought to himself furiously.

Of course, his second thought, right on the heels of the first, was that, impossibly, Steve had somehow figured out his feelings for Tim, and for a second he was paralyzed by worry. There was no way he could've, though… was there?

'Stop worryin' over it like some upset broad, there's no way he knows anything.' Still mentally berating himself for being an idiot, he shot Steve a squinty-eyed glare and rolled over onto his back. "If I wasn't too lazy to get up right now, I'd belt ya one for that," he growled. "I ain't no fucking sissy."

"Yeah, well I ain't one either, so don't be callin' me one," Steve shot back crossly. His tone was hard, but there was an anxious look in his eyes—as tough as he was, he knew that Dally was tougher, and if they really got into it Dallas could probably kick his ass, injured or not.

"Hey, would you two mind shuttin' your traps? I can't hear what he's sayin' with all this racket," Soda cut in before Dally could snarl out a reply. He pointed (rather unnecessarily) at the TV. "An' I wanna know how it ends."

Steve rolled his eyes but slouched a little and turned his attention back to the TV screen. Dally grunted irritably, twisting his neck at a funny angle in an attempt to watch too without going through the extra effort of rolling back over onto his stomach again. All that did was give him a crick in his neck (and rub his still not-fully-healed head wounds against the carpeting, which was definitely a less than pleasant sensation) though, and he gave up after a couple of minutes.

He must have drifted off to sleep or something, because the next thing he knew, he was being nudged awake. Groaning, he pushed himself upright and slid backwards to lean against the couch.

Somewhere behind him, Two-Bit laughed. "Golly, he looks like a little kid, don't he Soda?"

Dally whipped around to glare at the amused redhead, but his sleep-puffy eyes and wild, all-over-the-place hair didn't do much to help him in the intimidation department. Not that that really worked on Two-Bit, anyway; out of everyone in the Curtis gang, he was about the only person (besides Darry) who could stare Dallas in the eye without any outward signs of nervousness. Even Steve, who made it a point to mouth off to people, was a little mellower when it came to arguing things with Dally. Everybody in the gang went out of their way to keep from pissing Dally off—when he got mad, things turned ugly. Mouthing off to Dally would be just like trying to pick a fight with Darry; just plain stupid and it pretty much guaranteed a busted limb or two.

His glare turned into a grimace, though, as soon as he tried to move. His thighs, not used to riding for such long periods of time (he'd been slacking off lately and hadn't been down at the stables as much as he should've been) twinged with pain as he sat up. Grabbing the arm of the couch, he used it to haul himself to his feet. Muttering a few choice words—the majority of which were frowned upon in polite company—Dally hobbled around behind the couch and headed towards the stairs, intent on answering the call of nature.

He'd just finished up and was rinsing his hands off when footsteps sounded on the stairs and Darry came walking in, sweaty and tired with streaks of grime all over his clothes, arms, and face.

"Oh, hey there Dally," Darry said, nodding.

Dally nodded back, murmuring a quick, "Have fun at work?" in reply.

Darry grimaced, holding up his grime-and-sweat-coated arms for Dally to see. "Oh yeah," he said sarcastically. "Tons."

Dally chuffed a laugh. "Yeah, I figured. How in God's name do you get so filthy, though, bein' a carpenter? I mean, it's just wood and shit, ain't it?"

"You'd be surprised," Darry began, turning on the water and sticking his hands under the warm spray.

He didn't get to finish, though; just then Soda came wandering into the bathroom, frowning to himself. "Have either of you guys seen my comb 'round here anywhere?" he asked, picking up a pair of jeans that were lying on the floor by the hamper and checking the pockets. "I can't find it."

"Nope," Dally said, just as Darry answered, "Haven't seen it."

Soda left without another word to them, mumbling to himself, "Where in the blazes could it be?"

A few seconds later footsteps sounded outside the door and Two-Bit poked his head in. "I ain't missing out on any top-secret important discussions in here, am I?"

Darry laughed. "Nope. You just missed Soda, though. He lost his comb." He shook his head in exasperation. "I swear, if that boy's head weren't attached he'd probably lose it."

Two-Bit grinned. "Oh, you mean this comb?" He held up a slim black hair comb, dangling it between his thumb and pointer finger.

"Lord, Two-Bit. You makin' it a point to make off with everything that's not nailed down?" Darry snorted.

"Of course not!" the rusty-haired Greaser exclaimed, looking affronted. "You still got all your dishes and silverware, don't ya?" He grinned, leaning up against the door frame. "I ain't tried to walk off with those yet."

"Yet," Dally shot back pointedly, rolling his eyes. "And that's only 'cuz you wouldn't be able to eat here anymore if they didn't have nothin' to cook with."

Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow at him. "True," he conceded.

"Alright, you two. Outta here. I gotta wash up," Darry cut in. "Unless you wanna sit at the table with me smellin' like this."

Both Two-Bit and Dally grimaced and left the room quickly. The quicker Darry got showered, the better.

A/N: Again, I'm sorry for the extremely (!!) long wait. Chapter 9 is partially underway--I've got about 1500 words for it so far--so it should be out fairly soon. I'm not going to promise a particular day (or month...) though, since I'm apparently pretty bad at keeping my word. :P

Thanks for sticking with this, despite the horribly irritating author and once-a-century updates.