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It wasn’t something Tim had seen coming.
And maybe that was on him, because God knows everyone else knew it was going to happen. Everyone else had been ticking off the days since the moment he had started the gang; and thinking about it, about all the it’s only a matter of time’s and he’s a lost cause’s, God had probably put a fucking hourglass over his head that everyone could see but him.
Curly had never been like him, even Tim saw that; and looking back at it, he’d never been like anyone in the gang. Even Jimmy– who was always a few steps behind the rest of his guys– was more of a gang member than his baby brother. Tim still tried to make a man out of him, though, he tried so fuckin’ hard and each time was just a bigger let down and another excuse. Curly had always been too reckless and wild; and it wasn’t a gang type of wild, where you’d jump a kid just for the hell of a story to tell. It was a different kind, a stupid kind, where you’d take any risk– the more life threatening the better, according to Curly– just to show that you could. Curly Shepard was a prideful kind of reckless; where his ego had always been a little too big for his brain, and nothing pissed Tim off more.
But looking at him now, stretched out on the hospital bed with a tiny machine showing the unsteady beats of his heart, Tim couldn’t find any trace of anger in his body. At Curly, at least, but he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the fucker who did this to his brother.
A thick bandage was wrapped around his torso where the bullet had gone in. There hadn’t been an exit wound, and Tim had sat in the waiting room for an excruciating 3 hours while the doctors tried to get every fragmented piece. He’d passed the time watching people come in and out, some happy and some not, and he wondered what the hell they had to worry about, because he doubted their brother was laid out on some metal table with his life in the hands of people that would normally look down on him if they saw him in the streets. He’d smoked in the chapel and walked aimlessly around the halls and finally, a few minutes past two in the morning, the doctor sauntered into the waiting room with a pity filled smile and a weak “the rest is up to him.”
At first Tim wanted to fucking punch the guy in the face because, really, it doesn’t make sense to study your ass off for 8 fuckin’ years and then leave the rest up to an 18 year old kid. And he almost did, but Danny sensed it the moment he stood from his chair and sprang into action, grabbing Tim by the shoulder and dragging him outside for a smoke.
But that was four hours ago, and Danny had since left Tim alone in the room with Curly. God knows where Angel is; no one had been able to get in touch with her all night. Tim wanted to do a number on her, too.
He was tired, though, and sitting in that hospital chair was the first time in five years that he didn’t want to be a leader of a gang. He didn’t want to have to keep a group of rowdy greasers in line, didn’t want to fight over turf or broads that he really didn’t give a shit about. All he wanted was to be the big brother that Curly needed.
He’d been too hungry for power before to see it; but now, looking at the unusually pale skin of his brother, he recognized that everything that had happened was his fault. And he hated it, and he spent an hour praying to a God that he never believed in that if Curly could just wake up, he’d make it all right.
It was weird seeing Curly like that, with dark bags under his eyes and every scar glowing under the bright lights in the room. Like this, Tim couldn’t see the dimple that appeared in his cheek when he smiled, or the wrinkles around his eyes when he laughed, he couldn’t see any laugh lines or anything that made him Curly, but instead just scars and bruises and everything that made him a hood.
At 6:31 in the morning, Tim took a deep breath and leaned forward, gripping Curly’s arm tightly in his hand.
He took him in again, clenching his jaw at the way Curly’s chest would stop moving for too long before resuming.
“Listen, kid,” Tim cleared his throat, looking away from his body and out the window. Outside, the sun was just peeking over the tall buildings, illuminating the sky with pretty colors. Tim could feel God laughing at him.
“I need ya to hurry and wake up, Curls,” Tim’s voice was raspy and thick, worn from smoking a whole pack in just a few hours, “You gotta tell me who did this, and we’re gonna get ‘em back real good.”
In a tested move, Tim shook his arm roughly, but Curly showed no sign of waking up or being somewhat coherent, and Tim could feel anger boiling in his stomach.
“I’ll make it right,” He continued, eyeing the scar on his arm from getting stitches when he fell off of the telephone pole. The memory made Tim smile grimly, wishing he could just go back to the day his little brother would do anything to look tuff.
“I swear I’ll make it right, but you can’t fuckin’ go like this, Curly,” Tim’s nails dug into his brother’s arm, and his tone was catching a bite to it, “Not like Dally did.”
Speaking Winston’s name after three long years caused a weird taste in Tim’s mouth. After him and the Cade kid died, and the middle Curtis got shipped off to Vietnam, shit had calmed down on the North side. The gangs realized the kind of game they were playing between life and death, and though they wouldn’t admit it, everyone had gotten a fraction more cautious.
But then grass and smack had made it’s way into the Tulsa streets and the Tigers and the Kings jumped at the chance to make money. Tim kept his boys busy lifting hubcaps, not wanting to fuck with drugs, and he swore that if he ever caught Curly smoking it he’d knock all of his teeth in.
His brother had just rolled his eyes and shook his head, swearing that he didn’t even want to try it.
Times like those is when Tim was real fuckin’ proud of Curly, when he felt he at least did something right with him. And maybe he wouldn’t grow up to be a rich soc with silver spoon bones or a white picket fence, but at least he wouldn’t throw his life away to drugs.
Beside him, there was the sound of a hitch in Curly’s throat where his breath had gotten caught. Tim’s eyes shot up to his face, a new hope forming that maybe he’ll see those cold blue eyes that had scarily gotten just like his. He thought back to the day he’d caught Curly practicing guarding his eyes in the mirror of their bathroom. He looked like an idiot, and Tim told him as much and made of him for the rest of the night; but over the course of two years, the kid had grown to look colder than half the greasers on their turf.
But instead of opening his eyes, Curly’s head just fell to the side, and his chest rose one more time in a shallow breath. His arm tensed slightly under Tim’s grip, and he released it like he had been burned.
He wanted to call for the doctor, wanted them to come and fuckin’ do something and help his brother. But his voice was caught in his throat, and for the millionth time it was just Tim that was there to help his baby brother, but for the first time there was nothing he could do.
At 6:56, the heart monitor flatlined, and Curly Shepard died.