~Cicada~ Johnny Cade x male reader

Oh, Steve!

A/N: I don't know shit about cars.

         I got the boys' food out to them within 10 minutes. I may or may not have told the cooks that they were special friends of mine...but that's beside the point. I grabbed all of the plates and balanced them in my arms (without dropping any, surprisingly), and walked over to their table. "Hello again boys," I say, "I'll cut to the chase. I'm carryin' all of yer shit in a way that I can't move my arms without yer food fallin'. Take what's yours and I'll be back with your drinks." I smile sweetly in contrast to the informality and slight vulgarity of my sentence.

          They all grab their respective plates, then I speed back to the kitchen to grab their drinks. It's already time for my lunch break, but I decided I'd finish waiting on Pony, Johnny, and Dally, then just sit with 'em for my break. I dash out of the kitchen with four drinks (one being my own, a nice hot coffee because I didn't have time to drink any this morning) and bring them to the table. Then, I flop into the booth next to Johnny.

"What're you doin', (Y/N)? Aren't ya workin'?" Johnny asked.

"Yeah, but I'm on lunch break."

"Oh, okay."

          "So, (Y/N)," Dallas began, "I think Johnny's eyein' our waiter. Think you could hook'em up?" Dallas snickered evilly. I laugh and Johnny turns red. "Oh, cut it out, Dal..." he mutters sheepishly. I pat him on the back. "It's okay, Cicada. I betcha I could get ya his number if you wanted," I joke. Pony chimes in, "Yeah, Johnnycake. I'm sure (Y/N) is a great wingman! He could probably get y'all two together." The two boys on the other side of me and Johnny burst out in laughter.

          Once they calm down a little, I take a pen out of my apron pocket and grab a napkin, then write my home number on it three times. I rip it into three pieces and hand it to each one of the boys. "For real, though. If you ever need me fer somethin', just call me. Or show up at my place. My door is always open."  They all took the piece of napkin and crammed it in their pockets.

          Eventually, they all finished their food and I still had 45 minutes of lunch break left.  Ponyboy suggested we stop by the DX again to kill time. I agreed, but only because I wanted to annoy the living hell outta Steve. I love that guy dearly, but he sure is fun to mess with. Dallas leads the way, and I realize that we probably look like a no-good gang of hoods. We were all slouching as if our spines had been removed and replaced with awkward shrimps, and our hands were shoved in our pockets. We didn't care, though, as long as we looked tough.

         Finally, we arrive at the DX. I notice Steve outside working on a car. I wave the
boys away and say, "Y'all can go ahead and go in. I'll be out here for minute." To my surprise, Johnny opts to stay out here and annoy Steve with me.

+5 Respect

          We go over beside the car he's workin' on, a nice '65 Plymouth Barracuda (don't come at me, I literally did five minutes worth of Google research), and I say in a playful manner, "Heyyyy Steveeee..." He reluctantly slides out from underneath the car and looks at me with nervousness in his eyes. "(Y/N), the hell are you up to? You only have that tone of voice when yer looking to start somethin'..."

         Johnny chuckles as I feign hurt. "How could you ever think such a thing!? So rude, and here I though we was friends!" He just stares at me. "Anywayyys... what's a fine piece 'a man like you still doin' the hard work out here for?" Steve rolls his eyes and groans. "Here we go," he whispers.

"No, no! I'm being serious! They should promote you to a more visible position! Capitalize off'a yer pretty face, y'know?"

"My face ain't purty, it's tough."

"Don't be ashamed, Stevie, tough boys can be pretty too."

"Shut yer trap so I can work."

"Oh right. On this...alienoid mustang?"

           Steve tenses. He goes to open his mouth to correct me, but Johnny cuts him off before he can even speak. "Actually, I think that's a modernized Shelby Cobra," he jokes. "I don't know, I think I got it right." If anything bugs Steve, it's  when people fuck up the types of cars. He's a real car fiend. And right now it looks like he's gonna explode. Then, he suddenly takes a breath and calms down. He mutters, "I'm not gonna let some punk kids get me all riled up." Steve slides back under the car. I turn my head to make eye contact with Johnny, then smirk devilishly. He looks at me confused. What he doesn't know is that I have one last way to get under Steve's skin.

          You see, I believe I have already mentioned that Greasers pride themselves on seeming both iterations of "tough".  Well,  not long ago I created the most cringy, corny, un-tuff nickname for him to use as a last resort. I've only used it once before, and it didn't end well for me. I still have the stitches in my arm from where he tackled me to the gravel. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I shoot one last look at Johnny, as if telling him to get ready to run, which he does.

"Why would you be gettin' riled up, Stevie-Boo-Bear?"

          I heavily cringed while saying it, but I have no time to dwell on that because Steve suddenly forces himself out from underneath the car. "shIT- RUN JOHNNY CADE!" I scream, turning around, grabbing his hand, and pulling him behind me. "YOU LITTLE SHITS ARE DEAD, YA HEAR ME!?" Steve shouts, chasing behind us. "WE'RE THE SAME AGE, STEVIE!" I yell one last time before shutting my trap and pulling Johnny along behind me even faster.