Disclaimer: I don't own the Outsiders or "Fire" by Bruce Springsteen.

xxxxx

". . . you had a hold on me, right from the start/a grip so tight I couldn't tear it apart . . ."

Dallas dragged her into the house, one hand gripping her arm and the other clasping the gun.

Jane was huddled in the living room, crying and hiccupping miserably. When she saw Dallas, blood-stained and holding a gun, she started to scream.

“Shit,” Dallas said and tossed the gun aside. It hit the floor with a loud clatter and Laura glared at him for tossing a loaded shotgun around like a beach ball. Dallas shook his head at her, then turned his attention to Jane, holding his hands out to the little girl to show her he was harmless. Laura rushed over to her sister to comfort her.

“Shhh, my little angel,” she said, picking up the small girl and pointedly ignoring Dallas’ amused snort. She paced with the child, and slowly, Jane’s cries trailed off into sniffles.

“What are we going to do?” Laura asked.

“Stash the gun and lay low, that’s what we’re going to do – but first you’re going to stitch me up,” Dallas replied, gesturing to his bloody abdomen, which was still steadily oozing blood.

Laura felt as if she was going to be sick.

“I’m not a doctor, Dallas,” she replied.

“If I go into a hospital like this, they’re gonna want to know what happened and then it’s the cooler for me,” he said, trying to keep his tone even and reasonable with this frustrating girl. It wasn’t easy though. “It don’t matter that they started it – their rich daddies will spread the cash around and I’ll be left holding the bag,” he continued, his voice becoming bitter.

“I’ll try my best, Dallas,” Laura said softly.

Dallas nodded and followed her into the kitchen. Laura was somewhat hampered because Jane clung to her leg as she tried to walk.

Dallas shrugged off his jacket and grabbing the neck of his shirt in both hands, ripped it from throat to navel, revealing a deep gash that started from just below his left nipple and continued toward his right hip disappearing under the edge of his shirt.

Laura blushed and Dallas smirked at her.

She turned and busied herself with fetching a clean rag, some peroxide, a needle, sturdy black thread and washing her hands.

Jane sat at the kitchen table watching the proceedings solemnly.

“Okay,” she said, turning around and handing him the rag she’d dampened in the kitchen sink.

“What the hell is this for?” He shook the rag at her.

“You’ve got to wipe all that blood up,” she said, trying to hold down her gorge at the thought of it.

“I can barely move with the pain, and you want me to scrub myself,” he said in a disbelieving tone.

“You were moving fine a few minutes ago,” she snapped.

“I’m dying here and you’re worried about your modesty,” he retorted, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, give it to me,” she said, snatching the wet cloth from his hands. She quickly began sponging him off, averting her eyes and blushing furiously. She was so angry with him she could feel hot tears pricking at the back of her eyelids.

“How can you tell if you’re getting everything if you aren’t looking at what you’re doing,” Dallas asked in a reasonable tone.

She glared at him but he only smiled at her challengingly.

Grimly, she continued sopping the blood from his chest. Luckily for her the bleeding seemed to have stopped. She tugged at the tattered remainders of his shirt, trying to get at the bottom of the wound, then sighed when she realized he’d have to take the shirt off. Realizing her predicament, Dallas quickly pulled the ruined shirt over his head in a smooth movement and sent it flying into a nearby trash can.

“Better?” He asked, smirking.

“You’re moving rather well for someone who’s supposedly in terrible pain.”

“Hey, just trying to make life easier for you.” He shrugged.

She attacked the crusted blood on his hip, rubbing harder then necessary.

“Ow!” Dallas protested.

“Now what’s that, compared to the pain you are already in?” She asked him sweetly.

“You don’t need to add to it,” he growled threateningly.

She sighed and shook her head over his childish behavior as she went to the sink and rinsed the rag. Watching the pink water swirl down the drain made her gag. She washed her hands again, trying to keep her lunch down.

“Time for the peroxide,” she said cheerfully, liberally dousing the rag in the stinging anti-stringent. She then cleaned the cut but looking inside Dallas’ body, seeing the muscle beneath the skin in a way she had never hoped to see it, made her woozy.

Dallas hissed as the peroxide started bubbling furiously but held still for her administrations.

Laura threaded the needle and looked at it dubiously.

“I don’t know if this will work.”

“Same basic principle,” Dallas replied, shrugging.

“This is going to hurt,” she said nervously.

“Got any booze?”

“No!” She replied, scandalized.

“Close your eyes, kiddo,” Dallas advised Jane, who obeyed without question.

“I’ve never done this before.”

“No shit,” he sneered.

“A fine attitude to take with someone who’s about to put a needle in your flesh.”

“Just do it,” he commanded.

Grimacing, she gingerly poked at him with the needle.

“Goddamnit,” he growled, wincing. “Just do it and quit messing around, willya?”

She took a deep breath and passed the needle through the lower edge of the wound.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she yelped.

“What are you yowling about?” He said between gritted teeth. “I’m the one with a needle sticking outta his side.”

She took another deep, shuddering breath and drew the needle through the upper edge of the wound. She pulled gently and trembled as the thick black thread forced the injured flesh back together.

“Ahhh,” she whimpered.

“Finish it – fast,” he hissed between clenched teeth.

She began to move quickly, passing the needle and thread through the lower edge, then the upper and pulling the two sides together.

He threw his head back, the cords in his neck strained with the effort not to yell. His eyes were mostly closed, only a flicker of white showing at the bottom. His lips were clenched so tightly they nearly disappeared.

She pulled the last stitch through and made a thick knot, clipping the thread with a pair of kitchen scissors, which she promptly tossed in the sink to be washed. She then washed her own hands before leaning against the kitchen sink and examining the neat black stitches that marched across the flat plain of his stomach.

“Glory,” Dallas said, shakily releasing a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Are you alright?” She asked, concerned.

“I look like Frankenstein’s monster and I hurt like hell – what do you think?”

“I don’t think it looks all that bad,” she said, offended, but he had pulled his jacket on and was zipping it up over his bare chest.

“You got a case for the gun?”

“Upstairs,” she said, still stung by his earlier remark.

“Get it,” he ordered.

She stared at him mutinously for a moment, before leaving the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned with the shotgun and a soft black leather case. She quickly broke the breach, removed the two shells and snapped the gun shut, checking to make sure the safety was engaged before zipping it into the case. She slipped the two shells into her skirt pocket.

“How long have we been here?”

“About twenty minutes,” she answered.

“Shit,” he replied, thinking for a moment. “The cops’ll be here any minute. I’m going over to the Curtis’ for a minute. I’ll be right back. Lay low and don’t answer the door for anyone but me,” he said as he walked quickly to the doorway.

“How am I supposed to know if it is you?” Laura said forlornly to the empty house.

She started to put away the needle and thread and other things she had used to sew up Dallas.

After a few minutes, Dallas returned.

“I’ve got Two-bit’s car,” he said. “Let’s just hope the damn thing doesn’t crap out on us.”

He hustled the two sisters to the door, picking up the cased gun on his way. As Laura and Jane climbed into the car, Dallas tossed the gun into the trunk and slammed it shut.

They started down St. Louis Street in silence before Laura started to cry softly.

“Stupid broad, what am I gonna do with you?” Dallas asked, looking over at her.

She turned away trying to hide beneath her hair.

“Hey,” he said softly and she looked up at him, her eyes large and brilliant with incipant tears.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he promised, brushing a hand gently over her cheek.

She turned her face toward his hand, rough and hard – more comfortable making a fist than comforting a frightened girl – and he cradled her cheek in his palm.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he repeated.