Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One week and absolutely everything had changed. One Soc with a command to give him a bath, and everything had spiraled out of control. Coming home wasn't exactly easy, and the rumble complicates it further when Dallas drags him up from the muddy ground, and drives him to the hospital, ranting at him the entire time about not being like Johnny about toughening up. He remembers feeling almost sick; so many alphas all around them, jacked up on adrenaline and pheromones. Ponyboy and Soda were the only omegas in the fight, as Dallas' anger gets worse, as his stress gets worse, he'd felt the bile in his throat mixing with the uncomfortable thought that Johnny was going to die. Johnny would die.

When the cop had found them, escorted them to the hospital, it was all Pony could do than to moan in pain. His head was swimming, his stomach was in knots and when Dallas grasps him by the waist to help him up, the cool touch against his warm skin made him shiver. Despite the wave of hostility coming off of him that seemed strangely more than before, it felt good.

They made their way to the hospital, and Dallas had the switchblade out in his hand. Every breath he takes seems ragged, drawing Ponyboy closer to him as if he needed him there, as if he were to let go, things would spin more out of control than it already had.

"You don't," Ponyboy tastes blood in his mouth when he talks, wincing, "Don't need that."

Dallas ignores him as the doors open, grip firm as iron on him, stumbling to the ward Johnny was in. The doctor standing there seems cool despite the way Dallas grips the knife, and his voice is just as calm, "Are you here for mister Cade?"

"Yeah," Dallas grips the knife tighter, "We want—"

"His operation is over with," The doctor tilts his head, towards them, still cool, "He's not in anymore danger, thank your lucky stars. All that's left to do is let him rest and allow his body heal." Ponyboy sways beside Dallas, out of sheer relief at the words. "I think that you two need more medical attention than he does right now."

Dallas sneers in response, grip inexplicably tighter on Ponyboy's side, nails starting to dig themselves into his skin from the effort. "Nah, man. We can sit, wait."

"Dal," Ponyboy's voice is thin even in his own ears, exhausted at another wave of pheromones hitting him, "I think—I think I'm—" he shudders, the feeling of burning, hot sick running up his throat. He gags with it, the taste, then retches onto the floor in a wet mess. Dallas can barely keep a grip on him as he goes onto his knees. It's as if the entire week has caught up with him all at once, body wrenching out the stress with the vomit, throat burning, his eyes going tight with tears as he did it.

Later, he'll remember Dallas' hands in his hair the most, the way he doesn't seem too far from him the rest of that night. How protective he is — how protective he's been for weeks now, ever since they'd gone to Buck's and he'd given Ponyboy his jacket.

The rest of it becomes a blur in his head of the doctor helping him, Dallas snapping at the doctor as he does it. Going in and out of consciousness — bright lights above him, the feel of a pinch in his arm, his throat feeling sore — until he wakes up hours later, not at home but at Buck's place.

He always knows it's Buck's place: the smell of sweat, stale beer taking up his senses in lieu of the terrible country music. This time, Dallas' scent is stronger than usual, letting him know he's in the narrow, small bed Dallas always has had. Groggily, body aching the whole time, he rolls over to see Dallas himself is sitting on the other side of the room, a bandage on his nose, arm draped in his waist, eyes shut. Unlike last night, that fever pitch hostility that was coming off of him after the rumble is gone. His hair seems messy still, his jean jacket thrown over him haphazardly like a blanket. Ponyboy can still feel the bumps and bruises when he sits up, and it feels difficult to clear his throat to try and speak.

Dallas looks towards him the minute he does it, awake and at the ready, eyes sharp when they land on Ponyboy. Ponyboy keeps his eyes focused on him as he crosses the room, unable to do more than that. He doesn't know what to do or say in that moment, sure that maybe Dallas' protective streak had run out now that they'd been tended to. Johnny was safe, and they were just—

"Scoot over," Dallas grouses, "Been sleeping over there the whole goddamn night." Ponyboy wants to give a smart answer about that, but his head hurts something awful. He scoots over ask asked, Dallas sinking into the bed with a sigh. "Already called your brothers, they know you're here with me. Doc said you had a shit time and seemed easier to take you here."

"Thanks," Ponyboy croaks out, tired and still confused. He still feels like he might be running a slight fever, shivering when Dallas pulls the sheet up. "You sleep at all?"

Dallas doesn't answer, reaching over to the side to pull a bottle of pills. "Doc says to take two, and you're gonna be out awhile." He all but shoves it into Ponyboy's hands, "Gonna have to take 'em dry." Ponyboy wants to push him on it, but the pain in his head tells him to shut up and take the pills. He swallows them dry, nasty, and settles into bed beside Dallas.

He has questions. A lot of them, and yet the only thing he's able to slur out is, "Did you sleep?"

Dallas sighs, his arm comes down above Ponyboy's head. "No."

"Oughta sleep, Dal," Ponyboy slurs out. Normally, he'd have left it alone, not asked again. He knows that being mouthy with Dallas can get him belted hard or shoved. It still had felt worth asking, for getting a real answer out of Dallas. He wants to dwell on it but can't as moment later, sleep settles on his shoulders, thick and heavy. It comes without dreams or nightmares. Just blankness.

The next time he wakes up, Ponyboy feels warm. There are no aches, no pains. For a moment, he lets his mind drift over, hazy and almost unreal in the bed, satisfied and detached from reality. He thinks about the taste of chocolate cake, about Darry and Soda. Coming too feels harder than usual and when he rolls over, the scent hits him.

It comes quickly, as reality reasserts itself: he's still in Dallas' bed, but with leather jacket Dallas gave him draped over his shoulders. His scent isn't as hostile as it was before, it feels more like Dallas at his normal: aggressive, heady, and very, very there. The sleep fog is hard to think through; he can't remember when he'd gotten the jacket back again. He wriggles beneath it; some of it still smells uncomfortably like smoke, forcing him to be more alert.

The memories, he shies away from. He should want to toss it, get it away, give it back. Even as he thinks about it though, the rest of him pushes back, not wanting to totally get rid of it, fingers clinging to it as he lifts his head sleepily. The jacket had been with him since Bob had died, since they'd run away, and parting with it, even now seemed…

Ponyboy doesn't want to complete the thought.

"Dally?" he calls out. there's no answer, and Ponyboy turns around, looking for a clock. There's none to greet him.

It figures that Dallas doesn't have a clock here, and if Ponyboy had to guess, it was a little past noon. He scrubs at his eyes, stomach contracting painfully in hunger. The hunger only brings out that he still feels groggy, a little warm and cool all at once, as if his body was battling a low level fever as he gets his bearings, moving carefully to not aggravate anymore wounds he has.

There's an urge to smoke, but the smell coming off of the jacket has him reconsidering it the more and more he comes to full wakefulness. Instead, he turns around, looking for more blankets. Moving has him shivering; the room feels colder than it ought to, and there's not much to go along with the jacket. There's a flush of irritation: why couldn't his body just make up its mind?

Still, what little Dallas has (mostly shirts, a thin pair of blankets that had seen better days, and some sheets), he pulls into the bed, and as hungry as he is, he doesn't want to leave the room. He pulls them all to him, and settles back in the bed, seeking warmth. The medication still makes him feel sleepy, tired, and Ponyboy buries his nose against the sheets, inhaling carefully. The scents, the feelings it gives…

Something in him feels as if it's slotted comfortably into place. That protective little wave he got from Dallas comes back again, confusing him — why him? Why now?

Ponyboy bites his lip, brow furrowing. That feverish, tired feeling sweeps over him again, a ripple of hot and cold all at once, and his stomach feels like it's going to revolt from being so empty.

The door opens — the smell of warm, hot food comes with it. There's no noise from the bar below, empty at this time of day. He peeks up from the bed in time to see Dallas walking to him, one hand full with a bag of take out food, the other putting his keys into his jeans. He doesn't look that much better than how Ponyboy feels, and yet when he catches Ponyboy's eyes he seems to toughen up a little as if he needs to be.

Ponyboy doesn't know how he feels about that. He does know that his stomach growls in the quiet, which is enough to make Dallas walk over to him, almost impatient. "Come on, when's the last time you ate?"

"What day is it?" he sits up, but doesn't move from the bed the way Dallas clearly wants him to. It's not really logical; Dallas doesn't eat in here, that's clear with how small it is. Ponyboy doesn't want to move though, something in him feeling absolutely not pleased at the idea of leaving the bed or the room, as if doing so would be too dangerous now, too foreign.

Which didn't even make sense. This was Dallas' room, he wasn't even supposed to be at Buck's.

Dallas shoots him a confused look, "Sunday. Come on, I don't want syrup in my bed."

Reluctantly, Ponyboy sits up, sets his feet on the ground. It feels so… tepid when he mumbles out, "I don't— I don't want to go down to the bar." No, he thinks, embarrassing is the better word here. He feels embarrassed to say that, as much as every part of him wants to, needs to stay here. Right here. "Can we stay here? Please?"

He feels so small, so embarrassed to ask, expecting Dallas to make fun of him, to tell him he was being stupid. A coward, even. Not to have him pause, and say, "Sure. Just not on the bed."

Ponyboy gives Dallas a small, relieved smile. Dallas seems to hesitate, and yet returns it. Ponyboy sits beside him on the floor of the small room, and when Dallas opens the plastic containers, Ponyboy could almost cry at the sight of the breakfast food in front of him. It wasn't bologna, and it wasn't chocolate cake — it was still good. Grits, scrambled eggs, sausage, the works.

He thanks Dallas and begins to eat, feeling ravenous.

The entire time, he doesn't notice how closely Dallas watches him.

Chapter Text

Johnny is going to live. Johnny is going to be okay. Dallas knew that now, after the doctor had told them. He wasn't worried about him anymore.

The worry he felt was for Ponyboy. For all he had dragged Ponyboy to the hospital to see Johnny, terrified he was dying, he'd ignored signs. Ignored that Ponyboy was swaying on his feet, ignored that Ponyboy seemed to have lost more color and blood than normal after the rumble.

For all he had done in that week to keep them from getting the chair for killing a fucking Soc, for all he had done to hide him from his own brothers, for all he had done in order to keep them all safe, Ponyboy had ended up sick with him. He had ended up throwing up with Dallas there, no one else.

Logically, Dallas knows he couldn't have predicted any of this. He's been running on adrenaline, anger, not much sleep. The rumble had been everything he normally wanted, teeming with angry and violent alphas all at once, able to finally take out some of the constant anger he felt on them, able to exert some control over the anger he'd felt for the entire week over Johnny and Ponyboy's situation. He loved it. The violence, the anger, every flying fist, every swear, the taste of blood in his mouth, the feel of blood on his skin. He'd do it again and again, over and over. He'd keep doing it where he could.

Thing was, Ponyboy wasn't the same. It wasn't just down to him being an omega, either. He'd been the one living in a church for days, he'd been the one scared his best friend would get the chair, the one who'd been shoved beneath a fountain by some boozehound Soc who thought he was better than him. Dallas should have seen. He should have known, should have known better that when he got in the car, had looked truly bad that he should have— should have—

Here and now, in his room, watching Ponyboy sleep off the treatments he'd gotten at the hospital, something in his brain knows that's not logical. How could he have known? How could Dallas been able to tell that Ponyboy was that bad off, that overwhelmed?

They weren't that close. Or at least, he hadn't thought they were until he felt the panic, had felt Ponyboy sway and then collapse forward, retching so hard that Dallas had felt sick on his own. He had been caring for them, protecting them before and now Johnny was fine but not Ponyboy and it was his fault. It was his fault, and for the first time in his life, Dallas thinks that it's shame that's filling him as he watches Ponyboy sleep in his bed. He'd never had that before, the feeling of shame, anger at himself.

How could he not notice? How could he let it get so bad that he had dragged Ponyboy to the hospital and not thought any further than checking up on Johnny? How could he have done it and not thought to get Ponyboy help before he'd thrown up?

His teeth sink into his cheek, hard, punishing. Sleeping isn't an option now. Not until Ponyboy wakes up. Even the call to his brothers the night before had felt difficult, telling them that Pony was too injured to go home, that Dallas had him.

Even that...

Dallas stops with that thought as he hears Ponyboy stir in the bed. From there…

He's not sure what he's doing. He's never been able to stand sharing a bed with someone when he went to sleep, and here he was, getting right into bed with Ponyboy. It's a change he doesn't feel that he can accurately account for, yet he does it anyway, making sure to give Ponyboy the medications from the hospital, watching his face for any other sign that something is wrong, that anything is wrong.

Logically, it's not his fault.

Yet, as he begins to drift to sleep, he still feels as if it is.

Getting up on Sunday, next to Ponyboy only makes the feeling as if things are his fault, that he's got to fix it even worse. Normally the bed's pretty cold, and yeah, he prefers to kick people out the very next morning. When he feels Ponyboy still there, some of the worry smooths out but not entirely. Maybe it's paranoia: Ponyboy feels warmer to the touch than Dallas thinks he should be when he presses a hand against his forehead in a gesture he's never had someone to do him before, yet had seen time and time again with others.

He's never been good at taking care of someone besides himself. Anxiety — a feeling he's almost never had makes itself known for Dallas as he tries to decide what to do next. The doctor had said Ponyboy needed rest, food at the hospital and so did Dallas. He'd insisted he'd be fine because he wasn't the one who'd been half drowned and been sleeping in a damn church for a week.

Dallas would always be fine. Ponyboy, on the other hand…

He finds himself changing his still blood stained shirt out for a clean one. Washing himself up quick, pulling some of the money he had and after stealing the keys, took the T-Bird from Buck once again. It wasn't like he'd notice how drunk he was at this time of the morning. Picking up breakfast enough for at least three people seemed the right way to approach it, getting just about everything available on the menu.

The drive back is just as uneventful, and when Ponyboy fully sits up in the bed when he gets back, Dallas isn't sure why he feels so damn conflicted to see him there. Ponyboy still looks like hell — half of his face still swollen, looking pale, that bum haircut he had looking all the odder in the sunlight. The hair is so pale, it washes him out with it, causes the bruises to look all the starker against his skin, and Dallas moves quicker to give him the food he's gotten.

He lets Ponyboy have the lion's share of food between them, keeping an eye on him the entire time as he eats, looking for any indication that he's feeling worse off than before, any other sign he could've missed from the night before. He's not sure what to suggest next; even eating seems to make Ponyboy tired, despite it all and Dallas still isn't that good at well. Any of this.

Whatever "this" was.

The instinct to tell Ponyboy to stay with him the rest of the day creeps up, and he pushes it back vehemently. "C'mon, let's get you home. I bet you'd rather get back to your bed than stay here." Dallas scoops up the last of the egg with the last slice of waffle he has, cramming it into his mouth and watching as Ponyboy leans back. There's more color in his face for sure, even though the blonde hair is still clashing with the rest of his bruised up face. It's an improvement — just not enough to make Dallas feel good when Ponyboy looks at him from the corner of his eye, much like he'd done last night in the car.

Something about the look feels different from usual. Something in Ponyboy's gaze has shifted in the way he regards Dallas — maybe it was what he said in the car half believing Johnny was going to die, maybe it was how Dallas had been determined to keep Ponyboy close and safe. Whatever it is, he doesn't know as Ponyboy grimaces, the tips of his ears getting red. "I… I'm tired. I don't want to go home." Ponyboy cringes as he says it, ears getting redder by the second. "I just… I mean I know I should? I just don't. Want to." His hands twist nervously in his lap, as if Dallas is going to rebuke him at any moment. "I—I should though."

Dallas hesitates, not exactly comfortable with the idea either. It'd be a long time before he forgot the looks on Darry and Sodapop's faces the week before, before he forgot the worry they'd existed in. He'd never broken down to them — even daring to lie to Soda's face — and still, it felt sort of wrong to keep Ponyboy from them any longer, to keep him here for.... For what, exactly he didn't know. Which led to a more nagging question of, "Not that I don't like the company or nothing, but why?" Leaning back against the bed, his hand dips down, offering Ponyboy the last bit of sausage left.

"Thanks," Ponyboy takes it, chewing on it slowly, face getting that look Dallas has always seen on him when he's thinking about something: not really blank so much as momentarily absent of his own self, mind far away. It's a look that he's had to get used to over the years, and one Ponyboy didn't seem to know he made when he had to be deep in thought. He waits, taking a swig from the water he'd brought up.

The minutes stretch between them.

"I… I don't know," Ponyboy finally says, voice quiet, "I just want to stay here. I think… I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do when I get home after everything. I thought it'd be easy, after the rumble." He glances over to Dallas and then back at his hands, unable to keep his gaze on Dallas for too long.

"Easy to go home?" Dallas doesn't quite follow the logic here, willing to wait Ponyboy out on it. The kid's smart enough, smarter than Dallas will be about stuff like this and if he needs to sound it out or whatever, Dallas will let him.

Ponyboy makes a noise in the back of his throat, as if the gears were turning but not really giving him anything. "I… there's still a social worker. The— the trial, I guess." Dallas resists giving a snort at the last one — for all he cared, Bob Sheldon could stand to have been stabbed several times more and if the law really knew better, they'd be shaking Johnny's hand. "I don't know what we're gonna do and… I don't know if— if I can think about it now."

A hysterical edge tinges his last words in a way that sets Dallas' nerves on edge and instantly he finds himself responding, "Then don't, man. Stay here with me, cool off. I'll deal with your brothers." He stands up to get the pill bottle again, not wanting to look at Ponyboy as he continues, "You want the rest from it, you've still got the weekend and it's ain't like you're going back to school looking like this." He offers Ponyboy two more pills from the bottle. "Take it, get some rest. Don't worry about it."

The look on Ponyboy's face is… well. it's not really happy, really. It is, however, relieved, some of the tension leaving his face. Dallas feels better to see that. This whole damn day felt as if things were off kilter, and Dallas reaches over to ruffle the ugly looking blonde hair Ponyboy has now. "I'll be back."

Pony swats at his hand, and Dallas doesn't move until he sees Ponyboy swallow down the pills and climbs back into the bed. He gathers the boxes up, throws them away. Ponyboy is asleep in a few minutes, and Dallas takes care to move the blankets up and over Ponyboy's shoulder, to cover his neck.

His finger touches a bit of his neck as he does it. His skin is still a bit warm — but not enough to make Dallas feel bad about leaving him there. He's got a day ahead of him: telling Ponyboy's brothers he didn't want to come home yet the biggest thing and everything after that secondary.

Chapter Text

It's not a surprise that Darry levels a squint at Dallas from the front porch when he explains himself. Dallas makes sure to say just out of arm's reach, cigarette in his mouth. It figures that out of everyone, Darry is the one who got hurt the least, with only a split lip to show for it. "I don't mind if he stays with you, so long as he doesn't mess around with any of Buck's other shit."

Dallas grins back, rolling his shoulders. "He's doing more sleeping than anything else right now which is what the doctor ordered." He takes a drag from his cigarette, "And I'll keep an eye out on him, I swear. He's… I think his head's still kind of messed up from everything. Might just need a breather or something."

Darry seems to consider his words. "Sounds okay. Might not be so bad and all," he sighs. "You doing okay yourself, Dally?"

"When am I not fine?" Dallas retorts, "The kid's got more to worry about than me. He mentioned all that trial shit." He doesn't really like thinking about that either, too familiar with the system in his own way, the tricks and turns waiting for them all. "Do we actually have to worry about it now? Shouldn't they just let them off, saving kids and all?"

Darry looks older than he should in that moment, as he thinks. He and Dallas both know the system, they both know that not everything can really be accounted for, that there were always ways the system could operate to make things better or worse. Dallas inches closer then, and Darry does too, coming down the steps fully to meet him. "I don't know. The newspapers are all over the story about an omega greaser kid, making him to be a hero. But I don't know what the social worker is going to say or do. They're going to want to know how and why he got there." Darry pushes his hand through his hair, frustration evident. "We'll have surprise visits, the works. And they already didn't want to have him in my custody — now that he's presented, that he's in the paper it'll be much worse."

He wishes he could be surprised. Dallas, unfortunately, is long past that. "So playing dirty. You got a plan?"

Darry's mouth twists. "So far? Not much, asides from getting the house clean and trying to get Pony caught up. Bob's parents…" Darry's expression turns stormy, unhappy. "They're pushing for court dates as soon as possible. They've got money, power to try and get that done and there's not much we can do. Lord knows the Cades ain't gonna help out Johnny with this." He and Dallas both have already had long conversations a time or two about that. "He's not gonna walk right after all of this at the very least, and his own mother—"

"—is a cunt," Two-Bit offers, loping towards them. He's still bruised up, limping a little, and Dallas nods to him automatically, giving a wolfish grin of approval. Darry won't call her anything more than a bitch, while that's been Two-Bit's preferred word for her for years. "I got a plan there already. I talked to my mom this morning," he eases besides Dallas, passing him the beer he's brought along, even though it's barely past noon. Dallas takes a swig of the cheap beer as Two-Bit continues, "She's never liked her, and it ain't gonna be easy with her money but she wants to take him in when he gets out. Katie can move into her room, easy and Johnny can move into my dad's old room."

A grin spreads on Dallas' face, handing the beer back to Two-Bit. Darry looks surprised too, and then grins too. "Holy shit, Two-Bit. You already tell Johnny?"

"Nah," Two-Bit takes another of the beer, sucking at his teeth, wiping at his mouth. "Figured I'd surprise him later today when I go see 'im. He don't need to go back to her or his father and… it's about time someone did something."

There's no argument there. Only a feeling of relief, and as Darry questions Two-Bit more on it, Dallas considers the angle that they'll have to take for a damn trial. Ponyboy still doesn't seem to be in the best of shape still, but the pills were sure to work with the rest.

He tells them both he's heading out, and once he gets into the T-Bird, Dallas takes off, wondering what else he had to do now that Darry was on the up and up. The Socs had ran last night and yeah that was great — it still didn't mean it was all that safe to walk the streets.

That trial was coming up and no matter who hit who, the system wasn't the same as a meatheaded Soc by a long shot.

Dallas taps the wheel of the car. Considers making the rounds to see other greasers, see what people are thinking, saying. The rest of him is tired, bruised and truth be told…

He wanted to go back to Buck's. Slip into bed and get some sleep. His arm still hurt beneath the bandages, was starting to itch. He'd let Ponyboy be seen by the doctor, while he had continued on.

A sigh leaves him, and he decides just one stop is ideal. It takes a few minutes to lift whatever he needs from the pharmacy and then he's back at Buck's. Ponyboy is still asleep, still a little warm, when he climbs into the bed.

Sleep comes eventually, as it always does. He wakes up in a surprising fashion: Ponyboy nestled against his neck, Dallas' face tipped forward enough to press his nose into his hair. He inhales — Ponyboy smells so much different now that he's presented, and Dallas doesn't mind it, he finds. Sodapop always smelled oversweet to him, whereas Ponyboy lacks that cloying smell that so many omegas carry. His scent feels fresher, with just enough sweet scent to him that Dallas knows he's not a beta. He wraps an arm around Ponyboy's smaller form, and drifts back to sleep, relaxing into the bed, nose never leaving Ponyboy's hair.

It doesn't occur to him that he shouldn't feel so comfortable like this or that simply inhaling Ponyboy's scent should make his nerves that much calmer. He accepts it at the outset and doesn't think much of it.

It sets a pattern for the rest of the weekend they have together. Breakfast fit for three rather than two in the morning, going to bed soon after, and staying awake through some of the afternoon and some of the night. Dallas never takes a watchful eye off of Ponyboy in all that time. He always seems warmer to the touch in varying degrees for the rest of the days he has with Dallas, and always needs the sleep he gets. They both share the bed, with no complaints from either of them. Dallas takes to pulling Ponyboy against him, Ponyboy following, cleaving to his side just so.

He doesn't tell Ponyboy much of the news; he seems foggy when Dallas talks to him, only able to follow through every so often with his thoughts or sentences, and he makes the decision to give Ponyboy half of the pills with how hard Ponyboy seems to get to sleep. The whole time, Ponyboy hardly leaves the room to do more than use the restroom or wash up, and Dallas doesn't initiate any sort of hard conversation between them.

To him, it's obvious that Ponyboy needs the rest — and if he were being honest with himself, so did he. The week had passed by an anger, in anxiety, and it seemed to catch up all at once, pushing him down into a kind of tiredness that Dallas hadn't ever experienced before. He settles right back into the bed whenever Ponyboy does, gets the rest that he didn't get in that entire week of Johnny and Ponyboy being gone. He has no dreams, just comes back to the surface of wakefulness on and off.

He's not much for the concept of being comfortable, except that is what this feels like: being comfortable, here in bed with Ponyboy, able to actually rest without the fear of cops showing up, or being in a jail cell again or having to think about the next few days. The only thing he actually had to do was keep them both fed, give Ponyboy the medication and get right back into bed.

It's only for a few days, anyway, he tells himself, as Ponyboy sighs beside him. He tells himself not to get used to it. His arm tightens around Ponyboy's waist anyway, even as the thought crosses his mind.

Chapter Text

Normally, Ponyboy would be fine with being back at home. He wanted to come back home so badly when he'd been trapped in Windrixville. As Dallas drives up to his house, however, all that longing seems to disappear, replaced with the feeling of hesitation. The past few days had been good with Dallas, staying in his room, eating, not doing much besides resting. Dallas hadn't asked for any sort of hard conversation, hadn't wanted to go over anything from before. They'd just stayed there, not demanding much out of each other.

As if the rest of him understood the importance of rest, there had been no dreams, no nightmares. The medication submerged Ponyboy in sleep enough to keep all of that at bay, and as he looks at his house, half squinting, he doesn't exactly know for sure that it would all come roaring back if he got out and got back in —

— but he also knew that leaving the car meant things had to go forward. He had to confront the reality ahead of him and he didn't want to.

"You getting out or what, kid?" Dallas nudges him from the front, eyes flicking towards Ponyboy. He's got a cigarette between his lips, "You still live here, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess," Ponyboy mumbles, glancing towards the door. The thought of asking Dallas to take him back to Buck's feels irrationally urgent, and he clears his throat. "I... " his hand drifts to the door handle, and at the last moment, he glances at Dallas. "Can I keep your jacket?"

Dallas looks almost as surprised as Ponyboy feels for asking, then he gives a shrug. "Sure, kid. Just make sure to wash that thing." Relief washes through Ponyboy, fingers finally able to open the door. "I'll see you guys later, alright? Here," he hands Ponyboy the bottle of medication, "Don't take too much."

"I won't," he slips the bottle into his pocket, watches Dallas get the car into drive. He peels away, driving skills as reckless as they'd been days ago.

Going up the steps, into the house feels better now if a little uncomfortable. His brothers are clearly anticipating a visit, with everything cleaned up, scrubbed a bit more than Ponyboy was used to. Everything was arranged just so, making the feeling all the more uncomfortably pointed. His shoulder itches, as if the burn there knows just how to make the situation worse.

Ponyboy sets the medication in the cabinet, and with a hiss of pain, sets the jacket down in his room. The shower he takes is hot, if short, and still, he doesn't have much energy left after that. Now that he's not so isolated anymore, either, or weighed down by medication, he finds himself thinking over everything as he settled himself back into his bed with a muffled curse, wounds aggravated from the movement.

Where was Johnny going to go after this, when he recovered? How were they going to get through a trial over all of this? What was the trial even going to be like? He'd only ever seen court cases carried out over television on Perry Mason episodes and he figured Dallas getting out on bail wasn't the same thing as a murder case. There was… Bob Sheldon was dead. Johnny had—

A coldness surges through him, palm digging against his eyes, breath starting to come up short as his memory surged upwards all at once, as everything started whirring up again.

His eyes sting not with remorse for Bob, but for Johnny. Even with saving all those kids, he knew, he knew that Johnny could still get the chair for it. Worse still, at the heart of it, Ponyboy didn't even blame Johnny for what he'd done.

That night, a lot of things hadn't gone right. A lot of things had been fucked up and awful. The thing that always sticks out most though, is the fact that the Socs had looked at him with predatory eyes then, the fact they'd hissed out that they'd caught a little omega, that they had so much fun tracking him from the theater, to the park.

He'd only presented six months before — two months after his own parents had died. It had been so embarrassing, so fearful to have done it. The only omegas he'd ever known were his father and Soda, and his father was dead. Soda had helped him through it — Pony had always, always assumed he'd present as alpha like everyone else. It made sense that Soda was an omega, he was like the ones in movies and television, gentle, funny, and sweet like his dad. Of course it would be him.

Ponyboy, though? He had always thought he'd end up different, an alpha like Darry or his mother and he hadn't. The thought had never crossed his mind that he'd been omega, had never really been able to cope with the consequences of presenting this way.

His body felt like it had committed its own intimate betrayal when he presented and now… now he was so sure that being an omega had made that entire night worse. He hadn't even told anyone about all the threats coming off of Bob Sheldon and his friends, about what they'd do to an omega and a beta they'd tracked down in the middle of the night. How they had looked drunk and hungry, in a way that made Ponyboy's stomach turn with the vivid memory of it, the way his lip had pulled back, the hungry, mutinous look on their faces.

He'd spat at them, defiant, and— and—

Ponyboy lets out a startled gasp, wet and uncomfortable. He doesn't know when trying to wipe at his eyes turned into his fingers gripping at his hair, or when his breathing became shallow and upset. He just knows that they did, that it's hard to keep the tears from surging in his eyes, hard to focus on anything else but the image of Bob, of the memory of that night washing all over him again.

Ponyboy tries and tries to get himself under control. He thinks it takes an hour, all told, to breathe correctly again, to wipe his eyes and find a cigarette.

He decides that he'll take the full dose instead of a half one. Something in him simply knows that nightmares are waiting for him the moment he closes his eyes, even if he won't remember they're going to make him wake up heart racing, face stained with tears. That's the last thing he needs right now.

At least, he's right about the medication.

Slowly, he finds himself adjusting to the days home. Being back in a normal bed with Soda, him and Darry trying to get along and finding it easier to do so. Except not everything is exactly the same: the house is always so carefully clean, all of them well aware that a surprise visit could happen at the drop of a dime; they go and visit Johnny in turns and the visits aren't all that easy; the idea of going back to school feels harder the more Ponyboy recovers and even his recovery is tenuous. He feels some days as if he's running a low grade fever that won't quite leave, while some days he feels fine, able to fly down the road in a run.

The medication he doesn't pull out again. Aspirin replaces it to get a nightmare-less sleep, but even that stops working as well as before.

Two-Bit is the one who volunteers to pick up Ponyboy's school work on the days he doesn't go. Ponyboy, when not sleeping or going to see Johnny recover slowly, doesn't usually eavesdrop. Normally, he'd be bored, itching to go out — dread is settling in his stomach however day after day in one form or another whether it was the memories of Bob or Windrixville with the sound of the beam hitting Johnny or that pit of dread that had settled in him at the hospital that couldn't leave even with Johnny being well.

He's awake, halfway paying attention to his book when he hears snatches of conversation from the living room. Darry must think he's asleep; his voice is low enough that Ponyboy can't hear his words. He can, however, hear Two-Bit's. "--dunno about him going back just yet. Those Soc's are mighty pissed at him. They can't get to Johnny, but I'll bet you the moment they see him, they'll pounce."

Ponyboy's stomach makes an uncomfortable flop — and the rest of him feels defiant too, fingers tightening on the book he has. Darry says something else, and Two-Bit puts the books down. Ponyboy wants to listen for more, holding his breath. They walk further away from the room, though, and all he's left with is that snatch of conversation.

So many things flare in him all at once that he can't read the book in front of him clearly anymore. He thinks about Johnny not wanting the rumble to happen and it happening anyway; about what Randy had said to him before the rumble, the way his face looked in the car. They'd always be Socs, they'd always be Greasers. Nothing would change.

The hope that there aren't places like that in the world for him, for his brothers seems to grow fainter and fainter.

The week has Ponyboy busy on his feet, and he tries to turn his mind from it as much as he can. There's less time to consider Randy's words, to wrestle the imminent fear of going back to school when he tried to keep the house as clean as possible, to get back to the schoolwork he'd missed, and having to deal with the gang coming in and out. Sometimes it was obviously to check in on him, and that got on his nerves a little bit — sometimes, though, Ponyboy found that having company was better than being alone in the house, his nerves still a little fried.

Too, he found that the longer the days waned on, the more he felt as if he was on the urge of being ill again, feeling overwarm during the day, fatigued at times. It usually passes, and while he never reaches for the bottle of medication, the aspirin is still ever present.

The homework gets done in slow patches, mind wandering every now and then, sometimes finding that looking at it simply makes him unable to concentrate. There's worry there; he tries not to let Soda or Darry know about it, trying to keep the peace as the days go on.

Even if he wants to argue, even if he wants to push back, there's a bigger fear that they're going to be pulled apart. Ponyboy doesn't want that to happen. Everything feels as if it's hanging by a thread, like the other shoe is going to drop, and all he can do is hold his breath until it happens, keeping on his toes for the worst.

The shoe finally drops two weeks out, when he wakes to Soda shaking his shoulder frantically. Ponyboy takes a moment to blearily come to, squinting at his brother immediately recognizing that Soda was more put together than usual at this hour, his hair styled in an almost cornily nice way, eyes wide.

Soda doesn't even have to say the words: the social worker is there for a visit.

Chapter Text

The social worker is young, almost pretty with hair a burnished blonde and that's the first thing Ponyboy is thinking when he sees her. The other social worker had been an older woman, more grey haired and lined around the mouth, almost like a stern grandmother. She smiles as she talks to Darry quietly at the door, and Ponyboy is grateful that he has been making sure to clean around the house as much as possible in anticipation of her visit.

Soda looks nervous as he messes with his hair again. That he is nervous is wearing on Ponyboy's nerves in and of itself. Ponyboy had styled his hair quickly, less concerned with looking like a greaser than anything. His reflection in the mirror had seemed a little flushed in haste and he hoped that he was fine now, dressed in jeans and one of the better shirts from his closet as he and Soda sat nervously at the kitchen table.

The social worker is standing still, with Darry at the door, voices quiet. Ponyboy keeps his voice low, "How long has she been here?"

"Half an hour," Soda mutters back, glancing from him to her, leg bouncing beneath the table, "Darry got me up soon as he saw her, wasn't expecting someone else. You think that's a good sign?"

"Know bout as much as you," Pony glances up as the social worker lets out a bit of laughter, the sound just making him nervous all the more. "Is she—"

The door shuts. Both Darry and the social worker step further inside. Ponyboy knows that's their cue then; Soda's eyes flit nervously back to him, and the smile he offers is reassuring, warm. Ponyboy hopes his own warms Soda just as much, both of them standing up from the table as Darry walks in, the social worker at his shoulder.

The social worker isn't a very tall woman, and the glasses she wears seem a little out of touch as she offers her hand, "Good morning, I'm Veronica Slater. I was just chatting with your brother, as I'm your new case worker." Soda shakes her hand first with a smile that's almost like his normal one. Ponyboy follows, finding her hand to be small in his.

There's a smatter of nervousness as they arrange a way to sit at the kitchen table. Darry ends up standing up behind them, one hand resting reassuringly on Pony's shoulder for a moment, before he draws back to let them look at her. She has a notepad out and a pen already, and her smile isn't exactly something that Ponyboy wants to trust, as warm as it looks. "I have some notes from my predecessor about your situation. She's retired, which is why I'm taking over your case. I wasn't sure if they had informed you before, and I'm sorry that you were surprised when I showed up this morning." She clears her throat a little, brown eyes seeming to focus beneath the kitchen light. "Due to your pending legal situation," Ponyboy swears he can feel the other shoe drop directly into his stomach with her words, "I have to assess your current living situation, and give a recommendation going forward. I've already spoken to you, Darrel, with regards to your brothers but I want to speak to Ponyboy alone, first if you don't mind."

Darry's hand circles Ponyboy's shoulder, squeezes. It doesn't help the panic he feels much — he glances towards Darry as he moves away, and it hurts for Ponyboy to remember that the last time he saw his brother in a button up shirt like this was their parent's funeral. "You can take as much time as you need, Miss Slater." Soda squeezes his other shoulder; his smile to Ponyboy is meant to feel reassuring.

The worried look on Darry's face speaks much more.

They're down the hall when Veronica pushes forward with, "Let me start by saying that I wish I could have met you in better circumstances, Ponyboy. I understand it's never a good thing to see a social worker, particularly after an event like the one you've just had."

There's a flush creeping up Ponyboy's neck. He's grateful his fingers are beneath the table, able to squeeze his thighs, help him to reply, "It wasn't our fault," he lets the words out before he can think them through, "We were chased. Johnny did it out of self defense."

Veronica nods somberly, "I believe you. That part is not for me to give judgement on, that's for the courts. I'm more concerned with why you were out of the house that late at all. As I understand it, you're fourteen, and that was a very late time to be out, even for a weekend." The words are enough to make Ponyboy's thoughts move back to the night it happened, hands loosening. He brings them up in front of him, to keep them on the table, half afraid he'd bore holes into his thighs from the effort. "We've had a few conflicting accounts as to why you were out there and I want to hear what happened from you, if you please."

Why even say please? Ponyboy thinks sourly. He swallows, picks his words carefully. "I was out with friends that night. I got home late, and Darry and I— we yelled at each other. I got mad and went back out again." He's a good liar, he knows that, and hopes that it saves him in this moment. "I shouldn't have done it, it was over something stupid. Couldn't remember the time right."

Her eyes seem magnified behind her glasses, humming softly. "Is that an argument you both have a lot? You forgetting the time?"

"Sometimes," there had to be a trick in there, that Ponyboy couldn't find. "Usually I remember with other friends. That night I just— we just forgot is all." He watches her face, and nothing there is conveyed, except that she was listening. "It was just the movies."

Just the movies. Just the movies.

Her pen scratches something on her notepad. He feels as if the flush is growing more and more across his body. "Darrel told me you presented as an omega about two months ago. How have you been doing with that?"

The flush gets worse, the warmth climbing up his body. Ponyboy remembers the Socs trailing after him, the way Bob had looked at him beneath the moonlight, the threats. "Sodapop's been helping me," it's the quickest deflect he can think of, eyes focusing on Veronica's face. "He's the only other omega I know." The sour, bitter feeling he carries at his own dynamic taints his words as he says it, and he hopes she doesn't pick up on it, hurrying on, "I've been okay."

Veronica nods, pen scratching more. "I'm glad you have a brother who can relate to your experience, Ponyboy. I understand it might be hard with your environment, to have that dynamic in small supply." Her voice is gentle, and still Ponyboy wants to pick apart her words, figure out where the hitch is. It makes his heart race, unsure if he can trust her, feeling automatically defensive with her words. "I also see that you've skipped a grade; do you have any plans going forward?"

That's… not something he anticipated. Ponyboy shrugs with one shoulder, suddenly off kilter. "I was… just planning on going to college. Maybe something in English is all, since it's my favorite subject and all."

Her nose wrinkles, the laughs she gives sounds more genuine with the little soft snort she gives. "I have to ask! I know not everyone knows at this age. I didn't." Ponyboy gives a cautious smile back. "It's not a bad thing to not know yet, or be unsure."

A moment of silence, genuine silence settles over them.

"Well, I believe we're finished here," Veronica finally says, easing the tension, "Could you ask Sodapop to come in?"

Trying not to let his surprise show, Ponyboy nods, pushing from the table. "Yes, ma'am."

Soda looks like a deer in the headlights for a moment, sitting in their bed, Darry beside him just as nervous. Ponyboy wants nothing more in that moment to hug them both, and he puts on his bravest face. "She wants to talk to you, Soda. In the kitchen."

Soda takes a deep breath, gets up. Ponyboy watches him go down the hall. Finally, he takes a seat next to Darry.

He can tell Darry wants to ask what went on, he wants to help out. Ponyboy doesn't talk; he leans on his older brother's shoulder instead, to give him comfort instead. Darry's head falls on his, and Ponyboy pulls him into a hug. They clutch at each other like they had in the hospital, and Ponyboy swears, again, that they won't fight anymore. The thought of separation is too great, and he knows better now, that Darry could never really hate him — and he couldn't either.

He remembers, too, what Darry had said. That he thought he'd lost Ponyboy like they'd lost their parents. Regret, love, wells up in him, and he holds on even tighter to Darry than before.

They don't hold on for too long, and they don't try to speak much as the day drags on. It's the same when Veronica has Soda ask for Darry — he and Soda simply end up smoking the same cigarette, blowing the smoke out of their open window.

Then, the door shuts, and Veronica is gone.

Relief floods Ponyboy, slumping onto Soda, who leans back against their bed. They both can hear Darry slump onto the chair in the living room, and Ponyboy hopes that's the last they'll see of the social worker for now.

The urge to apologize wells up in him, this being all his fault. That flushed, warm feeling invades him again.

"You okay, honey?" Soda's hand presses against Ponyboy's forehead. His fingers feel a little cool against his skin, and there's worry in Soda's voice.

"Just don't feel so hot with that case worker," Ponyboy mumbles out, and Soda's hand moves from his forehead. His arm wraps around Ponyboy's shoulders in a tight squeeze. He presses a kiss to Pony's hair that feels as sweet as it'll get.

"Don't worry. you're not gonna get taken from us, I promise," his voice is stronger than Pony's ever could be in this situation.

He doesn't know for sure. Ponyboy decides to believe him anyway.

They make their way out of the room. It feels like a piece of tension has finally been cut now that the social worker has come and gone. They're allowed to get the living room a little dirty, allowed to relax around each other. Lunch has Soda out the door to the DX and Darry heads out to get more groceries. The flush seems to have left Ponyboy, allowing him to try and finish up the homework left by Two-Bit.

Except, he gets bored with it quickly; doodling has more interest to him than doing the homework. He knows he should turn his attention to it, should concentrate. The last thing he should be doing now is lousing up his grades, with so many eyes on him, with so much at stake now.

And yet, when the door slams open and Dallas barks out, "Anyone home?" Ponyboy almost leaps at the opportunity to use Dallas as an excuse to not do his work.

"In here!" he looks up as Dallas walks in, a cigarette between his grinning lips. His hair looks a bit windswept, and every inch of him reads like all he wants to do is get into trouble.

Ponyboy knows better. He knows that he shouldn't grin back, and he does anyway.

Chapter Text

He's not sure what Dallas is thinking as he listens. Ponyboy glances over every so often, not wanting to miss it on Dallas' face. As stormy as he could look while angry, when he was thinking there was always something interesting. Either Ponyboy didn't know what he was thinking at all or he knew exactly what conclusion Dallas was coming to, with no inbetween at all.

This is one of those times, where he doesn't know.

When the grilled cheese sandwiches are done and the soup is hot enough, they split it between them. Dallas dips his into the soup, Ponyboy content with just the sandwiches as it was. Dallas still hasn't given his thoughts on the entire thing, when Ponyboy pipes up with, "She didn't ask about Johnny in particular. Thought that was kind of odd."

Dallas grunts, swallowing a larger chunk of the grilled cheese than what Ponyboy thought was comfortable. He flicks his crumbs deliberately at Ponyboy just to mess with him, and Ponyboy scowls. "Probably cause he's Two-Bit's problem now."

"What?"

"No one told you yet?" Dallas looks surprised, breaking off another piece of the grilled cheese. "Glory kid, thought your brothers told you. Two-Bit and his momma are taking him in." Ponyboy's eyebrows launch right up and he almost chokes on his bite of his sandwich. "That cunt mother of his didn't even put up a fight when he told her."

Quick, Ponyboy has to take a drink of water to process what he'd been told. Surprise, relief, and sheer joy seem to be hitting him all at once. His time at the hospital with Johnny hadn't been very long at all; he was always tired, trying to maneuver his way around minimally, still foggy from the drugs that he hadn't told. Or hadn't been able to. Now though…

A grin splits Ponyboy's face as he puts the water down, wiping at his mouth. "Nothing? Not at all?" The memory of Johnny begging Dallas otherwise in the car is still there, still fresh. He thought he understood how hurt Johnny would be, how much he hated the fact that his parents didn't care.

At the same time… Two-Bit's mom worked hard even if she wasn't always home. Their house was quiet, Katie was a good kid, and Two-Bit was pals, had even defended Johnny against his mother. Something about it made sense, and Ponyboy felt excited now, happy, the first real piece of unequivocally good news he'd heard in some time.

Dallas sneers the way he always does, cynical and with bite. To anyone else it'd be intimidating or ugly, and to Ponyboy, it's just the way he expresses himself, the way he had to communicate at the baseline. He's not sure when he began to think like that, when Dallas had started truly becoming a buddy to him, and well. He likes it. "Fuck no, you kidding me? She was probably grateful someone else did it. Point is, Johnny'll be with people who give a fuck about him."

Ponyboy laughs at how frank it is, and Dallas' sneer morphs into a more pointed, sharp toothed grin. Things weren't really perfect — there were still so many things looming above them, so many things that could go wrong, so many things that Ponyboy still felt unsure about, yet that sharp toothed grin, the news that Dallas delivers makes Ponyboy feel more hope for Johnny than he's felt in some time.

As they finish up, he considers asking to go out with Dallas, finding some kind of fun outside of the house elsewhere. Except that feeling comes back again, the one he had at Buck's. That Dallas was here, that he didn't want to really leave the house, now that Dallas was here.

It was strange, and sudden, and still Ponyboy says, "You wanna watch some TV? I know you ain't gonna help with homework."

Dallas laughs in reply, throwing himself on the couch. "Shit, yeah. I don't have anything else to do."

Ponyboy sits on the opposite side of the couch, his legs drawn up. He leans his head back, and the rest of the day is easy between them. There's not much on, and as the programs go on, they talk on and off about it. Some of it about the commercials or the shows themselves. Sometimes, he wants to talk about more, about Windrixville, about Johnny at Two-Bit's.

However, as the day wound on, the comfortable feeling he'd been having with Dallas just simply settles in. There's no urge to get up and do anything more than to be with Dallas, talking on and off. No urge to get into trouble or to do more. There's just comfort, and as the sun begins to sink, Ponyboy's eyes droop.

Dallas' voice says something he can't quite make out, and then he's out. There are no nightmares, no dreams. He simply falls asleep, warm and comfortable with Dallas beside him.

At least, he'd fallen asleep beside him. As he stirs to wakefulness, the sound of the door banging in his ears, Ponyboy realizes that he's tucked against Dallas' side on the couch. The television is still on, still playing, and Dallas has half an arm draped around him. In the dim light of the living room, Ponyboy holds his breath, watching him. His head is turned away, his hair reaching down past his eyebrows, almost to his eyelashes that are downward, pressed against his cheek. He's half awake, Ponyboy only able to see the corners of his mouth.

The feeling of his hand, warm and almost clutching his shoulder seems almost heavy. Ponyboy isn't sure if he wants Dallas to stay like this or not. There's a wish in a fleeting thought, for him to have pen and paper, to sketch out the way Dallas looks like this, from the sweeping of his hair to the elegance of his neck, the curve of his slightly pointed ears.

He does know that he feels comfortable in the same way he had at Buck's, days ago. Just like then, Ponyboy doesn't know how or where that feeling of comfort comes from. Nor does he want to let it go.

Warmth tinges his ears, and he settles more comfortably besides Dallas' side. He shuts his eyes again, and falls back asleep, willing to let the comfortableness wash over him, to keep it in this small moment, even if he still couldn't understand how or why it came from.

Hours later, he wakes up on the couch, and Dallas is gone. It's like a shock of cold water to realize it as he sits up, rubbing at his eyes. The television is off, the house dark. As he looks around for Dallas, tries to catch his scent, the shock works its way through him, of Dallas being gone, and Ponyboy alone.

It makes no logical sense, and yet, it takes hours to shake off the thought that Ponyboy wanted Dallas back, wanted his warmth and his company.

When had he started wanting that, from of all people, Dallas?

The thought distracts him the rest of the night, runs around his head, until Soda finally comes home after work, and they both drift back to sleep together.

Chapter Text

"Ponyboy!" Johnny's grin is the widest that Ponyboy has ever seen on his face. Never, in all his life has Johnny's eyes blazed so hopefully, his smile wide enough to light up his whole face like this. He still looks odd like this, still in the hospital bed with the covers drawn up over his legs, his arms still burned and underneath bandages. It's not a perfect sight; he didn't deserve to be in here after everything, the wires connecting him to the equipment made him all the more aware of his condition, and what the bandages signified all made Ponyboy uncomfortably aware of everything going on, the change that they had all gone under, were still shifting into a whole new reality.

In all that there is this: Johnny was alive.

He finally actually looks alive, too. For the first time in what felt like a long time, he looks like he's finally closer to the person he'd been before that night, despite the still bad haircut he had. There's color in his face, a warmth behind his eyes, a determination even though he clearly was still verging on tiredness.

But being tired wasn't being exhausted, it wasn't being on the run.

Ponyboy rushes up to pull him into a hug anyway, arms circling around his shoulders tightly, "Johnnycake! They said you was up!" Ponyboy squeezes him tighter, and when he pulls back, he is careful with Johnny's arms.

The worst visible injuries were his arms, the bandages still needing changes almost three weeks out. The scent glands were irreparably damaged; the words the doctor's said had made them all collectively wince. As much as Ponyboy wishes that Johnny could be released already, things weren't so easy. "It's easier to get up now," Johnny smiles back, and that's more than Ponyboy has seen in a long time. "Not in so much pain anymore."

It aches, though, to know that things weren't over. That happiness on Johnny's face wasn't going to last. It couldn't, not with everything going on.

Ponyboy pushes the thoughts away, sitting halfway on the hospital bed, legs swinging. "Yeah? What they say about letting you outta here?"

Johnny scatches at his cheek, where the scars from Bob's rings still remain. A wave of resentment flashes in him at the reminder. "They said I got a couple more weeks left; trying to get me walking well enough." Ponyboy chews at his bottom lip at that. "I— I already know I ain't gonna be how I was. They just want me to be able to be on my own." There's a crack in his voice; nervousness breaking up past the surface, that skittish look coming back up, an acknowledgement of the change.

There's a moment of silence between them, that stretches heavy between them. Ponyboy flounders for words to fill up the silence. It isn't like the way their silences had been before, where it was comfortable and easy, where they knew what each other was thinking and only what was necessary had to be said. No, this was different colored by so many things at once: Johnny's injuries; the incoming trial; Bob's body, still the trial; the future, irrevocably changed.

All of it is too heavy to bear, to talk in the walls of a stifling hospital.

"You think it'll be okay, at Two-Bit's?" Ponyboy doesn't avoid the conversation entirely, gnawing at a hangnail on his thumb as he looks at Johnny. He should look away, should try and give Johnny space, yet it feels important to do this. To look Johnny in the eye, to let him know he was there for him, that he wanted to talk to him on even ground. "Dal told me about it the other day."

Johnny looks nervous himself, as if he'd thought that Ponyboy would have simply dropped it. Ponyboy gnaws at the inside of his cheek, aware what it meant. That his parents weren't taking him back. He wasn't sure if Johnny knew about the confrontation between Two-Bit and his mother, or if he wanted to know about it. Or even if either of them wanted to open that memory.

"I — I don't know," Johnny admits in the quiet of the hospital room, his eyes drifting back down to his lap. His hands twists there in the covers. "I — I wanted to go home, you know? But I— they ain't gonna do right by me." His voice falters, gets quieter, hurting. "I know they ain't."

His heart aches for him. Of all people, Johnny didn't deserve this, to have to look this in the face that his parents, even in the face of all of this, still wouldn't do what they were supposed to. The thought sours inside of Ponyboy, that one of the most gentle people he knew was stuck with this, with parents who didn't love him, who didn't deserve him.

Nervous shakes start up with Johnny. Ponyboy reaches over to him, takes his hand. "Two-Bit will. His momma seems like she really knows what she's doing." He squeezes as gently as he can, mindful of the burns. "Sides, they know you. You've slept there dozens of times, it won't be that different."

Johnny squeezes back, and the smile on his face is hopeful, and yet…

They both can feel it, Ponyboy knows, the weight of the trial waiting. They would have to talk about it, have to finally confront it.

He knows in that moment that they're not going to be able to now, in this moment. They can't be, how could they be?

"You wanna— there's more to go in the book, if you want," Ponyboy offers quietly, hopeful. "I got an hour to go."

Johnny wipes at his eyes and nods. "Yeah, yeah. I still got the book Two-Bit got me." He leans over, grabbing the book, giving it to Ponyboy. Pony takes the book from him, flips it open. He nudges Johnny over, and they both lie back in the bed as Ponyboy picks up from where they'd left off in the church.

When the hour is up, Ponyboy walks back out ot the hospital, to the bus stop. His fingers pull out a cigarette from his pack, lighting it, feeling more and more that there was only so much time to ignore the trial, the future. There hadn't been a follow up from the social worker yet; and the cops…

Ponyboy takes a drag from his cigarette, urging it to calm him down. Thinking of Johnny somewhere safe, somewhere where he was wanted was a better focus for now. On the bus, he keeps himself to the front, willing himself to be small and unnoticeable. There are a few glances given to him — and when one lingers on too long, Ponyboy considers getting off before. If it wasn't him being a greaser that gained him looks, it was being an omega.

Unwillingly, he remembers the night: the alcohol being tossed on him; the feeling of those ringed hands gripping him, the threats, the insults, dirty fucking omega—

His fingers grip his thighs tighter, and as soon as the bus reaches the edge of his neighborhood, frantically, Ponyboy pulls the cord. He gets off of the bus in a hurry, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans, pulling the jacket on him tighter.

Later. He'll deal with it all later. His hands jam themselves into the pockets, and he fights to keep the memories at bay as he goes home.

Chapter Text

Ponyboy is not a coward, he never has been. He's a good man in a fight, he's spat at Socs who've tried to drown him, he's never let them pin him down without a fight, and yet all of that doesn't quite compare to how daunting it is to step out of Steve's car and onto the pavement leading up to the school. His hair is better than it was days before, some of the auburn already growing back, hair slicked up the way that identified him as a greaser, schoolbooks in hand, jaw set. Even if he knows he's not a coward, would never be a coward, and that he isn't ashamed to be a greaser, it feels as if he's stepping into an entirely different kind of fire instead of a school.

Bob Sheldon is dead. Everyone knows that now. They all think that he did it, or he and Johnny did it, and as people look at him, as voices start to turn from a dull regular murmur to steadfast buzz around him, Ponyboy feels himself stiffen up, aware of his surroundings, of the eyes on him in a way that hadn't ever felt so prominent before. Being among the general populace of the school had always been it's own peril, it's own irritation. He had just been one greaser among many to everyone else, not a greaser who stuck out even among the others in his set.

Too late, he wishes he'd asked Steve to walk in with him, or even thought of Two-Bit following him to homeroom. Instead, he has to walk, stiff, eyes in front, as if he can't hear them talking about him, as if they don't matter, as if his hair hadn't changed, as if his whole life hadn't been altered when Bob Sheldon and his drunk friends had shoved him into an ice cold fountain at night to call him a dirty omega.

Ponyboy clenches his teeth, people parting for him on either side as he rushed to his locker. Scents wash over him, and only a few are familiar as he keeps going: some greasers have come up on either side, ones he knew by faces and names and some he didn't. Ponyboy wants to chafe at it, that some of them clearly coordinated this — yet as he dodges a leg, he's grateful for it.

The first half of the day is much like that. Greasers coming out of nowhere to flank him in small numbers, Ponyboy saying hello, catching up to the ones he for sure knew but not talking about what actually happened; going to his classes, taking his seat and ignoring whatever stares or whispers he heard despite the fact that he felt as if his nerves were perpetually on edge; taking quick stops at his locker; catching up with his teachers where he could, and he takes lunch in the library, away from the prying eyes.

This is the part of day he dreads the most: his afternoon classes. In those, even before everything had happened, it was always the part of the day that he always felt a level of a dread, of needing to tense up before every move he made. Every afternoon class was an advanced class, and in those, he was not only the youngest student, but he was also the only greaser in them.

Only once had he forgotten himself, with the switchblade to dissect a frog. He'd felt every eye in the room swivel around, pin themselves to him. Remembered that girl he thought was pretty, how she had gasped, and how shitty it had felt to be suddenly reminded that among them, he wasn't the same.

Now that difference had widened, immeasurably. As if to spite him, the burn mark on his shoulder began to prick and itch as he walks into the classroom. Checking it is out of the question; as soon as he steps foot into the classroom a sickening hush descends on everyone there. It's clear that they've all anticipated him coming, clear that everyone is curious about him, that little greasy omega who killed Bob. Every single look feels accusatory, curious, demanding information, demanding attention.

Ponyboy grips his books tighter.

He's not a coward.

He takes a seat at his normal place, making sure that his eyes don't particularly lock onto anyone or anything at all when he gets there. His notebook, his textbook come out, and Ponyboy keeps himself rigid, defiant as he gets to work to take notes, refusing to let any of them push him, to let any of them know exactly how it felt here and now to be watched like this.

Even as the day wears on, as he goes from class to class, with the whispers and stares following him, Ponyboy keeps his head up, keeps his fingers desperately tight around his schoolbooks. He takes more notes than he ever has in his entire life, and the entire time, he knows that he can't let this front down, he can't let anyone know the slightest that this is painful, that this is so much to hold on his shoulders and it is only the first day of being back.

He almost makes it through the entire day on his own without anything significant. There's only an hour left to go, one more block period — Ponyboy is on his way out to the track to have a talk with his coach, the hallway flooded with people.

It's his bad luck to collide with the one person he hadn't thought about in days: Cherry Valence. Her scent was so buried in the usual flow of the day that when they both collide, he's genuinely startled to realize that it's her. And unfortunately, his books fall and so do hers.

He stares at her, taking in her friends around her with wide eyes, the way the traffic in the hallway seemingly grinds to a halt. How her eyes get wide, her hands fluttering uselessly in the air for a moment, mouth glossy pink from her makeup.

"Sorry," he says it before he can think, crouching down to pick up his books first. "Didn't see you."

Immediately her friends erupt into actions: offended sounding whispers, hot glares thrown at him. One girl looks so upset that for a moment, Pony speeds up, concerned she'll spit on him. Ponyboy glances up, expecting Cherry to say thank you at least, when he offers her the notebook that clearly belongs to her.

The notebook he belatedly realizes has her initials and Bob's etched into the cover. It's not new, either: beneath the light, he can clearly see she's etched it over and over again in different colors.

She takes it from him, stiff as a board, fingers careful not to come into contact with his.

Anger, resentment wells up in him, threatens to escape from his mouth. He wants to call her every terrible name in the book he can think of, demand that she talk to him, say something, anything, be the Cherry that liked sunsets, the one willing to be a little spy. He wants the Cherry that had the possibility of being a friend, maybe more. Not this stiff, silent Cherry who didn't even want to touch him in most miniscule way, who seemed utterly icy in the way she regarded him.

Instead, she keeps her silence, her stiffness as she and her friends walk around him. He hears one of the girls whisper, "He has some nerve after what he did to Bob."

The words from the night wash over him again, skin raising in goose flesh: Give the dirty omega a bath.

Ponyboy swallows something ugly and sour down his throat. He can feel some greaser clap him on the back, and he trudges his way to the gymnasium, unable to do anything else. That day, all he does is channel that sour, ugly feeling into catching up with track. He's not up to his usual time as he does it, stopping to cough or drink water.

But it does help, in it's own way, to run. To beat his feet against the ground, to let his mind drift away from him long enough to forget, even for a little while, Cherry's silence, her friend's glares, the feeling that he was dirty, unwanted, awful.

He had to admit it to himself, later that night, beside Soda. Cherry had kept her word to him: that she wouldn't be the same girl, that she wouldn't talk to him in school. As much as he wished for things to change, as much as he wanted to reach out, he'd been told.

It still doesn't make it hurt any less, though.

He has no dreams that night. School becomes this: keeping his guard up in his advanced classes in a way he hadn't before. Traveling with packs of other greasers in the hallways, allowing them to help him through the day, going to lunch like normal with Two-Bit and Steve, sometimes going to the DX for food to meet Soda.

That in and of itself is changed: one day, when he comes out to the parking lot, it's not just Two-Bit and Steve waiting for him.

"Dal? What're you doing here?" Ponyboy finds himself grinning at the hood, making his way to the T-Bird Dallas has parked there. Two-Bit's in the passenger side, and Ponyboy climbs in the back, sitting opposite Steve.

"Giving you a ride," Dallas replies, throwing the car into drive, "What else? I'm sure you boys are tired of being in Steve's piece of shit."

"At least it's my piece of shit," Steve retaliates from the back as they zip out of the parking lot, almost nicking some of the cars on the side with the way Dallas drives. Pony can only guess he means to scare some of the Socs gathered there, Dallas peeling down the road.

Steve and Dallas bicker a bit as they go, Ponyboy tuning out like usual. He opens his bag to pull out the worn copy of Breakfast at Tiffany's he'd been able to swipe a few days back. Normally he tried not to outright steal a book, but for as long as he'd wanted to read it, well. No one would mind missing an old copy of it, left out in the open.

As soon as he opens the page to where he'd earmarked it earlier, he slips into the passage with the narrator, engaging in yet another run in with Holly. He doesn't get more than a few sentences in before Two-Bit has reached over, tugging the book with a grin on his face. "Oh, no you don't," he tugs it completely out of Ponyboy's hand before he can protest, "You ain't getting out of this that easy."

"Two—!" Ponyboy lunges for it only to be pulled back down by Steve, "Two, I'm—"

"Yeah, he's right," Dallas laughs from the front, raising his eyebrows in the mirror, "Sorry Pone, but you gotta save that Holly Golightly shit for later. Got more important stuff to talk about." Surprise spreads across Ponyboy's face — of everyone, he didn't expect Dallas to know who that was. Dallas seems to catch on to what Ponyboy wants to ask, and he brakes the car at the stoplight hard enough that Ponyboy hits the back of the seat with an audible click of his jaw before he can launch into a line of questions that desperately needed answers immediately ranging from when did Dallas have the time to read? to when did he read Truman Capote?

Instead, he finds himself snorting out, "Yeah? What's more important?"

Two-Bit leans back, "Talking about how long it'll be before Curly gets out of reformatory — and back in." He cocks his eyebrow one at a time at Ponyboy like he usually does, "According to Tim, he'll be getting out in a week."

Ponyboy, usually used to them talking above his head, shrugs. "Depends on what trouble Curly can get into." He eyes his book, still in Two-Bit's hand, wanting to lunge over at the right moment. "What did he even get into reformatory for this time?"

"Got caught stealing," Steve says, and Dallas barks out a laugh. "He tried that store near the laundromat with that crazy old fuck—"

Ponyboy knows exactly who he's talking about, eyebrows jumping. "Him? Doesn't he have a—"

"Heater," Dallas says, and Ponyboy doesn't want to point out the fact that Dallas might still have his on him, their eyes meeting in the rearview mirror for a moment. Even if it was unloaded. "But he's also got bad eyesight, so he missed where it counted. Curly's still there for a week, though." Dallas turns the wheel, eyes dropping and Ponyboy lets out a small breath he didn't know he was holding as they reach not the corner store but a dingy little diner. There are already some other greasers out there, eating their own food, some of them with beers, of all ages. Dallas honks his horn to greet them all, parking haphazardly as he does it. Two-Bit hands the book back to Ponyboy, and as they all clamber out, Ponyboy considers taking it with him, reading it.

Instead, Dallas tugs it out of his hands again, puts it on the seat and cocks his head towards the diner. "You comin' or what?"

"Yeah, I'm comin'," Ponyboy gives him a brief grin, and Dallas throws an arm around his shoulders as they make their way into the diner. The greasers that see him — from school and otherwise — all greet him in turn. Their scents wash over him — mostly alphas, a beta here and there — and all of them seem to welcome him in. It's not like it usually was where he felt a little marked, out of place. Here, now, he feels more accepted than usual than on just the merit of being Soda or Darry's brother.

It's a curious change, but not one he dislikes. The comfort of Dallas' arm around his shoulders, being able to be among everyone else without feeling so drastically othered, without being constantly felt as if he was being watched in a way that made his skin prick…

It feels good. He takes his time eating, enjoys the exchange of news and gossip, and when they're back at the car, he doesn't pick up the book again, content to talk to everyone. When Dallas drops them off, he lingers for a moment, wanting to ask Dallas about the book, about his thoughts. There are so many things at once, yet the words gum up in his throat unexpectedly when he looks at Dallas, at the way he looks framed in the front seat with a half grin on his face, lips curled up as if to emphasize the sharp whiteness of his canines. They're the sharpest, longest pair of fangs he's ever seen on someone, and they look so natural in Dallas' mouth.

For a moment, Ponyboy is distracted by the thought of them, what it might feel like to have them sink into skin. His ears burn — why would he think about something so intimate about Dallas of all people?

Then the bell rings, Dallas is driving away, and Ponyboy has to keep all of it to himself.

The days pass in relative ease until one day he comes home a week or so later. Ponyboy takes the last of the steps up, waving to Two-Bit, opening the door to see Darry at the kitchen table. That's not unusual: what is unusual is the amount of paper there, and the serious, almost terrified look on Darry's face.

Ponyboy's eyes land on the papers. He knows that brown envelope means it's not from any bill collector or average joe. It's from the government.

A summons to court.

Chills run down his spine, and his mouth dries out immediately.

Chapter Text

"How are we gonna afford a lawyer? A good one, at that?" Darry voices all of their frustrations at once, hand combing through his hair. Ponyboy feels the guilt in his stomach utterly burn at the bit of growl in his voice, at the frustration he feels too.

He doesn't dare glance at the summons again. It's been hours, and they've combed through everything, talked together. The odds are less than good: the Sheldons have more money than them; the idea of witnesses being on his and Johnny's side other than Cherry — who wouldn't even acknowledge him — were slim; the entire night had to be explained from Darry hitting him to the fountain and in Ponyboy's opinion, running away was probably going to be an admission of guilt to them.

The more he thinks about it, the more his stomach churns. But they have to confront this, or at least try to get through it. Terror, upset seizes him, and it must show on his face. Darry's expression softens, and he shakes his head. He stands up from the table, and he keeps his voice quiet, "Let's — let's have dinner first, huh?"

Ponyboy thinks he's being treated like a frightened animal and quick flash of pride flares up. He's not delicate, he's not so simple. The inkling to fight, to push back is so quick — only to be suffocated by the fact that he was scared. And so was Darry, with how much it had probably taken out of him to even have to deal with this. "Yeah. What's for dinner?"

The sound of the porkchop frying in the kitchen hits Ponyboy's ears about thirty minutes later. He doesn't generally like doing his homework on the couch, but he finds himself glued to it as he reads his book for the latest assignment he has. He's skimming it at this point; every few words, his eyes flick back up to look at the table that has the summons letter on it, still half folded there.

It makes his gut turn the more he looks at it. He doesn't like how it looks different from normal letters, the envelope that deep tanned color, the words stamped in red on it saying urgent. His palms sweat as he turns a page, still feeling helpless, unsure of how to even start the conversation with Darry about this.

The question of the cost of a lawyer stays with him as Sodapop barges in, looking for the mail — and then pausing when he sees the letter. Ponyboy sinks further into the couch and his book when Darry calls Soda into the kitchen. The urgency of their voices makes him chew into his bottom lip again, knowing they're purposely lowered in order to make sure he can't hear. It bugs him more than anything, even knowing it's probably for his own good. He feels an urge to look for a cigarette for a smoke, to try and get deeper in his book.

Except he can't. As he hears pots and pans drawn out, as he hears Steve enter the house, the door held for Two-Bit. Knowing exactly where things were going, Ponyboy stands up, barely dodging Two-Bit as he does it. "You comin' to eat off our table again?"

"Well, yeah, when the food smells this nice," Two-Bit grins down at Ponyboy, who rolls his eyes good naturedly. "Porkchops, potatoes—"

"You gonna help clean?" Ponyboy challenges. That gets a chuckle, and he takes the moment to duck under Two-Bit's arm and make his way to his room. As much as he normally would take the distraction that everyone provides at this time, he feels too jittery, too upset to concentrate.

Instead, he walls himself in his room with his schoolwork. As the smells of cooking, the sound of rough housing fill the house, Ponyboy devotes himself like he never has to the papers he has, the equations, the task of making sure everything was done. It distracts from him trying to think around lawyers, the look on Cherry's face, Johnny's bandaged hands, the memories of the social worker.

He doesn't know how long it's been until a hand wraps around his elbow, a gruff voice saying, "Pony, if your brother asks for you one more time, I'm gonna kick in your head for him."

Ponyboy jumps. He looks up with wide eyes at Dallas, who's frowning at him, eyes glittering beneath his too long hair. "Dammit — When did you get here?"

"Half an hour ago," Dallas hauls him up with ease, "Now come on. I'm hungry, and I'll be damned if Two-Bit gets the best food because you're stuck doing homework."

Ponyboy feigns a glare as Dallas hauls him down the hallway down to the living room. The main table is groaning a little under the food. He knows that some of that food wasn't in the fridge before — there's way too much, a perfect portion for everyone gathered. Asking where and how it came from, though, wasn't his business. His stomach dictated that for him, Dallas letting go so he could get a plate of food. On goes green beans, mashed potatoes, some cornbread that Ponyboy's mouth waters for, a porkchop, and then he's sitting on one of the few remaining, rickety chairs.

Darry gives him a worried glance as he does it, gaze only dropping after Ponyboy takes a bite of the mashed potatoes. A groan leaves him at how buttery and warm it is in his mouth, and he digs in.

Anything was better than a week of bologna, and Darry's cooking was always good. He'd learned at their mother's elbow, and Ponyboy is so grateful to have him. Around the table, everyone eats well: Two-Bit with a beer, Soda with a glass of water that he almost spits up laughing at a joke Two-Bit lobs, Steve looking serious as he looks at Darry. Johnny's absence is felt in that moment, and Ponyboy wonders for a moment where Dallas is, right before he plunks himself beside Ponyboy in one of the older chairs they had.

"You gonna eat that?" Dallas raises his eyebrows at Ponyboy, laughing when Ponyboy pulls his plate closer. He digs into his own food, tearing into the porkchop with what was certainly bad manners. Not that Ponyboy cared, quietly fascinated again by how sharp his canines were, how they glint in the light as he bites down.

Once again, he feels his ears turn a little red. Ponyboy fights it down, finding himself glancing around the table. "Can I ask you somethin' Dal?" Dallas gives a grunt, looking at Ponyboy from the corner of his eye. "When did you start reading Truman Capote?" It comes out a little quieter than Ponyboy intended; this is the first time he's ever asked Dallas something like this before. To his knowledge, Dallas wasn't one for reading in general; he'd never made mention of reading any books Ponyboy had ever mentioned.

Even as he thinks about it though, he knows that two months ago he'd have never asked this from Dallas. He'd merely been surprised, kept the thoughts he had to himself, still too afraid to approach Dallas, still wrapped up in the thought that Dallas didn't care for him.

Right now, he knew better than that. Or, at least, understood better, still a little wary but no longer completely unable to ask Dallas the question. He felt that now, he could ask it without the idea that Dallas would scowl or make fun of him, or ignore him outright. There's still lingering tension in him as Dallas swallows down his food, wiping at his mouth. "Shit kid, it gets boring sometimes in jail," he shrugs, no need to hide it or be embarrassed by the admission. "You get out earlier for good behavior, so sometimes reading a book'll do it."

There's so much in those two sentences that Ponyboy wants to pull apart immediately. "But— why Breakfast at Tiffany's?" He pushes the pepper towards Soda, eyes fixed on Dallas, on the way he seems equally curious at Ponyboy's questions back to him, on what else he could surprise Ponyboy with. "I thought you'd read somethin' else."

"You didn't think I read at all," Dallas corrects him. Ponyboy shrugs as an answer, tensing a little, ready for the shove that comes. And it does, but the roughness comes across differently than it would have two months ago, the sneer with it reading more friendly than actively annoyed. "I don't always read the fancy shit you read."

"It's not—" Ponyboy glances over the table at Darry, who's still deep in conversation with Steve, "I mean. It ain't all fancy."

Dallas picks up ont the little streak of deviance instantly. He raises his eyebrows, and Ponyboy has to avert his eyes, lest he start laughing. He shoves more food into his mouth, Dallas' mouth dancing in amusement before Two-Bit gets his attention, fork going for his porkchop.

As they launch into their own little fight, Ponyboy feels a little bit of a thrill. There's so much more to Dallas Winston than he previously thought, wasn't there?

When he finishes, he picks up his plate, chair scraping. "I can get the dishes, Dar." It's something he's been trying to do lately, volunteering instead of waiting for Darry to badger him.

Darry looks as if he wants to protest for a moment — then seeing it for what it was, he nods. Ponyboy takes up more dishes, going to the kitchen to start cleaning them. He groans at how many are already piled high in the sink, just from the act of cooking.

It's going to be time consuming.

He rolls up his sleeves anyway, gets to work, plugging up one side of the sink. The soap gets added, and Ponyboy sets to cleaning up the dishes by hand.

It's a wry thing now, tinged with older, sadder memories of his parents. Being proud to help his mom when she asked, playing with bubbles, goofing off with Darry when Darry had been allowed to be a kid, he and Soda getting into soapy fights with him.

Someone walks behind him. "Just put it on the side, I'll get it."

"Don't mind if I do," Dallas sets down what looks to be three plates lazily stacked together. A chuckle leaves him at the annoyed scowl on Ponyboy's face. "You looking kind of mad when you volunteered."

"Y'all are just pigs sometimes," Ponyboy huffs out. "What kind of pack is this, none of you even know how to dry a dish." Some of the irritation is real, some of it isn't as he dives his hand back into the soapy water, scowl on his face. He bristles, ready for a stupid joke about being a fussy omega from Dallas.

Instead, to his surprise, Dallas actually grabs the drying towel, taking a cleaned up plate from Pony. Still too annoyed to say thank you, Ponyboy let's him. They do the dishes like that, Ponyboy scrubbing viciously at the dishes, the knot of uncertainty and anger back in full force. All the while, Dallas takes the dishes, dries them, puts them up.

When Ponyboy finally finishes up the last cup, he finds that the anxiety, the anger is still there. His mind still keeps going back to the summons, to Darry's worried expression, about how much money this would all cost them, how if they lost they'd go to a boy's home, and it'd be his fucking—

A hand tugs at his hair and Ponyboy automatically reaches up to swat at it, thoughts halted. "Quit that!"

"Nah," Dallas drawls out, reaching again to yank at Pony's still blonde hair. "Not til you and your fucking brain calm down. They can probably hear you thinking clear in Texas."

Ponyboy glares up at him; Dallas glares back, refusing to back down. "You ain't make sense. No one can hear me." Still moody, annoyed, he goes back to the dishes, grabbing the last skillet. Truth be told, he doesn't want to talk about this outloud, yet he knows that he can't talk to Soda or Johnny or even Two-Bit. And, somehow, lately…

"Is it the court shit?" Dallas leans against the fridge as the television cuts on. Ponyboy glances up at him as he leans back, eyebrow cocked. "Pony, I've seen the envelope. Had to come some time when you got a dead kid with rich parents out there."

The reminder has Ponyboy scrubbing harder than before at the skillet. "I know, I know." He does know, he does-- "I just don't know what we're gonna do. Darry — how're we going to afford a lawyer?" He's not proud of the way his voice trembles on the last word, sure that he doesn't have to tell a hood like Dallas how much lawyers cost.

"Tch," Dallas sucks at his teeth. "That all?" It digs right into Ponyboy's already frazzled, on edge nerves the way Dallas says it like it's easy. "Shit, you don't know nothing about this —"

"No, I don't," He can't keep the frustration out of his voice, even when Dallas doesn't rise to it.

Dallas raises his voice over the television. "You don't have to spend money. I mean, I ain't saying a lawyer you can pay for ain't bad or nothing. But you'd be better off with one of the public defenders is all I'm saying if money's the problem." The way he says it seems simple on the surface, but Ponyboy scrunches up his face in response, wary.

"I thought you couldn't pick your defender," Ponyboy finishes up with the last of the dishes as Two-Bit wanders in, wedging in to get a bottle of beer. "Ain't that why you pay for a lawyer? So you can pick?"

Two-Bit straightens up with the beer can, looking between them curiously as he does it. "I've asked for someone else before," Dallas shrugs, the sound of the tab popping seeming to punctuate his sentence, taking the last plate from Ponyboy when offered it. "Listen Pony, if you want I'll talk to Darry. Give him some people I know up there."

Two-Bit gives a snort, cracking out, "Boy howdy, they probably'll lock Pony up the moment you tell 'em you're friends!"

Despite the remark, Ponyboy wasn't going to turn that down, he wasn't stupid. Months, weeks before, he wouldn't have even trusted Dallas with this, and he feels almost positive Dallas wouldn't have offered before all of this. So he nods, giving Dallas a half grin in acknowledgement as Dallas shoves Two-Bit.

Still, he's on edge, even with that advice. His nerves feel fried, tense as he finishes the dishes. The little reassurance that Dallas gives him helps but not enough to make him stop flexing his fingers, to make him truly distracted from what the reality of things are right now.

The last dishes get put up, the door slams, and Ponyboy cuts himself a slice of chocolate cake to take with him on the couch. He can hear the shower turn on, and walking around, he sees Dallas already sitting on the couch, a cigarette in his mouth. Two-Bit and Steve are nowhere to be found, Soda too. Ponyboy leans back on the couch, fork cutting into the cake.

Dallas' nose wrinkles at the cake, grunting out, "You don't ever get sick of that, none of you?"

Ponyboy takes a bite into it, humming at the taste. "No." He savors it as it goes down, calmed by the smooth taste. It's not too sweet; Darry must've made it. Dallas grunts, nose wrinkling as the door opens. Two-Bit lopes his way back in, pausing only to mess with Ponyboy's hair then going to the back, where Soda must be.

The television crackles, the credits of Bewitched starting to play. Dallas taps out his cigarette, glancing over at Ponyboy as he does it, as if he expects Ponyboy to say more, to want to change the channel or saif he expects Ponyboy to ask all the questions he's got teeming in his head about the court date, about the summons.

Ponyboy doesn't say anything, and Dallas' gaze slips from him and to Two-Bit instead. Ponyboy tunes them out for the episode and the cake, happy that out of everyone, Dallas wasn't ever going to bother him about homework.

The episode is funny enough, but the cake is rich on top of an already rich dinner. He sets the plate down as Two-Bit starts setting up a game of poker, the intertwined scents and the television keeping Ponyboy comfortable.

Dallas says something, Steve rolls his eyes. Then Ponyboy shuts his eyes, just for a moment as the television blares louder. He only means to just take a moment, try to quiet down his thoughts. He doesn't know how long it's been when he feels someone looping their arms beneath his knees, and another around his shoulders. He leans into whoever it is that has him, inhaling their scent as he's lifted up.

Their hand is soft in his hair and Ponyboy asks, sleep thick, "Is'late?"

"Yeah, kid," the gruff voice replies as Ponyboy is put into his bed. "It's late. Go back to sleep."

Ponyboy shuts his eyes again, feeling his socks yanked off of his feet. Then he's asleep, again. He wakes with the covers on his shoulders, Soda beside him. In the morning, as he comes to, he realizes the scent of the person who put him to bed was Dallas'.

Chapter Text

"Easy — easy!" Two-Bit snaps as Dallas parks the car haphazardly at the curb. Johnny is in the back looking a little green around the gills, yet better than Ponyboy has seen in the time since he went to the hospital. His hair has grown out a bit in the weeks he's been there, and the worst of the burns on his neck and wrists are better than they were.

It's about the most Ponyboy can comfort himself as the door opens, and Two-Bit leans down to help Johnny up. Ponyboy wants to go over and help, move from the porch, but he'd woken up with pink stained cheeks, some sweat, and Soda had gently told him that he had to stay put for the most part today. Which irked Ponyboy; he was so tired of being sick, over being overheated, of having to be looked after.

But he knows if he stands up, there's a good chance he's going to wobble and fall. What kind of vote of confidence would that be, for Johnny to come home, ten times worse off than Ponyboy, and see that? Instead he shouts from the porch, "Johnny! Hey, Johnny!"

Johnny looks up, half startled with those still too big for his face eyes as Dallas and Two-Bit get him out of the car. When he sees Ponyboy on the porch, under the blanket he had with him, he grins. "Ponyboy! Hey!"

Ponyboy grins back; they don't have to use words to express how happy they felt to see each other, see Johnny going to Two-Bit's place instead of his parents. He can still remember how she had looked in the hospital, can still remember the seething hatred he had for her. He can only hope that she won't do anything but accept that Johnny was with people who cared about him, a real pack.

Dallas and Two-Bit get him inside of Two-Bit's place, up the steps with ease. Ponyboy glances back at the house, and deciding to try and go see Johnny was worth being mad at, takes the blanket off. It's not the best idea; he's feeling shaky as soon as he gets down his own steps. By the time he's walking into Two-Bit's place, he can feel some gooseflesh break out on his skin, teeth chattering in response.

"Johnny?" Ponyboy peers into the house, and a muffled return of his name has him walking in deeper, regretting he hadn't worn shoes. Two-Bit clearly put in the most effort he ever has in cleaning up the place up for Johnny, most of the characteristic messiness that was the Mathews house absent. His mother must've gotten on him too, just to make sure Johnny could get in and out okay.

A few steps down the hall and a turn has him in the room for Johnny. It used to be Katie's, dolled up for a little eager kid. Now, there's a bed that Johnny's sitting in, wincing a bit as Two-Bit cracks a joke. Johnny's wearing shorts; for the first time, Ponyboy can see the length and the depth of the burn scars on his legs. It's as if the flames had intertwined themselves around his legs, searing into his skin as deep as possible. One foot seems to be bent towards the other more than it ought to be, and with the bandages on his arms, Ponyboy can only imagine that they're similar in a fashion. For sure, his scent glands were completely gone, with how extensive the bandages were.

The smell of burning flesh seems to creep into his nose, the feeling of needing to run grips him as he looks at the damage Johnny's body has. It's as if the fire is right there in the room with them at the moment. "Ponyboy? You okay?"

Johnny's voice sounds quieter than normal when Ponyboy registers it's him talking. Shame flares up; why was he concentrating on Johnny like this, outright staring? "Yeah, I'm fine. Just shocked Two-Bit knows how to clean up." His legs wobble just like his voice as he comes over to the bed — the sheets are fresh, Ponyboy hoping it drives away the scent of smoke and flame as he sits. Johnny gives him a lopsided grin in response.

"Don't get mouthy kid," Two-Bit pushes back, straightening up from his position opening the window on the far side of the room. There's a dresser shoved inside, a bag full of medications on the table, fresh clothes everywhere. Everything, Ponyboy realizes with a jolt, is fresh, if not outright new. None of Johnny's clothes from before were here.

The realization sends a hot feeling of anger in him. Two-Bit seems to catch the look on his face, and he shakes his head quickly, before heading back out. Ponyboy's fingers dig into his skin, Johnny not paying attention to either of them as he shifts further up on the bed. "Nurses said I gotta keep taking the medicines for another few weeks. Still got homework to do but," he shrugs. "Don't think I'm gonna pass."

"Yeah you will," the fierce way Ponyboy says it has a lot less to do with Johnny passing and more to do with the fact that not a shred of anything in the room came from his house. The little room Johnny had, the little clothes, all locked up in that place motivates him more than anything in that moment. "I'm still your best friend, ain't I? You'll pass."

Johnny's a whole grade above him. It wouldn't be the first time Pony's helped. Johnny's expression is faltering, but all it takes is Ponyboy's defiant expression for him to nod in agreement.

Dallas walks through the door then, holding a bag that he dumps on the floor. "That's the last of it." He glances at Ponyboy, then scowls deeply. "The fuck are you doing here, Ponyboy? You look worse than him."

"Lay off, Dal—" Ponyboy feels himself flush again, Johnny snickering beside him. "I'm fine, I ain't that far away."

That doesn't stop Dallas from gripping him by the elbow as firmly as he'd been gripped that night at Buck's. "Nah, I'm not about to get my head kicked in by Darry. Come on." He pulls Ponyboy up, eyes flickering to Johnny before going back to Ponyboy. "You two can talk to each other later, when you both don't look like hell."

Resentment, confusion blooms in Ponyboy as Dallas guides him out. "See you, Johnny!" He waves to him one last time as Two-Bit passes by them with another bag, cocking his eyebrows at Dallas and Ponyboy.

Once they're outside, Ponyboy feels that wave of unease in him again, shivering even though it wasn't all that cold out. He still can't totally let go of the anger he feels at the Cades, keeping his mouth shut as Dallas gets him back to his own house. It's still the middle of a Saturday; he should be out with them all, getting on the nerves of a waitress, getting into a fight or seeing a movie.

Not being forced back inside. Not having to let, of all people, Dallas Winston look over him with a critical eye for what felt like an increasing thing. What was even worse about it was that as Dallas tipped up his chin, trying to figure out if he was okay…

Ponyboy didn't mind the contact. He didn't like the context of it all, of being babied like this. He wishes this was all over already, that they could move on. He just doesn't mind some of the attention Dallas gives him in this moment, the tough hood huffing out, "Listen kid. I ain't a nurse or nothin' — you're running hot so just stay in right now, alright?" Dallas tugs at his hair the same way he did at the church, as if to remind Ponyboy of how blonde his hair still looked, the roots finally starting to peek out. "Johnny ain't—"

"I know Johnny can't go out," Ponyboy snaps out, which isn't the smartest thing to do. He digs the hole for himself deeper, though, unable to keep it contained anymore. "Why couldn't anyone go get his things? How come Two can lift things but couldn't get anything from the Cades? Johnny should've had something from his house!"

He should've had parents who cared. He should've had parents who gave a damn about him when he wasn't dying of burn wounds, and it makes Ponyboy ache in so many ways, makes him start to shake with it all: the future yawning in front of him, completely unfathomable in where it was going now. The entire situation kept ringing so unfairly to him, wouldn't leave him no matter how much he pushed it away before, and now every inch of the unfairness, the bleakness of it all was coming out of him now, in front of Dallas Winston of all people. The risk that he'd get belted in the face or shoved was high, yet he simply was too exhausted, too angry to care if Dallas whipped him for it.

Things changed, but not enough, not fast enough.

It shows on Dallas' face too: whatever tenuous thing between them, that had Dallas acting so strangely was in danger now of snapping as he scoffs. "Why in the hell would we have gone to them? For clothes he outgrew two years ago? Go and beg that cunt to give us that?" Dallas is all but snarling himself now, even though he doesn't reach over to shove Ponyboy or even do more than stand up to pace in anger. "They're his parents, they ain't his pack. We are."

"His parents should be his pack, too. His first pack—"

"Well, they ain't," Dallas snaps back, moving from the living room to the kitchen. "I thought you got that, Pony." The refrigerator door opens, and Ponyboy leans back into the couch as another wave of gooseflesh washes over him. He feels clammy, sick, the anger still burning in him but unable to be sustained with how weak he felt.

Dallas swears lowly, then something cold is shoved into his hands. Ponyboy opens his eyes, exhausted, to a glass of water. Hurriedly, he gulps it down, throat feeling tight, dry, a little sore. The aggression coming off of Dallas has him feeling tense as he does it, still ready for the hood to lash out.

He doesn't, just snapping out, "Stay your ass here, okay? I don't need another one of you in the hospital."

Then he's turning on his heel, striding out to leave Ponyboy on the couch, shivering.

Monday isn't a whole lot better. He rides with Johnny and Two-Bit to school, having not seen Dallas after that moment in the house. Steve had mentioned something about him riding for Buck's that weekend, and Ponyboy had stubbornly not asked more.

Coming to school now, Two-Bit parking his car with a groan of the engine, felt different. Normally, they'd all jump out together, make their way out. Not now; they have to wait for Johnny to get the crutches out, have to help him climb out and flank him as they walk into the building. There are stares as they do it, from greasers and socs alike.

Two-Bit keeps the focus on helping Johnny out. Ponyboy keeps his head held as high as he can as he walks with them both, daring anyone to say anything. The gawking in and of itself is enough.

He can't stay with them all day. They have to part eventually, and Ponyboy hopes that things are going to go okay for Johnny. He glances at them as he has to depart, only comforted by the fact that greasers are folding in around him, protectively. How even if they still gawked themselves, greasers didn't have to be uniformly told to not let Johnny's back be exposed.

Ponyboy spends the rest of the day waiting on lunch, trying to ignore renewed interests in him. There are so many eyes on him that it makes him tense up, makes him hunch his shoulders up in defense whenever someone came too close.

When lunch comes around, he finds himself wishing that Dallas was there to see them all. He's not; Two-Bit and Johnny come out together, Steve driving his car up this time. Johnny seems exhausted when they get him in the car. Ponyboy does his best to cheer him up, talking with him on and off as they went to get food, and drove back.

If Socs are giving Johnny a hard time, he never says so, even at the end of the day. Ponyboy feels a spark of pride for him as they go back home in Two's car. Even so, it still doesn't alleviate the burning anger in him at the new state of all of Johnny's things. Not even his jean jacket was there — it hadn't even survived the fire.

The week doesn't improve much from there, either. Dallas never shows up for lunch or comes over. Ponyboy pretends it doesn't bother him, only catching here and there the notion of what he was doing, riding for Buck or doing something with Tim that Two-Bit won't elaborate on.

Ponyboy buries the need that he should know. He's more preoccupied with dodging Socs renewed attentions, some of them whispering behind his back, a few throwing paper at him during class that he had to work to ignore, and once, while coming back from gym, a Soc had "accidentally" run into him and flattened him against the wall hard enough that he saw stars for a moment.

It's Two-Bit who ends up coming too late then, pissed off as he helps Ponyboy up. "Those chickenshits. You okay, Pony?"

"I'm— I'm fine," the words come out in a gasp that Ponyboy hates making. Just keeping up with gym was harder than it had been, and having the wind knocked out of him wasn't going to help. "Just— what the hell is going on?"

"They can't hurt Johnny, can they?" Two-Bit says it flatly, with a twinge of anger. He loops an arm around Ponyboy's shoulder, half helping, half walking them both towards the locker room. "C'mon kid, chin up. Can't let them think they beat you, it's only Wednesday." Ponyboy lifts his head up, squares his shoulders up as Two-Bit walks them inside the gym. Two-Bit lets out a low whistle at one of the greaser girls who passes. She rolls her eyes at him — blonde as usual — keeps moving.

Ponyboy connects eyes with the Soc who ran into him. Two-Bit's eyes follow his as they steer back into the greaser kids on the side. The soc resembles Bob a little: handsome, but bigger, barrel chested. He's an alpha, hanging out with his friends there, talking, glancing over at Ponyboy every so often.

He's got a face that's easy enough for Ponyboy to remember.

The week goes on. Each day, Johnny is tired, Ponyboy having to deal with most of the brunt of the socs renewed interests. He gets shoved in gym, still with or without Two-Bit. He keeps working with his eyes down, keeps his head down.

The discontent lives in him and for now, Ponyboy will just have to allow it to fester with time.

Friday, when he goes out for lunch, Dallas is back in Buck's car. He's smoking a Kool, Steve already in the passenger side, Two-Bit and Johnny halfway to him. Their eyes connect.

Dallas sneers. Ponyboy in a moment of great maturity, sticks out his tongue. Dallas lets out a bark of a laugh, and Ponyboy walks forward, gets in the car. He slides in, right as he sees the soc from gym. He's a fair ways down, laughing with one of the socs who had shoved his head under the fountain — Randy.

Ponyboy scowls in their direction as he leans back into the car, but keeps the mutinous, angry thoughts to himself.

They would have to wait, like everything else.

Chapter Text

He should be in school, working on another assignment, shoulders hunched, teeth grinding down into his bottom lip, trying not to be noticed. If Darry knew that Ponyboy was here, sitting beside Dallas in Buck's car, having a burger and fries, he'd be in a hell of a lot of trouble.

Thing is, as Ponyboy takes another bite into his burger, he doesn't care about how Darry would feel in the moment. Right now, the burger is the best thing he's ever tasted, there's no one watching him today except Dallas, with the radio on as he takes a swig of the Coke he's got, the car parked just so in the shade.

For all the fight about the pack and Johnny a few days, Dallas seemingly hadn't held a grudge. He'd just swung by at school again, had eyed that Ponyboy had been by himself, offered a smirk that was almost too much like the one he'd given Cherry all those days ago, dangerous and full of teeth so sharp it made Ponyboy's skin flush in response. (A lifetime ago, Ponyboy thinks, it was a lifetime ago that the drive in had happened.) Ponyboy knew that look only meant trouble, and that whatever he was going to ask Ponyboy for, he'd get into heaps of trouble if Darry had found out.

And here he was, swallowing another bit of burger, half an hour later, glancing at Dallas. He hadn't told Ponyboy what all this was about yet, at all. Hadn't done more than eaten his food, made a pass or two at some of the girls and guys who passed, or had flicked a packet of ketchup at Ponyboy, who'd flicked it right on back.

That had been funny, the way the packet had landed square on Dallas' forehead, between his eyebrows. He had looked angry for a moment, and then had laughed, the tension ebbing away. It felt good to know that Dallas' temper wasn't aimed at Pony, that the moment in the hospital was real, continued to be real: that they were actually buddies now.

"You guys have any luck with what I talked to you about?" Dallas interrupts his thoughts, however scattered they were. His eyes are on the field down the hill. There are kids playing there — ones who didn't go to school or got out early. Mostly greasers, most of them no older than twenty. Ponyboy can catch their scents vaguely on the wind that picks up.

He pulls out a stringy looking pickle out of his burger, nose wrinkling. "Darry said he was lookin' into it. He don't wanna spook me or nothing with too much talk, I guess." Ponyboy let the frustration he felt show there, putting the pickle in the bag. "Soda doesn't know anything neither, or he'd have told me."

Dallas doesn't look surprised by any of this. He shifts in the seat, and for the first time, the shirt rides up a little. He's got a bruise on his hip that doesn't look too great and for the first time in weeks, Ponyboy remembers that before they'd run off to Windrixville, he had busted a few ribs in a fight with Tim. Had he even healed up? "Wouldn't surprise me if he's trying to be bull headed about it first, see if he can swing for some hot shot." Dallas shifts again, taking another swig of his drink.

From here, Ponyboy still wonders what on Earth Cherry Valence had ever seen in him for her to talk that way about him. Why she had any reason to find him appealing — and yet as Dallas plucks up another fry, biting down on it in a way that felt a little too much force for a simple french fry, he doesn't look too bad framed like this in the afternoon light. The light makes the tips of his hair burn brighter, those animalistic teeth seem to glint more, and well.

Maybe it wasn't all looks she was into.

Dallas grunts, bringing Ponyboy's attention back to him. "They're probably gonna rush shit from here, anyway. Those Sheldons are big shots, they're gonna throw money to get this all a done deal." His expression grows darker, and Ponyboy's stomach twists. "You hear anything about that social worker?"

Not hungry anymore, but unwilling to let food go to waste — especially food that wasn't bologna — Ponyboy's teeth come down, chew carefully on the fry now. "No. They usually don't have much to say if we're okay. So… it's kind of a good sign." There's no real confidence in his voice when he says it, but he pushes on, trying to not show how nervous he felt. Not around Dallas Winston of all people. "She said the trial wasn't in her area either, at least. So maybe—"

He breaks off, shrugging. The fry goes down his throat dry, rough.

Telling Dallas that he was afraid of what was going to happen didn't seem like something to do. Of everyone, Dallas wasn't exactly the sensitive, caring type. Despite that, Dallas still cuts his eyes at him sharply, and the flush on the back of his neck is back. "Maybe what? You'll get off scott free?" Ponyboy shrugs again. Dallas, surprisingly, kicks him in retaliation. "Come on, Ponyboy. Say what you want to fucking say already."

That irritates Ponyboy. His mind flashes to Darry, yelling at him to hurry up and talk, for him to just tell him even if he didn't have the words or expression. "How am I supposed to know? Nothing like this has happened before — I ain't gonna get the chair but —"

But Johnny might. Johnny could.

A shudder runs through him, the food in his stomach rebelling, his hands clammy, sweaty in that moment. The urge to stop, to keep himself controlled, creeps on him, but Dallas is looking at him intently, almost a demand. To say it. Let some of it out. It's not like it is when he and Soda are in their room alone, and Ponyboy is compelled to speak by the softness of Soda's voice, the safety there. There's something in Dallas' expression that is darkly compelling, that makes Ponyboy answer. "I just can't stand it, okay? Bob's dead, Johnny can hardly walk, I still have to— to go to school, looking over my shoulder. Get pushed around because the moment I do anything, the social worker could show up and haul me away from Darry and Soda." Every word keeps vaulting out of him, one by one, harder and harder, all the things that he hasn't talked about, the things he's been shoving down, struggling to keep a lid on.

All coming out with Dallas, in a way that made Ponyboy confused as to why he asked, and still he pushes on, unable to keep it down now that the demand is there to bring it out. "Cherry won't even look at me, but we're supposed to trust her? Her friend looked like she'd spit on me if I moved an inch she didn't like."

The vivid memory of it, of handing over the notebook, the way her friend's face had been so upturned, all of it surges up all at once. It mixes with the image of Johnny in handcuffs, the way his eyes would be wide with fear, the taste of bologna—

Distantly, he realizes that he's making that awful heaving sound from the other night, that his eyes are heating up from behind. Something in him is saying that he shouldn't be doing this, that Dallas Winston of all people wasn't going to help him which makes it all the more startling when Dalla's hand clamps down on his wrist, his voice growling out, "Kid! Ponyboy—"

With a jerk, Ponyboy comes back into himself. He breathes hard, looking at Dallas with wide eyes, suddenly realizing what exactly was going on: that he was freaking out with Dallas Winston beside him. That they were in a car, skipping class, and Dallas was staring at him, brows furrowed, eyes dark. "I'm— I'm fine," Ponyboy lies, voice thick.

Dallas' grip tightens. "You ain't got to lie."

"Cause you're the real cuddly type, huh?" Ponyboy knows he shouldn't say it, is going to get hit for it, yet it comes out anyway.

For a moment he does think that Dallas will hit him, his grip tightening. He pulls Ponyboy to him, teeth grinding, "We're pack, ain't we?" Despite the tight grip on him and the way that Dalals doesn't necessarily radiate friendliness, Ponyboy nods. Dallas nods with him. "Socs ain't got packs, they don't care. Doesn't matter how any of this shakes out — we're gonna still be pack. We'll figure it out, and we ain't gonna just leave you or Johnny to hang."

"You can't — you don't know how it'll work out," Ponyboy pushes back, even though the grip on him, as tight as it is, makes him more aware of where he is, pulls him back into the car, away from the way his heart is still hammering in his ears.

Dallas shrugs. "I ain't say I did. I'm saying you ain't the only one dealing with this, and you ain't the only one who has to think about it." His grip tightens one more time. "Two-Bit thought you two were in Texas, and he almost went after you both. Soda didn't even think I was telling the truth, he gave you that letter anyway, didn't he?" Slowly, Ponyboy nods, and Dallas' iron grip loosens. A bird cries out in the afternoon, and the sound of the kids in the field reaches Ponyboy's ears. "I ain't saying it'll be perfect or nothing just…"

He lets go. Ponyboy lets his hand stay in the air for a moment, Dallas' face torn between expressions, the anger that Ponyboy was familiar with and something else. He is right, though. That they had all done something, they had all worried and they had all wrestled with themselves, to say nothing for what Dallas had done.

For Dallas, this had to be a lot. Ponyboy wants to say something, anything more, but a horn honks. He looks up and sees Tim heading towards them, and Dallas is the one who says, "It won't take long. Whistle if you see someone, kid."

He opens the door, gets out.

Ponyboy stays in the car and watches the blood slowly come back to his wrists, for the imprint of Dallas' hand on his wrist to fade.

Chapter Text

Dallas isn't much for one reading the paper — not unless it's to check the movie house or to see if there was something there from New York. Ever since Ponyboy and Johnny had come to Buck's, shivering, scenting terrified, though, he's been checking almost every day he can. At first it was just to make sure that neither were caught up in Jay Mountain, and now, as the days go on, he finds that he's checking it because of the trial.

The outburst Ponyboy had in the car a few days ago still rankles him. It bugged him for a few reasons: the fact that Ponyboy had never had an outburst around him before, the fact that he'd held off for once, not shoving him or telling him to quit it. There had been the instinct to do it, to snap at him to be quiet, to tell him that he should quit it—

The rest of him, though, understood. Even if it wasn't him on the line, it was Johnny on the line, it was Pony and Soda and Darry. A few months ago and he'd have just told Ponyboy to drop it, but the stakes were high. And in all of it, he did mean it. That they were a pack, that all of them would be, in some way, form, or fashion do something.

And Ponyboy was right too: he couldn't guarantee it. He couldn't force a judge to bend the rules, he couldn't make Cherry tell the truth. There were things he could try — could stalk her down, talk to her, could threaten her friends, in light of the stakes.

Except even for Dallas, even with all the impulsiveness, the anger, he knows that that wouldn't be the way to do it. That it could jeopardize things, and if he had to admit it, Cherry was one of those alpha girls who wouldn't take it lying down. She could turn on them for it, so he's forced to grit his teeth, to sit back and have to watch things play out, watch the system grind it's gears.

There are few things that he has ever picked up from his father, and one of them was to try and think ahead where you could. So he still picks up the newspaper, tries to keep a step ahead and that includes folding out the Monday paper, and seeing a headline there that makes him see red almost immediately.

There's a photo of Bob Sheldon, hair coiffed in a Beatles like cut, smile on his face that was smug to him but to adults probably read as a good, nice boy, in bright color, splashed on the front page. The headline Dallas skips over for the actual description beneath it: ROBERT SHELDON, PICTURED THREE MONTHS BEFORE HIS UNTIMELY DEATH. The word "untimely" sets his teeth on edge, hands gripping the newspaper with enough force that he can feel some of it give away beneath his fingers.

"You gonna tear it, you pay for it," the clerk says, frowning beneath his coke bottle glasses, standing behind the shelf.

"You wanna keep those teeth, old man?" Dallas barks clear across the store, glowering with anger at the man. He's balding, a useless little beta who's a head shorter, and his scent is already starting to edge with apprehension. The other people in the store shrink back, and Dallas turns on his heels, yanks the door open and storms out. The man shouts something else, and Dallas just walks faster, gripping the paper as tight as he can.

He doesn't have to read the rest of it to know what it says. It'll be a whole article crying over poor, rich boy Bob, his family begging for the people to think of the alpha boy they had, the money that he had, his sweet little girlfriend boo hooing in the paragraphs of print, pointing the finger at Johnny and Ponyboy. Johnny, who was always so nervous that Dal could scent him a block off most of the time from how badly Bob had beaten him months ago, Ponyboy who was Johnny's size and who was the one who had about wretched the chlorinated water onto Dallas' shoes at the door at Buck's.

Every word of it was shit.

By the time he makes his way down the old neighborhood, he's stopped shaking. But judging by the people ducking their heads, the kids fleeing, his scent is still as aggressively pissed off as he feels, storming into the Curtis' place without so much as a hello. "Darry!"

"Go outside," Darry barks back, and Dallas is grateful it's a Sunday even as Darry's nose wrinkles. "Christ on the cross—" He uses his hand to push Dallas back, and Dallas allows it. As soon as they hit the porch, he thrusts the paper into Darry's hands without a word.

He's not sure if it's any later than about noon, never one to get up early unless he had to. Ponyboy probably was still asleep and Soda already at work. As Darry reads the article, Dallas paces, still steaming with anger as he does it. "They're setting you up!" Even if Dallas isn't precisely an expert in law, Dallas knows what it means to have the person you killed splashed in the newspaper. He'd heard his aunt talk about it before, in hushed tones, had put it together himself a time or two. "They're trying to—"

"The Sheldons are trying to have it moved to an adult court," Darry interrupts, frowning at the paper, less angry. Or maybe it hadn't gotten to his head yet. It makes Dallas stop pacing, eyes shifting over to Darry. "Trying to push a full trial."

"Ponyboy said it was a trial," Dallas frowns, eyebrows working together.

Darry shakes his head. "What you trusting him for, Dal? Summons said it was a hearing, in front of a judge. Still need a lawyer, and... far as they told me, a hearing is better than a trial. No jury, less you got to say but—" His hand smooths out the paper, despite the way it shakes beneath the sunlight. "It goes to an adult court, there's a high chance that things'll get worse."

There's an urge to correct Darry — after all, Dallas had been to more than one hearing over reform school. You didn't need a lawyer for a hearing. They could just show up. But it wasn't his brother on the line, and no one would step up for Johnny except them, so he keeps his mouth shut on that. "You think it'll work or not?"

Dallas' eyes flick to the door, and then back to Darry. Darry's three, almost four years older, defacto pack leader at this point. Logically, Darry's not that much older. Dallas knows that Darry's only got a little more experience than him, but he's never been one of them, really in the same sense. He wasn't ever someone who'd ever made a lot of trouble, even when his parents had been around.

He doesn't know what's going through Darry's head, staring at that paper, trying to figure things out. Dallas feels impatient, angry, and at least both of them know he won't keep quiet about it. "I'll go tell Two-Bit," Dallas breaks the silence instead, not waiting on whatever Darry's answer was. "Maybe his Mom'll know what to do. Shit, man," Dallas swears again thinking of the targets this would paint on Johnny's back, on Ponyboy's back. He didn't attend school, but didn't have to attend to know what this was going to do.

Darry looks like he wants to say something, but lets it go as Dallas storms off the porch and into the grass. He gives a glare to one of the few kids outside on their porch, opposite side of the road. The kid's eyes get big, he grips the doorknob and runs back in.

He remembers well enough not to bang on the door; Mrs. Mathews usually was asleep about this time of day but he doesn't keep it quiet, either. "Two!"

The door opens not to Two-Bit; it's his sister, Katie, all of ten, who opens the door, hair in pigtails. "Hey, Dally!" She chirps, still in her pajamas. "Keith's still asleep."

"Lazy piece of shit," Dallas grins at her, tugging at a pigtail. "I'll get him. Johnny asleep too?" Katie nods, and he shuts the door. "Go, I'll get 'em." Katie waves goodbye, and Dallas goes into the house, up to Two-Bit's room. He opens the door, Two-Bit in the bed, jaw halfway slack, snoring. His room looks like the mess that it's usually been, some of the laundry shoved every which way, his schoolbag thrown into a corner, and funnily, Dallas notices that his cousin's clothes — the one who'd visited the summer before — still mixed in with some of it.

He's not gentle, shoving Two-Bit out of his bed hard. There's a swear when Two-Bit hits the floor and when he sits up, he's blearily, clearly having drunk the night before. "Dallas? Fuck are you doing here?" He grimaces, bringing a hand up to rub at his eye, Dallas thoroughly unimpressed. "What time— dammit—"

"Stay where you are," Dallas sneers, "Might throw up with the news I got."

"News?" Two-Bit echoes, blinking blearily at him. "Wh-What happened?"

Dallas rocks on his heels. Two-Bit crawls up onto his bed proper, still nothing on but his jeans from last night, and Dallas gives him a whole two minutes before he starts explaining. The whole time, Two-Bit goes from bleary to more and more alert as he relates what Darry had clarified, what was in the paper. By the time he finishes, Two-Bit is frowning, running his hand through his hair, the way it sticks up in different directions, in desperate need of a wash.

"I ain't think you're wrong," Two-Bit scratches at some of the scruff on his face, at the sideburns on his side. "It's…. I ain't know shit about the law either. It just can't be good, they're doing this right now." His eyes narrow, still thinking. "Y'think… I mean Darry's gonna be hurting for money to get a good lawyer."

Dallas runs a hand through his hair, that nervous, uncomfortable feeling he sometimes gets starting to itch in the back of his head. "And he's too fucking stubborn to get help from his own pack. I told him the name of one of the public defenders but they don't let you pick." Two-Bit's eyes flick towards him, and Dallas hates to think about it, yet has to.

There's a very real chance that things are going to go very, very badly.

And Dallas isn't sure how to face it. Not when it isn't him on the line, not when it's the smallest ones in his pack, not when it's two people who he thinks he's failed.

"What do you think we should do? Save up money, make a plan?" Two-Bit keeps his voice low, both of them able to hear Katie come closer.

"It's a murder rap," he hates saying the words like he had that night. It was the grim truth, though. This was a murder rap, this was going to keep having consequences, no matter how he or Two-Bit or Johnny or Ponyboy felt about it. "I- I tried to get them out one way. I don't think it'll work twice."

Silence descends on them, suffocating and thick. There's only one other idea that pops up in Dallas' head as Two-Bit starts to look around his room, no doubt for a beercan that wasn't completely empty. It involved having to pick up the phone, calling a number in New York.

And that would only be the very last resort. Only if the electric chair came down on Johnny, only if Ponyboy was going to be torn from them. Just the thought makes his gut churn.

But it's all he can do for now. It's all anyone could do: prepare, and wait.

"I'm going to Buck's," Dallas stands stands up, ignoring the fact that when he'd rode a few days before, he'd gotten bruised up, that he still wasn't totally okay after the fire. "I'll come back later."

Two-Bit let's him go — and as Dallas walks out, he decides that he'd visit Johnny and Ponyboy later. He needed cash, then and there, and Buck's was the best way to get some cash.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

The last thing he wants to do is wear a suit. He feels lousy, stupid with the way that his hair is styled, in a stuffy suit that he'd last worn at the funeral for his parents — a fact that makes it all the more uncomfortable — and when Darry adjusts his tie, all Ponyboy wants to do is take it all off and leave.

Where? Anywhere but where he was now, at the district office, with Darry on one side and Johnny on the other side. That short haircut he'd given to Johnny on Jay Mountain had mostly started to grow out but it still looked strange with it styled into a more soccy haircut, his eyes huge and round, hands clenching and unclenching on his crutches.

Darry looks almost spooky; Ponyboy knows that the clothes he's wearing aren't what he wore to the funeral, but they still resemble them as he adjusts his tie and looks nervously at Ponyboy. They're all still painfully aware of the fact that his hair is still mostly blonde from the dye job on Jay Mountain, with his roots starting to peak out. It's been combed into something that's more manageable, close to those soccy haircuts he hates, but they all know that they have to get this done and over with.

Meeting with a lawyer was going to be the beginning of this whole thing and Ponyboy hoped that from here, things would simply get easier, no matter what.

"They said they're on the second floor," Darry mumbles to himself, looking at the summons with the appointed lawyer. They make their way to the elevator, and the floor is mostly quiet, though Ponyboy feels like everyone is staring at them even if that wasn't true. Just because adults didn't know the minutiae of greasers and socs, they still understood some of it — and that was without the fact that he was well aware of the fact that his face had made the paper.

When they board the elevator, he sticks to Darry and Johnny, trying to be a small as possible as they go up. Johnny seems to be gripping and ungripping the crutches he has nervously, and Darry is stiff as a board the whole time. The offices that greet them as they step off are down a long hallway, people walking up and down, a riot of scents greeting them, and as they walk down the corridor, Ponyboy feels a bit of curiosity at the office.

He thinks that one of the boys he sees through a window is a Brumly boy; he nudges Johnny, points, and they both raise their eyebrows at each other. Rumble? Ponyboy mouths at him and Johnny shrugs.

They've reached the end of the hallway, and Darry knocks on the door to what seems to be the smallest office. The name on the door reads Eugene Hall, and when the door opens, Ponyboy has to look up at the occupant: a tall black man who's in his thirties, dressed in a sharp suit with horn rimmed glasses. "Darrel Curtis, I take it?"

"Yessir," Darry suddenly looks so much younger in comparison, sticking out his hand, "I'm here with my brother, Ponyboy Curtis, and Johnny Cade."

Eugene grasps his hand, pumps it, and opens the door wider, "Nice to meet you all. Come, inside. I have enough room inside for you all." Darry allows Johnny through first, and then Ponyboy. Darry follows up the rear — Eugene must be on suppressants; Ponyboy can't tell his dynamic at all. His office is nice, with oak walls and a nice carpet.

Or, at least on the outset. Instantly, Ponyboy can tell that the chair he sinks into is a little old, and he can see books on the floor that are keeping the desk even. If the chairs bother Darry or Johnny, neither show it, Johnny looking pale as ever in his chair as Eugene sits opposite them, pulling out a manila folder, "Before we start, is there any reason why Mr. Cade's parents aren't available? I looked into you all — I understand you are Ponyboy's guardian."

They don't care, is Ponyboy's thought. Darry is the one who answers, hesitant, "They ain't — aren't available. I don't think they will be, at all."

"Well, it's a good thing, then, that you all came together then, isn't it?" Eugene flashes a smile that's sharp and a little like a flashy salesman and Ponyboy can't find it in him to dislike it. "It makes it easier to counsel all of you — and to that end, I have to inform you that you cannot talk about this case with anyone except me. And whatever question I ask of you, you need to answer honestly not matter the circumstances. Lying to me will only make this case worse for you, and from what I can tell — and I don't mean any disrespect — this is going to be a bit of a difficult case as we have evidence regarding a murder that makes it open and shut." The more he speaks, the more Ponyboy can feel his hands get clammy. "But I know that just because something looks one way doesn't mean that is the truth." He sets a legal pad in front of him, eyebrows raised. "I also will be frank — you were given to me because you're poor, disadvantaged and on the edge. Again: no disrespect. But that is your situation, and no one here is colorblind. They expect that I won't win this case, and they anticipate failure. I think you," he looks to Darry, "understand this, don't you?"

Darry swallows, and Ponyboy scents that he's sweating, can see it on his brow. He can see his jaw clench, "I get it. Are you saying that this is… useless? That you can't do this?"

Eugene snorts. "No — what I am saying is that they're expecting failure and maybe you are too. But I have a vested interest in not giving other people the satisfaction of winning — and I don't want you here if you don't want to try to fight for yourselves." Now that's a little unexpected, and Ponyboy admires it, the way Eugene speaks. "If you think that this is a hopeless case, if you don't think that you're going to win this, then you should go to someone else. I am not a quitter, and I am not going to lie down and die. From what was in the paper," and he turns from Darry — whose expression is shifting between disbelief and shock — to Ponyboy, "you aren't either. You ran to save children who you could have very left behind, to save yourself from being caught. Do you think that you can show that in the court room? You think you've still got those guts?"

He doesn't exactly know if an adult should be talking to him like this — and yet. Ponyboy finds himself nodding, swallowing. "Yessir. I do."

Even if he's not entirely convinced he does, the way Eugene grins at him makes him feel that maybe he does. Eugene turns to Johnny, pointing his pencil at him, "And you — you're going to back up your friend here?"

Despite looking like he might die of shock on the spot, despite the fact that he looks like he'll throw up if he opens his mouth, Johnny squeaks out, "Y-Yeah."

"Good!" Eugene's voice perks a little, "That's what I needed to hear. Now — I am going to send you, Mr. Curtis, to go and get us some water. And in the mean time, I want the both of you to tell me everything. From the start, and like I said before: No lies, no half-truths. The only way to build a good case is to have you tell me everything, so I can anticipate the defendants."

And boy, Ponyboy can't help but feel a little bit gleeful in that little brother way of his, to see Darry told to do something.

Yet as soon as the door is closed, he gets nervous again. He glances at Johnny, suddenly they're aware they're in a room with an adult. And still…

He swallows. And he starts talking.

It takes hours to talk. It feels less like a talk and more like being interrogated. Johnny, Darry, and Ponyboy all supply different things, but it's mostly Ponyboy who talks. By the time they're done, Eugene has filled up pages and pages of notes, has torn at details hungrily from them all, and seems to have no stopping point.

Its almost four in the afternoon when he finally allows them to leave. Darry's half unbuttoned out of his suit, Johnny seems exhausted, and Ponyboy just wants to never talk again. He still doesn't know entirely what to think of the man, only that when they left, Eugene had said, "I'll let you know when I need to talk to you again. Until the hearing — keep your nose clean. Do not miss my calls, and do not speak to anyone about this. And remember: I can't fight for someone who can't fight for themselves."

Ponyboy had nodded, and for the first time in a long while, felt some hope about it all. By the time they get home, he's utterly exhausted from it all. It's a school day, and he watches Johnny get to Two-Bit's.

"I'll be back late, I gotta make up that time," Darry climbs out the truck, undoing his buttons as they go up the steps. "That lawyer… he was something."

"He's tough," Ponyboy says, pushing open the door. Darry gives a mild grin at him, and to Ponyboy's surprise, Dallas is on the couch, laid out, one arm on his waist. He looks like a bruised up, leonine mess, his hair in his eyes, a half glare melting from his face when he sees them. "Hell happened to you, Dal?"

"Got thrown," Dallas bites out, eye fixing on Ponyboy. "You went to see that lawyer?"

"Yeah," Darry moves to the back, "Think we got a good one, at least. You want some ice?"

"Beer," Dallas says, wincing, "Or water." Ponyboy moves to the icebox, grabbing ice, wrapping it in a towel, and coming back. Darry goes to his bedroom, and he comes to the couch, frowning at the bruises. It's clear Dallas is sincerely sore, and the couch probably isn't the best place to lie down in. He gives Dallas the icepack, and Dallas nods. "Y'okay, kid?"

Ponyboy nods, watching Dallas press the icepack against his side. He hisses, and relaxes onto the couch. Blood mingles with his scent — he must've bitten the inside of his cheek. "Lawyer's real good — he made us talk almost the whole time." He feels an urge to reach out, push Dallas' hair from his face, and pushes it down. "You sure you wanna lay down here?"

"You got a pull out?" Dallas raises his eyebrows, with no real ire. "I ain't making it to Buck's again." Dallas knows full well they don't have one and Ponyboy scowls. Dallas scoffs, doesn't push him away though, just adjusts on the couch as Darry comes through. He seems to watch Darry a little more closely than usual, before his eyes go back to Ponyboy. "Sides, I just need a couple of aspirins, I'll be fine once I sleep it off."

That's enough permission, as Darry exits, for Ponyboy to get up. He goes to the bathroom, grabs the bottle of pills, and comes back. Dallas offers his hand, and Ponyboy tips out what feels like half the bottle. Wrinkling his nose, Dallas puts most of it back, dry swallowing about three pills with a grimace.

Hovering feels... strange. And Ponyboy already feels tired, and reaching out to touch Dallas feels like an even stranger impulse, and he settles for saying, "I'll be in my room, just in case."

He wants to linger, wants to…

He thinks back to that moment in Buck's, where he woke up with Dallas. Where they had lain together, and he had felt better after all that time. A part of him wants to offer that to Dallas, wants to pull him into the bed with him for a bit.

The rest of him, though…

His ears burn a little red as he retreats to his room, giving one more peek at Dallas, relaxing on the couch. The image of him, spread out on the couch, arms and legs splayed out, still keeps itself in his mind.

For the first time in weeks, Ponyboy fishes out his sketchbook from the side drawer. The pencil he finds isn't the best, yet it makes do well enough as he tries to capture that image on paper. He tries again and again, to get it down, the way Dallas' body looks, the way his eyebrows come together, the way his hair looks on him.

He tries, and he tries, turning the paper this way and that, until Darry calls him down for dinner.

The sketchbook is folded carefully closed, tucked away. Dinner is nice, and warm, and Dallas is gone.

There's a bit of disappointment in him, now that Dallas is gone. He can't peer at him, can't see why he just can't be satisfied with what's on paper, can't find what, exactly, he's missing.

Chapter Text

"You remembered a jacket this time, huh?" Two-Bit smirks as he lopes on over to Ponyboy, ignoring their classmates as he comes over. He doesn't have any books with him — why would he? — and he points at Dallas' jacket, draped over Ponyboy's shoulders. "Darry nag you about it enough?"

"It was cold," Ponyboy says defensively, without too much heat as he shuts his locker door, shouldering his backpack. Study hall wasn't necessary, and Ponyboy doesn't want to sit beneath the lights, doesn't want to have to look over material again. Eugene's words keep buzzing in his head in the hallways whenever a Soc gives him a sneer or when Cherry averts her eyes and walks past him. "And it's better than Soda's jackets, anyhow. You and Steve ditching early?"

"Nah, I'm ditchin', Steve's got a test," Two-Bit jerks his head towards the back door. Ponyboy follows him to the back door, knowing exactly where it led. They both make their way out to the back gravel parking lot where Steve's car was parked. Two-Bit's car was on the flux again, and the idea of walking in the cold wasn't all that great. Their feet take them on the gravel, to where some other greasers are sitting.

They all pipe up — some whistling, some greeting Two-Bit, some greeting Ponyboy. Most go back to what they're doing, and Ponyboy fishes out a cigarette. "Got any plans for tonight? Thought I might go to the movie house."

"Oh, so you can see The Sound of Music for the fifth time?" Two-Bit needles him, reaching out for a cigarette, snatching it up. Ponyboy scowls, despite the fact that more than likely, Two-Bit was right. The movie kept re-releasing, probably because nothing else was interesting. "You see it again, you're gonna fall asleep right in the drive-in."

Ponyboy huffs and lights his cigarette, offering it to Two-Bit, who lights his own with a nod. "You got any other idea, Two? Can't really go much of anywhere; the lawyer said so." Even if Darry wasn't compelling enough to keep Ponyboy inside, Eugene's boisterous attitude was. Even now, thinking about talking that long again made Ponyboy wince at the thought.

"Bonfire's on tonight," one of the other greasers — someone from the Shepard pack — pipes up, blonde hair lifting up in the wind a little bit. "Got decided a couple of days back, y'all ain't get the news?"

Two-Bit pricks up at that, face lighting up. "Nah, been busy. What time?"

A thread of jealousy laces through Ponyboy at the mention of the bonfire. He wasn't allowed to go there, and he looks down at his shoes as the Shepard kid continues, "About six-thirty, Tim said. Wants everyone there by seven, he's planning on bringing as many as possible. All the packs need to show, you know the deal." He gives a half leer. "Specially anyone who's unclaimed."

In his minds eye, Ponyboy can see what they're talking about, packs and gangs descending into their spaces. The bonfires they'd light at night to both party in and to keep warm. There were people who came to share food where they could, exchange gossip — who whooped who, who was arrested and who wasn't. And, well, the main reason he hadn't been invited before was laid bare in the word unclaimed.

Bonfires were more than just gathering together, to keep warm. It was where packs initiated everyone into the larger circles; the last time a gathering like this had happened, he was thirteen, still hadn't presented. Now he had, and he was sure that Darry wasn't going to allow him to be there, with everyone else and it makes his gut churn.

Except he's startled when Two-Bit throws his arm around Ponyboy, saying, "We'll be there, kid included. He's earned it." Ponyboy jerks his head up in surprise at that. He doesn't push against it — doing so in front of everyone else, that would be bad, make it look like they weren't a cohesive pack so he allows Two-Bit to go on, watching his demeanor take on a more serious element. "You tell ol' Tim we'll bring everyone we can, but we gotta make sure none of the fuzz gets wise to it, you dig?"

"I dig okay," the Shepard kid — an alpha, like most everyone else — nods, flicks his cigarette to the ground. "You know the usual rules." He looks at Ponyboy, and the bell to let the classes out rings. "Make sure he knows, too."

Then he takes off. A few of the other greasers join him, some cast looks at Ponyboy, and he feels his ears heat up. If Two-Bit notices he doesn't seem to care, steering Ponyboy towards the parking lot, towards Steve's car. "Guess you ain't gonna be singing with that nun tonight; you got better places to be."

"But — I thought I wasn't allowed. Thought Darry— ," Ponyboy fumbles along, not sure exactly if what he was hearing was true. "They're expecting me?"

"You presented, ain't you?" Two-Bit shrugs, making their way to Steve's car in a few lopes. He doesn't seem perturbed; more like he expected it. "You're a little young for it, I gotta admit, but Darry ain't gonna stop you. He knows the rules about it, Soda does too. Hell, even Johnny went when it was his turn, so why would he stop you now?"

He's not wrong, really. Ponyboy just feels wary, excited as they climb into the back of Steve's car, waiting on him. He used to feel so jealous whenever Darry and Soda would sneak out of the house to go to the bonfire. He used to watch them out in the street, their shadows stretching beneath the little streetlights, tracking them until they were gone. How hours later he used to see the bonfires light up, and when they got home, Darry and Soda's scents weren't their own — it was of greasers, from as close as the next county to as far away as Mexico. They were a part of a greater understood pack, and Ponyboy used to lie in bed, wishing he'd be an alpha and join them.

He thinks about the way Soda had come back from his, how buzzy he was. He was one of the very few omegas out there, and he hadn't told Ponyboy much that night other than saying that when it was Ponyboy's turn, he'd enjoy it.

"What do you do, exactly?" He looks up at Two-Bit, his fingers tugging at the pack of cigarettes, curious. "Soda never said much, and Darry never talks about it."

Two-Bit leans out, whistles, and Steve breaks through the crowd, a scowl on his face as usual. "You show up, you find out, just like the rest of us!"

"C'mon, Two," Ponyboy persists, trying not to scowl or sound whiny. "I know you all ain't gonna just be tight lipped! Specially not you."

"It'll be different for you than it was for me," Two-Bit leans back as Steve throws in his books, and then opens the door. "You're an omega, and with all the shit that's gone on lately, don't expect it'll be the same as when Soda got in."

The car starts up and a derisive noise leaves Steve as he drives them out of the parking lot. "Bonfire's on tonight, then? Good luck getting Darry to agree to let the kid go."

"He's old enough—"

"I ain't a little kid—"

There's a near three way debate as they make their way to the DX, Steve clearly not that impressed with the idea of Ponyboy going to the bonfire, Steve parking sloppily. They all hop out together, and Ponyboy takes out a pack of cigarettes as they move towards the inside. He can feel his neck start to flush though — it's been like that all day, that heat climbing up, feeling as if he was balancing out a fever.

He pushes it away, like he had before the rumble.

The cigarette lights up easily, and when he enters the DX, he can hear Steve say, "—packs wanna tonight, since it's getting later in the year. Bonfires and all that."

"Already?" Soda says, hopping on the counter. He flashes a grin at Ponyboy as he walks in, swinging his legs against the counter. Two-Bit is cocking his eyebrows at one of the girls who've come in — most of them interested in Soda.

It's curious, Ponyboy thinks all of a sudden, that Soda's hardly engaging with the girls. Even if he's got Sandy, Soda still flirted a little, played with the girls. Most of them were soccy, some were greasers and almost all of them alphas, interested in him. He hangs back as Steve nods, "You know how it is, people getting kicked out or runaways circling back. Everyone wants to get together round this time anyhow and everyone's itching more cause of the kid."

That makes Soda glance over at Ponyboy with a look that Ponyboy doesn't know if it's a slight awe or concern. "I dunno... Darry might not want him to."

"You worried he ain't gonna hold up as nice as you?" Steve says, and Ponyboy doesn't know what to make about what that means. "I don't want him there, but it makes sense. Everyone wants to see that little omega who stabbed that hotshot soc, and it's not like we got a whole lot of omegas out here."

At the mention of it, some of the girls glance over at Ponyboy. His ears get hot, and he ducks his head, not sure exactly of what was going on but he didn't like it. Hold up with what? What did Bob have anything to do with this?

The door jingles, and in strides Dallas, who winks at some of the girls at the counter as he strides in. Ponyboy can see that he's got a fresh black eye, his shirt is torn in a few places but he seems more or less himself, all the sharp lines that Ponyboy hadn't been able to capture before. He tears his eyes from him, not wanting the attention, "Soda and I aren't gonna be the only omegas there, right? I mean — ain't Sandy coming?" It was a nice thought, to be able to have Sandy there, maybe she would want to tell him what was actually going on.

That's about when something funny happens: Two-Bit glances up from a blonde he's been flirting with to look at Soda; Steve stiffens up with what looked like barely suppressed anger and Soda's entire face blanches entirely at the mention. The only person who doesn't seem to react is Dallas, who's busy palming cigarette cartons from the open counter into his jacket, not the least bit concerned.

Which just makes Ponyboy's ears go red again, and for him to glance around, feeling like he'd just said an incredibly dirty word, despite the fact that Sandy was well. Sandy. Nice, sweet, always willing to talk to him. "I mean... she is, ain't she?"

"Not unless she's coming up from Florida," Steve's voice is absolutely venomous, and so is his expression, aimed squarely at Ponyboy. "Don't think she is tho—"

"Quit it, Steve," Sodapop looks as pale as ever, and for once in his life, he looks angrily at Steve. Even his scent shifts, and the girls start to file out, away from them. Ponyboy feels utterly lost as Soda continues, "She—"

"Don't give me that," the note that Steve's voice takes on is startlingly like his father's when Ponyboy has heard him yelling in the night at Steve from his porch. It makes him flinch away more than his increasingly agitated scent does. "She's the bitch who ran out of here with someone else's pup, I don't get why you're defending her!"

All at once, the bottom in Ponyboy's stomach seems to fall out. Sandy really was gone, and she was pregnant? With someone else's kid? Ponyboy looks at Soda with wide eyes and he knows that it's true with the way Soda looks at Steve, with the way he seems to be on the verge of tears and anger in the middle of the DX.

And horribly, he realizes he hasn't seen her. Hasn't scented her since the rumble. He looks helplessly between Soda's upset expression and Steve's angry one. It feels like a pin could drop as Soda's voice says, "Just because you want Sandy to be a bitch doesn't mean that she is one—"

"What, is whore better then?" Steve bites out, and any girl who wanted to stay really clears out at that. Soda looks like he could cry in that moment, like he's been struck. Even Two-Bit stands up at that and Dallas looks angrily at Steve too.

That same need to defend him from the night when he ran away wells up in Ponyboy and even though he doesn't know what's going on, even though it's probably not smart to say it, Ponyboy gets out, "Shut your trap—"

"Curtis!" There's a sharp reprimand there and everyone's eyes turn to the back door. The owner of the DX, a man who seemed about as old as the neighborhood, with an annoyed expression stands in the back doorway, almost growling out, "I don't pay you to talk to your friends, I pay you to work. Get out here, we got a line halfway around the block." Soda looks like he wants to say something more, but nods quickly, moving from around the counter. Ponyboy can see him halfway swipe at his eyes as he goes out, and it's still hard for him to process what's just been said, what he's missed. "And you, Randle. You're supposed to be working in an hour, so you better take your friends home and cool off first."

Steve looks as angry as ever, Ponyboy glowering at him as he moves to the front door. "Yeah, yeah. I'll take the damn puppies home—"

"I'm going back with Dallas," Ponyboy insists instead, Two-Bit shifting almost reluctantly. He looks between them all, but nods, goes out with Steve.

The doors both snap shut within seconds of each other. Ponyboy feels like he's starting to breathe hard out of frustration and anger and the revelation he just heard. That Sandy was gone, she was having pups and they weren't Soda's. All of this had happened and hadn't known.

Dallas is the one who makes a move, shoving him from behind, eyebrows raised, "How you gonna hitch a ride with me and I ain't got one?"

"Guess we'll walk," Ponyboy says, and Dallas gives a half chuckle out of him. He deftly grabs a cold Coke and a chocolate bar — both of them, he tosses to Ponyboy. Ponyboy takes it from him and Dallas nods towards the door and Ponyboy follows him out, still frustrated by what had just gone on.

They walk in silence for a few moments, Dallas lighting his cigarette, Ponyboy opening the chocolate bar without thinking, biting into it. As he walks, he looks over at Dallas, seeing how he's limping a little, bruised up visibly and clearly not caring all that much as they go. It's not the first time Dallas has shown up, mostly banged up. Still, the frustration of being unable to draw him nags at Ponyboy; he pays attention to the way Dallas' arm moves as he takes a drag at his cigarette, at the way he uses his left hand and not his right. At the stains of grass and blood mixed with dirt on his elbows and fingers, at the way he's got a cut on his cheek that looks like a half crescent.

He's not sure why he's so fascinated with the details, except that he just wants to capture them on paper so, so badly.

"What're you staring at, kid?" Dallas blows smoke from his mouth as they walk down the street, eye brow raising. "See something you like?"

A scoffing sound leaves Ponyboy's lips, and he takes another bite of chocolate. "What the hell happened back there? When did all that with Sandy go down? Is..." He swallows thickly, head still swirling with the information. "Is she really pregnant? Is it really not Soda's?" If anyone will tell him, if anyone'll confirm it without any guff, it's Dallas.

He's not sure when it became the case, that he trusts Dallas like this, he's not sure how it happened except when Dallas nods, that's what really cements it. That this is happening, that this is happening to Sandy, that she was gone to Florida. "Yeah, they caught me up while you were out. Sandy wouldn't say exactly it wasn't Soda's but..." He shrugs. "She wouldn't have moved if it was his."

"You think she's a whore, too?" He kicks at the dirt, making their way closer and closer to home. Dallas glances at him, with that same expectant look from days before, in the parking lot, a silent permission to let Ponyboy say what he wanted. And this time, Ponyboy does, looking down, trying to work through it, trying to process everything. "I mean she— She and Soda were good together. Always liked her, and all. I just... why would she cheat on him? It's Soda."

Dallas offers his cigarette, and Ponyboy takes it from him. "Sylvia used to cheat on me all the damn time, kid. I know about her trying to come onto Johnny — Steve told me about that one. I don't know, seems just as fair as anything she might've or some shit happened we ain't know about." Ponyboy takes a drag from the cigarette, listening. A few cars pass them as they turn the corners, and distantly, he can hear the trains running through. "Steve's a fucking idiot though, saying shit like that in front of everyone no matter what."

"Feel the same way if it was you and Sylvia?" Ponyboy asks, remembering the last time she'd been brought up. "You used to complain about her two timing you." He blows smoke out, and Dallas snickers at that without any heat, without any real anger. "I just... I thought they were solid." He hates how his voice wavers over the words, "Soda wanted to marry her, Dal. Was gonna— gonna wait til I was in college."

And once again, it feels like a lifetime ago that Soda said it to him in bed, curled up together. The way he'd talked about being in love. He looks at Dallas, able to see the sky start to turn colors with the sunset, able to see how it makes the tips of Dallas' dark hair light up.

He wants to say more, ask more. But then Dallas looks up, raises his eyebrows, "Kid, you better get on inside, get dressed. Bonfire's tonight, and you can't go in your school clothes." He reaches over, scents Ponyboy, the cold of his ring on Ponyboy's warm neck. "See you at the bonfire, and we'll pick this up later." He nods, and he limps in the direction of Buck's.

Ponyboy watches him go, turns and makes his way up the steps.

Chapter Text

In the end, they're right: Darry doesn't look particularly jazzed about the idea of Ponyboy going to the bonfire. In fact, he doesn't seem pleased at all that Ponyboy remembered. He purses his lips, looking over Ponyboy when he comes out of the bathroom, his hair greased up and in a tight blue shirt and a pair of jeans.

"Pone —" Darry folds his arms, looking down at him. Ponyboy heard the door open while he was in the shower, but he can't see him from his place in the living room. "You don't have to do this."

"I want to," Ponyboy insists, despite not quite knowing what exactly he's doing here, even though he's not sure of what's required of him here. Only that the bonfire is a rite, a rite that everyone has had, except for him. "Soda went, why can't I?"

"He was older," Darry pushes back, but Ponyboy thinks that he's won with the mention of Soda. That if Soda could do it, than Ponyboy could to. They both know it, and he can't be a pup in everyone's eyes forever. He doesn't want to be, not after he presented, not after everything that's happened. He deserves this, he needs this.

And, a part of him wonders why Darry won't go, as Pack Alpha, as his brother. Why he won't be there, the way he had for Soda.

That's when Soda's voice comes through, from their room, "Darry, I'm takin' him." Ponyboy and Darry both turn around, Soda peeling off his DX uniform as he goes. "Just let me shower — I'll take him there, and I'll bring him back. Promise."

Darry still looks hesitant, and then he sighs, nods. "Alright. But he better make it home, got it?" He looks as if he wants to say more but let's it go.

Soda nods, and Ponyboy's curiosity deepens more and more, pushing away from Darry's reluctance. He moves to sit on the couch nervously as Soda goes to take a shower and get dressed, Darry moving to his own room, giving them the necessary space. No matter how much Ponyboy tries, he can't really pull any more details about the bonfire from memory. Half of the time he hadn't cared too much and other times, things had been a little too tightlipped for him to glean anything other than that Soda had a different experience than everyone else.

It makes him hop his leg up and down, waiting for Soda, watching the sun sink down. Darry seems to just be keeping himself busy in the kitchen, washing dishes, fixing himself something. Ponyboy is about to burst by the time Soda appears in a white shirt, blue plaid, and jeans, with his shoes the nicest they've ever been. His hair is styled so well that even Steve would be jealous with the precision and Ponyboy grins at him.

Soda beams back, "C'mon, you ready to go, Pone?"

"Sure am," about leaping off the couch, Ponyboy follows him outside into the cool night. He pauses only a second, turning back inside to get Dallas' brown jacket out of his room, slipping it on. Then he rushes back out, Soda chuckling.

"Oh, you remember it now?" He ribs Ponyboy as they walk down the darkened street. The streetlights are turning on as they go, what little they are, the breeze upticking in the cold. Ponyboy keeps up with Soda as they go, only sparing one glance away back to Two-Bit's house, where he can see the light on, where Johnny was.

There's a pang in his chest, small and tight that Johnny won't be there, that he won't be able to see. Then a duller pang, about Darry not being there to witness this.

Then Soda's arm winds its way around his shoulders, his scent settling against Ponyboy, and then he's looking at him, at the pride on his face. "Two-Bit ain't tell you nothing, did he?" When Ponyboy shakes his head, Soda nods. "Thought so! Two's a good buddy, he knows the rules."

They make their way down the street with ease, winding down the black path, cutting through the lot slowly. Ponyboy looks up at Soda, at the way his hair shifts in the wind, at the genuine happiness on his face. "So what... what do we have to do? What's the deal?"

Soda slows down a little, and so does Pony. Soda for a moment falters, as if trying to remember, "When I got initiated, I was fifteen going on sixteen. Dad...," his voice trails off, before restarting, "The way he told me was that socs got their way of bringing themselves together and we do too. 'Cept socs do it with money. Greasers are different; we try to be tough but we also need each other different. Want each other different than them. Socs always think about their money, doing things tit for tat. Greasers don't. We're packs, and the bonfire is to welcome you into it. Make you apart of all packs, make everyone know you're just as tough as them, that you got people's back." Some of this is Dad's words, repeated in a way that makes Soda smile softer and Ponyboy ache.

He can see his Dad being theatrical with it, goofing as he explains. Soda takes it more seriously as he goes on, for once resembling their mother the most. "When I had to initiate, I got told I had to do two things: have proof I was tough and then be able to show it when they asked. I ain't have a heads up, but you remember this time last year right?"

For a moment, Ponyboy racks his brains. He rubs at his cheek, a cool breeze passing through. With it comes a riot of scents, including the scent of ash and fire. The church comes to mind — yelling for Johnny, running from Dallas — and then he nods. "You got caught joyriding some soc's car. Took it to Oklahoma—"

"City!" Soda laughs, and Ponyboy remembers too that Sandy went with him, had come back with the biggest grins on their faces. "Came back after that, got arrested for it. Everyone knew, didn't have to do much. Hard part was being at the bonfire, proving I was tough, too. See, every pack picks someone to represent 'em. Even us."

That makes Ponyboy's eyebrows go up. Soda tugs him further along, keeping up the pace. Streetlights are at full light now and they pass beneath them briefly as they get closer and closer. He wonders if Soda will pick who he'll have to prove himself against in Darry's stead or if Darry already picked someone and couldn't face him. There's a dreadful thought that he might have to go against Steve — but then the alternative was Two-Bit who he'd wrestled before. And then, Dallas...

"It ain't no worse than a rumble," Soda's voice is soothing, but firm, breaking up Pony's thoughts. "Skin on skin, and all you gotta do is keep someone down for five taps." The dread deepens in Pony for a moment and then determination pushes through it. "I did it, even took down Steve to do it." There's pride brimming in his voice, and Ponyboy feels a bit of surprise and a wave of glee.

"And Sandy? Did she have to?"

Soda shrugs his shoulders, presses on. "That's what everyone has to do. This though... Might be different for you." Soda tugs him up the last and largest hill. Once they get to the top, Pony looks down at the assembly of greasers. It's large — he can't count everyone but it has to be at least fifty people. The main bonfire is in the center, large and giving off warm light. There are several smaller ones dotting the area, but most are gathered around the main one.

It's a lot to take in: some greasers he recognizes even at a distance, most of whom were at the previous rumble. Some aren't, and as Soda tugs him forward with a whoop, Pony follows as fast as he can. The closer he gets, the more he recognizes that some are as young as his and just a very few seem to be twenty and older.

Some are clearly from other places, some not — faces from bars, from the paper, classmates and people only seen at the movie house.

Even spying on soc's at their little club gatherings, it rarely exceeded ten or twelve socs gathered around at once. Here? Ponyboy has never seen so many greasers together, so much more to rival socs. Almost everyone is an alpha, and for a moment he hesitates.

But Soda's hand is on his neck, and Ponyboy can see that Steve is in the back, scowling; Two-Bit is talking with Tim Shepard closer to the fire. When Soda gives another cry, Ponyboy joins in.

And that's when Dallas comes into view, stalking from the shadows into the ring of bonfire light. He throws the longest shadow for a moment, hair still unoiled, a little wild. He's smoking a cigarette and when his eyes land on Pony, he barks out, "C'mon, Ponyboy!"

That's when everyone turns to look: away from the scattered fires, away from paying attention to each other, away from their packs, all to Ponyboy, walking from the shadowy knoll and into the very lighted edge of the bonfire.

They descend, circling like wolves. And Ponyboy doesn't feel trapped, doesn't feel afraid.

It's time to join them.

Chapter Text

"I'm shocked you showed up," Sylvia is the person who scents him first, and Dallas levels a glare at her as he makes his way onto the field. She's smirking with a cigarette in her hand, and behind her, Dallas can see people start to pile up the wood and douse it with kerosene. "I thought that horse throwing you would've kept you at Buck's."

"That beta of yours got a limp dick already?" Dallas retorts coolly, rolling his shoulders, standing up a little straighter. "Or you run out on him already?"

Her scowl deepens; he figures it has to be one or the other. She blows smoke from her nostrils, flicks her cigarette ash onto the ground. Behind her, the bonfire is sparked to life, the sun sinking almost entirely on the horizon.

Done with her, Dallas makes his way over to the designated spot for the Curtis pack. In truth, riding rodeo vehemently to try and get enough money for his pack had injured him enough that he knew doing it again for a month was just out of the question. Which meant that Dallas was going to have to get other, more illicit work from Buck.

That usually meant bootlegging, and while it was a little riskier, he'd just have to muscle out Tim Shepard first.

As the bonfire crackles, more greasers descending on the grassy lot, Dallas puts the thoughts away for sometime later. The bonfire, the initiation was more important at the moment. Not that he thought it would all go smoothly: the last time an omega had been initiated, a few people held grudges for losing against an omega. One of them being Steve; Dallas sees him on the side, talking with some of the other greasers. He's sure Steve is thinking about it given the outburst at the DX earlier that day.

The fact that Ponyboy hadn't known doesn't weigh much on him; the kid was going through a lot as is, and it didn't matter much that he came to the information late. He hadn't had many answers anyway, but the way Ponyboy had brought up Sylvia still left something sour in him as he strikes up a match and lights a Kool. The breeze going through makes it annoying, and he's only in a black shirt and jeans.

"You think you're gonna survive tonight without a jacket?" Two-Bit seems to read his mind, coming behind him to nudge at his shoulder. "Gonna freeze your ass off."

"Ponyboy's got it," Dallas grumbles out, "Jean jacket got a hole in it I gotta patch up." He blows out some smoke, glancing at Two-Bit. They both move to sit on a gnarled tree stump, greasers still filing in. Some of them place food on tables some have gathered up. "He'll probably forget it too, his track record."

Two-Bit lets out half a laugh. "He better not. It'll be trouble with him coming in with that jacket; I'm sure people'll think he's marked already by you."

Dallas groans as he stretches on the stump, his leg giving a throb of pain. "C'mon, Two-Bit. He's fourteen, that kid ain't thinking about anything except books and that trial. Broads and alphas won't even cross his mind til next year, maybe."

"You say that like you weren't face first in an omega at his age," Two-Bit cajoles with him, pulling a beer can out from his jacket. He cracks it open, the sound of the tab half swallowed up by a whoop of recognition from one of the other packs. "Initiation means he ain't just a greaser now — he's an omega, and everyone's going to know. He'll be on the market to anyone who wants him and you never know, he might want 'em too." He takes a pull of beer, Dallas ruminating over that for a moment.

It's not as if he hadn't known when Ponyboy presented. It was soon after the funeral, and Dallas could just about scent him down the block when it happened. But, still. Ponyboy was younger than him, hadn't ever expressed anything for anyone, and yet Two-Bit is right about what he's said.

This whole thing was a signal that Ponyboy just wasn't a pup anymore. Just like it had been for him, Two-Bit, Johnny, and everyone else. Except it's a little different, for some reason. It's not as if he wants Ponyboy always seen as a pup — he wasn't. Not after everything that had happened.

Something about it itches in the back of his mind, breaking the silence with, "Long as it ain't Sylvia, I guess. She went gunning right for Johnny after he got in."

Two-Bit rolls his eyes at that, the wind picking up. The Shepards are filing in, and soon, they'll have to all get into formation. "Dunno what the hell she was thinking, trying to get with Johnny outta everybody. He's scared of his own damn shadow."

"How's Johnny doing, anyway?" He taps out the ash on his cigarette as he sees Tim approach on his own. "He upset about not being able to come?"

"Yeah," Two-Bit sighs out, "Tried like hell to come and just ended up overextending himself. Almost didn't come myself, but my mom ain't working today." He waves to Tim, voice rising, "Hey, Tim. I see Curly ain't with you, he ain't out on good behavior?"

"He'll be back next week," Tim scowls, "Wanted him out by now, he's eligible but you know we ain't doing them again til next year. His fault for missing the first bonfire." Tim glances at Dallas. "You think the kid's up to fight?"

"He's tough," Dallas immediately pushes back, "If Soda could do it, Ponyboy can. Don't go easy on him." He knows Ponyboy would hate it if the packs deliberately treated him any different than Soda, even if Tim's nod makes Dallas just a touch nervous remembering when Tim and Soda went at it. Soda had barely gotten him down for the needed taps, and Ponyboy wasn't exactly like Soda.

Still, Dallas feels a measure of confidence Ponyboy would be able to do it. It might take him longer, but he remembers the rumble, Ponyboy jumping on guys bigger than him, the way he'd kept a soc almost twice his size down and he hadn't been the way he is now. He's healthier, had some rest.

"Don't expect Sal'll go easy on him," Tim continues, the scar on his face starker in the growing bonfire light, "He's still sore over losing to your other omega." He glances over them both with a more sharper look than usual and Dallas can imagine Sal's face: the wild blonde hair, the stupid sideburns shaved sharply in. He leads the Tiber Street Tigers, was an aggressive alpha and he had more pride than what he knew what to do with.

"He knows what happens if he cheats," Two-Bit warns.

"Sal's still stupid," Steve breaks in haughtily, still clearly sore over the earlier issue with Soda as he walks over. "Can't put nothing past him. Anyone seen Evie?"

"Nah," Tim says, "Said she had a shift tonight." Steve takes off with a huff, and Dallas can only guess why Steve wants to see Evie. "Long as y'all think this is the way to go, I'll leave it as is." They all look up at Sal's distinctive little war whoop, and Dallas can feel his annoyance crest with Sal's scent coming through.

There's a last check of packs, people scrambling to take their places. Dallas pays only half attention, mind turning back to Two-Bit's previous words and Tim's too. This was going to be a big change, one he had thought of more in abstract and now he more fully turns over things. It wasn't as if Ponyboy was going to change overnight, it wasn't as if Dallas would either.

He knew this was coming, like everyone, when Ponyboy had presented. He even thought, if he were honest, Ponyboy would do well, really well. He was excited, even, that Ponyboy was going to go through with this. That he really, truly wasn't a pup anymore.

Except, there's a part of him that hasn't truly thought of Pony as truly a pup in awhile. The thought occupies him as everyone begins to get to their necessary places. Maybe he treated Ponyboy like one most of the time, maybe he said it. Thing is... he wasn't acting like that as of late.

When the rumble happened, after he'd grabbed Ponyboy, as they drove in the car, Dallas hadn't talked to Ponyboy like he was a pup. It was a moment he didn't enjoy thinking about, the panic and the anger. It hadn't happened again and he hadn't wanted to revisit it but in the past few weeks whenever they bumped into each other, Ponyboy didn't act like a pup, either.

Before, he tended to do what most did: pull away, do what Dallas said, usually kept his mouth shut. Now, he remembers Ponyboy snapping at him in a way not even Steve would try to do, Ponyboy unloading in the car days before. The fact that Dallas hadn't demanded his jacket back from him either, hadn't minded him running around with it.

It's something else.

He doesn't get to dwell on it long; he can scent Ponyboy and Soda on the wind and he gets up, rolling his shoulders as he goes. The cigarette is almost out when he catches sight of them coming down the hill, Soda and Ponyboy both done up nicely in hair and their shirts and jeans — and Ponyboy, there in Dallas' jacket for everyone to see.

He doesn't know what to think for a moment, seeing him dressed like that, calling out with Soda, to see the pack greet him back, raising their arms, some people halfway howling back.

Only that Dallas strides forward, cigarette still in his mouth, something in him loving the sight of Ponyboy now, raising his voice up to yell back, "C'mon, Ponyboy!"

Ponyboy descends with Soda, arms around each other and Dallas can't take his eyes away from them. He only feels a little bit of trepidation that Darry isn't with them, glancing at Two-Bit in concern.

Chapter Text

The gathered packs, now that Ponyboy can see them better, are more varied in age, gender, dynamic and race than what he expects. Some come in well worn leather jackets, oil stained or fresh shirts and jeans in various shades and states. Some have older bomber jackets, some have leather, some have none at all. Some have shoes that are hanging on with tape wrapped around the soles, some in mismatched shoes. Most have their hair done in some sort of way, or they have combs or rings or necklaces that glimmer off the firelight. Some have cars he can see parked elsewhere, others have their arms thrown about each other striding in, some of them just show up alone. It's almost dizzying to see them all together here, to see them start to shift and coordinate into their designated packs.

It's as if an invisible command is telling them what to do for a moment until a voice cuts through, "Packs, go to your respective spots. No jostling, no weapons. You know the rules." The voice belongs to an alpha man, who scents of oil like a mechanic, barking out orders as he comes in from the shadows. He's a tall, stocky greaser with dark hair, a stained white shirt, blue jeans that seem a bit stiff, and when he looks at Ponyboy, he feels shocked to realize he's seen him before, his distinctively handsome features evident.

"Ed?" He asks, blinking. The last time he'd seen him was at his parents' funerals, and before then at a dozen gatherings as a child that he hardly cared about until now.

"Hey, Pony," the older man gives a curt nod. He's about his parent's age, early forties, and much like his father, was good looking even with such a serious expression on his face. If he weren't in the clothes he was in, he could pass for a normal, respectable adult. "Glad you could make it. Stay where you are—"

"Hold on, hold on!" A voice cuts through and for a half moment, Ponyboy thinks it's his father's voice. He turns, and to his relief and excitement, Darry is running down the hill. He's in the same shirt as the rumble as he comes down. All at once, the little trepidation Ponyboy has, vanishes. Having Darry here made all the difference as Darry finally comes into the circle, his eyes focused on Ponyboy and Ed.

Soda seems to feel the same, beaming at Darry, pulling him into a hug despite Darry's obvious need to get some air in him. A few greasers call out in response too, and Darry claps Ponyboy's back as he gets to him.

"What — What took you so long?" Ponyboy asks, "Why ain't you come before?"

Darry huffs, sighs. "Can't let my kid brothers go without me, especially when y'all ain't gonna be kids much longer," he gives Pony a half shove, and Ponyboy grins, grateful he hasn't messed with his hair, shoving him back. "I need to talk to Ed, right quick."

Ponyboy stands there, Soda's arm on him, still. He can see Tim in one space not too far from Steve along with a girl and a couple other members of his pack. He can pick out the Brumly Boys, The River Kings, Tiber Street Tigers, the Vipers, all in their own packs, slowly gathering themselves in a ring around the main bonfire. The Vipers are in a more formal regalia than most, with jackets with the same colors, and similar looks, most of them girls. The River Kings seem to have matching yellow and blue jackets out right, but with some wear on them. There are at least fifty, sixty people strong here, and all of them are listening to Ed as he organizes them. It's fascinating to Ponyboy, to see everyone here like this, entirely different from the rumble where there had been a pit in his stomach, when he had been apprehensive, fearful of what was going to happen.

No socs are going to roll up here. This bonfire, this action didn't feel useless, awful, where even if they won, nothing would change. No this... this felt more important than that night, weeks ago.

Looking around, he can tell that there are some ramshack tables in the very back, with food and drink on it, can spot some blankets not too far. No one feels hostile as they shift around, and seeing Two-Bit, Dallas, Steve together, sometimes glancing at him, sometimes at Darry, makes him feel more settled than he ever had been at the rumble, waiting for the first punch to be thrown. There's no mixture of blood, no one's pheromones are jacked so high he might vomit. The warmth from the fires are a total difference from the rain and mud soaked night that had occurred at the rumble.

All the shadows, mingling in the light, are where he belongs.

Darry walks over to Ed, both of them leaning together, talking quietly. For a moment, Ponyboy remembers Ed at cookouts, remembers seeing him a time or two in almost the exact same position as he is now with Darry, only with his father talking jovially. He looks to Soda expectantly, and Soda whispers, "Just stay here. Let Ed tell you how everything's gonna be." Ponyboy can hear Steve call out to Soda, and Soda ignores him to give Ponyboy a reassuring smile. "You're gonna be okay, honey. I promise."

Ed and Darry seem to come to an agreement, and Darry lopes back on over looking pleased. "We gotta let Ed do the talking first."

There's a few claps that ring sharply in the air. Everyone quiets down, and Ed's voice rises in the darkness, "Everyone! All packs, call your attention to me!" There's a brief beat and Ed nods. "This is the Initiation of 1965. For those of you who are new, I'm Ed Trenton, oldest alpha. As the oldest, I run this operation." There's a spatter of clapping and Ed gives a brief smirk that's as dangerous and as charming as someone half his age. "Now, we ain't like what those socs think we are; we got rules here. With all initiations, there is no violence here; all switchblades, chains, gears, bottles, should be away. I catch a single one of you with any of that, I eject you until 1966. If you have a pack dispute, that dispute will remain in your backpocket until we are done with this initiation." His voice booms and even the Shepard pack nods in agreement.

He stalks around the bonfire as he speaks, eyeing each and every greaser assembled, it seems. Ponyboy feels mesmerized, mind racing with all he's been told, all the things he hasn't been told, body electric. He still doesn't feel exactly up to shape for a fight; he might flush at any moment, and yet a good portion of him feels like maybe he could take on whoever they throw at him, feels like he belongs as much as Soda. He glances over to their pack again — Dallas looking dangerously pleased, Two-Bit leaning close, Steve intent.

Ed continues on, "Now that we have that established, I have confirmation from the Curtis Pack that Ponyboy Curtis is fourteen years of age, and he has presented as an omega." The murmurs that go up are quickly silenced with a glance from Ed. Soda nudges him, and Ponyboy walks forward, into almost the center of the bonfire. The heat, the smell of wood and smoke is intense, and he has to push some of the church memories away, holding his head up higher. "It is rare for omegas to be welcomed and rarer at this age as well. However, we have a rare circumstance today in that Ponyboy is going to have a different initiation in several ways." Ponyboy's palms sweat at that, and he doesn't dare look at Soda as Ed turns, his eyes piercing. "Ponyboy, please join me — state your name, your pack's name, and your pack alpha."

He can hardly focus as he steps forward, walks around the bonfire to be at Ed's side. He can hear Soda move, but not Darry, recognizing the footfalls as they retreat. "I'm Ponyboy Michael Curtis," he winces internally, not sure if he had to give his whole name or not, "I'm with the Curtis Pack, and my Pack Alpha is Darry Curtis."

Ed claps him on the shoulder. "Normally, we ask that you give proof of your deeds done as a greaser — out of pride for spurring the law, to show your pride in your skills, and a defiance to anyone who wouldn't think of you as tough. And we ask that you normally fight, one on one, with each pack representative." One of the Tiber Street Tigers sneers at that in an ugly way. "Normally I ask for something from the past six months, with proof. However, Ponyboy, you are very unique. You've done something no one else has ever done: you've shown that proof within the span of a week — without any need to demonstrate that before anyone else here."

Confusion ripples across the assembled packs all at once, whispers flowing immediately. The Tiber Street Tiger greaser in particular looks annoyed at the words. Soda, now with the rest of the Curtis pack, exchanges the first glance all night with Steve, a look of confusion on their faces that is mirrored on Two-Bit's face and then Dallas'.

Ponyboy freezes for a moment, and then Darry steps up, "In the last month, Ponyboy was chased into greaser territory by a group of Socs." It makes Ponyboy's stomach flipflop as Darry looks around seriously. "It was him and Johnny Cade — and both of them fought off those socs. One of them died by a blade for his trouble." His face is grim, the fire making the shadows cast on his face in a way that makes his expression darker. "They didn't do it in their territory; they did it in ours and they paid for it."

There's a murmur at that, some people glancing at Darry and then Pony. Ponyboy draws himself up as much as he can. He knows that Darry didn't like this, that he probably didn't like thinking about that week even as he continues, "Only reason Ponyboy and Johnny came home is cause of a fire. A fire where they saved the lives of kids — and even though they went through that fire, Ponyboy and Dallas both still showed up at the rumble against the socs — a rumble that many of you participated in. They both fought harder than anyone, and it was them who made sure that Johnny lived through the night."

Logically, it was the doctors. They hadn't done much; Ponyboy had thrown up on Dallas' shoes, he felt horrible, hadn't even wanted to fight. And yet, as he looks around, as he turns it over, even if he hated the circumstances, he'd do it again. Randy had admitted to him he wouldn't save those kids, had done so in a moment that felt cold. And Ponyboy isn't him, isn't a soc.

Ed nods solemnly at Darry. "In light of this, I see fit to initiate him without the usual methods because he has done things that no one else has, has shown more mettle than anyone else here can boast to. I feel that he has more than surpassed the requirement to be considered a greaser — and he has shown bravery, has shown loyalty that I don't see displayed often, at all. Greasers aren't like socs; loyalty to your pack is valued, and to show it in such circumstances is extraordinary." There are more mumbles around them, more ripples. "I will put it up to a vote here, on this for the packs: if you say that he has met the requirement in a majority vote of yes, he will not have to do the usual initiation rituals and he will be accepted as he is now. If the majority vote otherwise, he will perform the initiation as usual."

There's more mumbling, rippling of confusion. Ponyboy feels just as confused, unsure of what to think: that he was going to have to do what everyone else had done or not and if that was a good thing or a bad thing; that everyone would be looking at him differently, more than before if either came to pass. A part of him wants to prove himself again, wants to pipe up. The rest of him isn't sure, wants to trust Ed here and Darry.

Ed looks over everyone, giving them the time to debate amongst themselves. Hesitantly, Ponyboy steps up, reaching out to tap Ed's shoulder. Ed looks down at him, eyebrow raised. "Are you... are you sure about this?" Ponyboy keeps his voice quiet, hoping it doesn't tremble. "Shouldn't I do it? Soda did it."

"He did," Ed's voice is just as quiet, expression calm. "I don't expect everyone will go with it. The Tiber Street Tigers' leader, he lost to Sodapop. Everyone else, though? We read the papers, you know. We talk amongst each other. I didn't make it up; you did something exceptional. I don't believe there's any reason for you to do more." He looks as if he wants to say something more, and Ponyboy's chest twists before Ed claps him on the shoulder. "Just stay here. See what they say."

Ponyboy knows he has a choice. He could fight Ed on it, push back for his pride. At the same time, he remembers Randy in the car, remembers the way Steve sneered about heroes, how Two-Bit said they'd been heroes all along. Thinks of Johnny, the way he looked when he was out of the hospital, the way they had joked as they had saved those kids together. Thinks of Dallas, the way he'd just given his jacket to Ponyboy, how they had all cared.

That maybe this was Ed's way of caring, too. Maybe Ed knew better, about packs, about loyalty, about what made a greaser.

So he steps back, allows Ed to clear his throat, raises his hand. "I've given you enough time." Ed directs his gaze to Darry, who breaks out of a conversation with Soda. "Curtis pack?"

"We agree to this," Darry's voice carries, and if he's hesitant, it doesn't show. "And we accept him."

Ed takes his words with a firm nod. Next, Tim Shepard answers for his pack, "Shepard pack agrees. He's more than met it." His dark eyes glitter at Ponyboy as he nods. "We accept him."

The River King's rep, a guy in a tough looking yellow jacket steps up, voice clear, "The River King pack also agrees. We accept him and his deeds."

It's the Tiber Street Tigers rep who shakes their head, the way Ed predicted. "This is bullshit, Ed. You're going soft on him cause he's an omega, and there ain't no other omega here who could take him." Immediately, tension runs through the air at his words, and the other packs look at him. Some of his pack members nod in agreement while others seem to just stand where they are. "Just cause everyone else got a problem fighting a young omega doesn't mean I don't."

Instantly, Ponyboy can see Dallas, Two-Bit already rounding on the other alpha. Dallas actually gets there first, biting out, "You itching to get your ass kicked again, Sal?"

Darry looks like stone though, and Soda doesn't seem angry so much as annoyed, reaching out to pull Dallas back. Neither of them speak though; it's Ed who cuts, voice almost like a bark, "That right, Sal? You think that you, a pup barely nineteen years old, can overrule me?" Ed folds his arms, and the expression on his face is rakish, haughty. "I remember the last time we had an omega up here, and I can see that all you want to do is get revenge for an omega cracking your nose in the dirt." Sal goes pink, the sight clashing with his blonde hair. "This is about an initiation, it isn't about holding grudges." He takes a step closer to Sal. "I'll ask you again: What's your vote?"

Sal doesn't say anything: he flicks out a switchblade, and darts forward to stab Ed.

Ed is quicker; he dodges the switchblade, grasps Sal's wrist with one hand and sweeps his legs from beneath him with his own leg. It's over in seconds, Sal forced to let go of the switchblade, Ed overpowering him, shoving him onto the ground. Ed grunts, pressing a knee into his chest, eyes ablaze. "You're out of here! You're not allowed back," he digs his knee in more, Sal gasping, "until 1967 for drawing a blade on me, and for objecting to this! You understand me?"

Sal squirms, gasps, spits in Ed's face — there's a gasp among the people gathered at the level of disrespect, at the way he sneers. Ed punches him so hard that Ponyboy isn't surprised when he falls limp. He feels his chest get tight as Ed stands up, face angry as he looks at the remaining members of Sal's pack. "Anyone else in this pack have an objection?" He's greeted by desperate shakes of the head, save for one hesitating greaser that Ed points at. "Get him up out of here. If I see either of you again tonight, you'll be ejected too."

The greaser rushes forward, hoists Sal up and both exit as quick as they can, the switchblade in the grass forgotten. The bonfire pops besides them, crackles and Ponyboy looks defiantly at the rest as Ed declares, "The Tiber Street Tigers' vote is forfeited. Vipers?"

"The Vipers agree," their leader, an alpha girl with dark hair and a serious face says, the wind lifting her hair as she speaks. "He's proven himself, as is and we accept him."

The last group — made of mostly those who loned it, passerbys, and others — has, of all people, Sylvia step up to represent them. It's almost a shock to see her, her blonde hair pulled up into a high ponytail, her lipstick a bright red. For a moment, Ponyboy doesn't quite trust what she'll say. "We vote in favor of Ponyboy," she nods to Ponyboy, and for a moment he wonders what Dallas thinks of her being there. He looks at her neck, at the fact that it's absent of the St. Christopher.

Ed nods, and withdraws a switchblade from his own pocket. It's an older one, handsomely made that glimmers in the fire light. "It's decided then: because of his previous exceptional behavior, Ponyboy does not have to do the usual initiation." The switchblade glints in the fire as he slices open his palm, and says, "Give me your left hand, Ponyboy." Ponyboy wipes his hand hastily on his jeans, and reaches outward. Ed grasps his hand, and cuts into Ponyboy's palm. It doesn't hurt as much as Ponyboy thought it would, as Ed clasps his hand, blood mingling. "You are now a greaser, to all. A man, an omega to us all, and we welcome you. Do you accept this?"

"Yes," it comes out almost as a croak, before Ponyboy clears his throat, feeling the slick of blood between them, feeling pride in this moment, feeling every uneasy feeling about being a greaser sweep away in this moment. "I accept everyone — all greasers, all packs."

Ed puts the switchblade away, and when their hands pull away, Ponyboy wishes his parents were there. With his clean hand, Ed reaches over to touch Ponyboy's neck, right where his scent glands are and he rubs in his hand, scenting him. "Now, it's everyone's turn to do so. Your pack will welcome you first, and then everyone else."

Ponyboy let's go of his hand, eyes turning to his pack. It's Darry who approaches him first, his eyes bright when he looks down at him. His eyes look warm in the fire light, and when he looks down at Ponyboy, he feels less like his father's shadow and more of himself, more of the brother that Ponyboy used to get along with, more of the Darry that had been around before their parents died. When he reaches over to scent him, his hand is heavy on Pony's skin.

Silently, they both know Ponyboy isn't a kid anymore. This is it.

Soda is up next, beaming down at Ponyboy, dimples full in his face. Ponyboy grins back at him, Soda's pride making it everything all the sweeter when his hand rubs at his neck. He leans over and whispers, "Congratulations, honey."

When he leaves, Steve is up next. He nods at Ponyboy, scenting him quickly, and Ponyboy nods back at him. Two-Bit follows, the look on his face pretty serious for once as he scents Ponyboy, before his face cracks into a half grin, eyebrows about dancing in his face.

Ponyboy grins back at him, and last up is Dallas. Even with the bruises, the slight limp of his walk, he looks tough as he looks down at Ponyboy. All at once, Ponyboy remembers that he's wearing Dallas' jacket here. He can feel the heat of a blush crawl up his neck, can feel the tips of his ears go pink, as Dallas seems to pause for a moment, his dark eyes glittering as he lifts his hand up to settle it on Ponyboy's neck.

His grip is different; not as heavy as Darry's, not as brief as Steve's was. His fingers just seem to slot effortlessly on Ponyboy's neck, knowing just where to massage to spread his scent, the feeling of his ring cool against Ponyboy's heated skin. His expression isn't as adoring as Soda's, isn't as fun as Two-Bit's. It's serious, appraising, his eyes dropping down to the jacket — the place with the burn mark on Ponyboy's shoulder, his scar beneath it prickling as if his body knew that the hand Dallas was using was the same one that had the burn scar on it — and then back up to Ponyboy's face.

In that moment, Ponyboy thinks he could finally get Dallas down on paper. He knows now how to get every dark line onto paper, knows how to illustrate those sharp fangs, the way his lip curls, the dark eyes he has when he murmurs out, voice deep and warm, "Knew you were a greaser, kid."

When his hands drop away, Ponyboy feels the need to reach out, to grasp it. To keep his hand, so warm and large and slotting perfectly, against his neck. He turns his head to watch Dallas walk away, to the other side of the bonfire, and when he turns his head back to the other packs, he's not sure for a moment what to do with that urge.

Then there are other greasers advancing from the edges of the firelight, stepping into the warm, orange glow of the bonfire, hands outstretched, steaming out like a dark river into the glow of the bonfire. Where his pack was orderly, one at a time, the other packs don't work like that. It's a constant flow of greasers from all sides, most of them alphas, hands reaching from the dark to welcome him. Some place their hands on both sides of his neck at two at a time; some are three or more hands touching his neck on the sides, the front of his throat, or right above his chest. Most hands are warm, some cold, a few have rings that are cool against his skin or bracelets or watches that he feels brush against his skin, and all of them take their time to scent him, to welcome him. A few say congratulations, some say nothing at all. As it goes on, it feels overwhelming in experience to see so many faces, to feel so many people touching him all at once.

In all of it, he doesn't feel unsafe. Not even when some leer at Ponyboy, not when someone comments that Ponyboy was always welcome to their hang in a way that seems to be more more than a beer in the suggestion, not even when one of the greasers locks eyes with Ponyboy in a way that makes Ponyboy shiver, makes him look at the older greaser's face longer, eyes lingering on his lips before he and the rest of the pack leave.

No matter what, it's clear to Ponyboy now: he's a greaser. He's one of them, no matter what, and there was never ever going to be any doubt in his mind about that ever again.

Chapter Text

After initiations have never quite been like this. Dallas has seen everyone else in the pack initiated, and none of them have had this happen before and probably won't see this after. He doesn't know exactly what to feel when he looks down at Ponyboy, at his wide brown eyes, expression clearly hopeful, pleased that he's been initiated.

Even when Sal had been angry, demanding, Dallas had known that if it came down to it, Ponyboy would have won. He had itched for it actually in that moment, to see Sal taken down, to have everyone witness an omega put Sal back in his place.

Ed had done it, and it wasn't half as satisfying as he had wanted: action over quick, no real blood drawn. There's a thought that later, he'd find Sal's car, do some damage he wouldn't forget.

Now, though, Dallas has to look at Ponyboy. He's the last, out of everyone in the pack to go up. If Johnny were here, he'd be last given he was the last one initiated before Ponyboy. He looks down at him, at the way his blonde hair seems to mix warmly with the bonfire glow, the way his jacket still looks too big, yet perfectly settled on Ponyboy's shoulders. His hand raises, and settles on Ponyboy's neck, mingling their scents together, Dallas purposely taking his time as he does it.

The law, he didn't care about. Most people, he didn't care about. Ponyboy was his pack though — in name and ritual now and that's what he cared about the most. This was actually serious, actually binding, and now things are cemented even more.

He looks back up at Ponyboy's face — still younger than him, but different now, a little sharper, a little more his own. "Knew you were a greaser, kid."

He's well aware that of anyone, Ponyboy was different, would remain different from them. That he might even leave Tulsa behind. But tonight, that doesn't matter. Tonight, he's a greaser, a real one.

Dallas pulls his hand away from Ponyboy, and joins the rest of the pack, coming to bump shoulders with Two-Bit. Steve still seems like he wants to get Soda's attention, glancing over to him and Darry. Not that it'll work; Soda might not hold grudges for long at all, but tonight he certainly was set on it as he pats Darry's shoulder.

For his part, Darry seems to be holding up okay, even though his head dips to exchange some quiet words with Soda as the other packs come to descend on Ponyboy. There's a steady stream, mostly of alphas, scenting Ponyboy. Some of them are quick, easy. Others linger, or a few descend on him at once to scent him. More than a few seem to want to linger than they should, taking a longer time to touch Ponyboy, some hands sneaking around the back of Ponyboy's neck in a way that makes Dallas' hackles raise.

None of it is helped by some of the snatches of conversation that he hears: Got a nice scent, huh? — Really looks like a Curtis omega — Really scents like one you mean — Think he's gonna stay unclaimed the whole night?

The last part is said by one of the loners about and Dallas knows that all that was said and more about Soda. He even joked about it, but the intent is different, the way they look at Ponyboy feels different, makes his skin itch and instincts annoyed.

Two-Bit is saying something, and when Dallas doesn't respond, Two-Bit nudges him. "Dal, c'mon. Ed's ready."

"Yeah, yeah," Dallas follows Two-Bit and the rest of the pack to the tables set up in the back. They're the same tables they've always used, old and scrounged up from various parts of the neighborhood. The food laid out is half sugary junk food has no interest in and the other half actually cooked food ranging from burgers and fries people bought to some food made by the older guys.

Ponyboy picks first, Dallas unsurprised when he goes for a bottle of Coke and some chocolate Ding Dongs before he gets some chicken and fries. He also gets the most important spot, a makeshift nest close to the bonfire. Alphas don't generally require a nest to sit in, but Ponyboy as an omega, Dallas guesses Ed thought a nest would be better. It's made up of various older blankets, a quilt someone must've found, and some old pillows.

"Think Sal's gonna keep out all winter?" He asks Two-Bit as they go down the line after Darry and Soda.

It's Steve who answers, grabbing a beer, "Sal's a sniffer, tried when Soda was up. You bet he'll try to be around."

"He's got that red Ford, right?" Normally, Dallas doesn't care much about cars or Steve but Steve knows every car in the county at this point.

"The '57 Fairlane, why?" Steve glances at Soda who's joined Ponyboy in the nest, Darry awkwardly on the outside probably badgering them to eat vegetables.

Dal doesn't answer, grabbing a chicken breast. He doesn't grab a beer, opting for reaching into his back pocket for the half bottle of whisky he'd gotten from Two-Bit earlier, and comes to sit on the opposite side of Darry, right next to Ponyboy. He can see Ponyboy's already eaten two of the Ding Dongs, and when he notices Dallas, he grins at him, a bit of chocolate at the corner of his mouth.

Dallas snickers at him, fangs sinking into the chicken. It's crispy, tender, and he wonders who made it as everyone begins to gather at the bonfire. Usually, this is the least interesting bit of the initiation night, where whoever got in bragged about what they'd done. It's mandatory to talk about it; the air is different tonight given most of the assembled have only known what was going on through newspapers, through gossip. They're all itching to hear about the stabbing, about running away right from the horse's mouth in a way that's obvious to Dallas as they gather round. More than a few seem eager to get into Ponyboy's favor, too: handing him beers, some Ding Dongs, and other sweets.

Pony seems not to know what it's about when accepting them; Dallas glares at a dark haired Brumly Boy who retracts an offer of beer. Dallas turns back to his food, Two-Bit coming to sit beside him, tipping his can to Dallas' bottle of whisky. Ed is the one who's voice carries over as Dallas takes a swing of the cheap beer, "Ponyboy, you have all the time you need to tell us about what you've done. This is your time, your night."

Memories of his own initiation floats up: how he had been fifteen, initiated along with Two-Bit and Steve, how it'd been more about bragging to other alphas. Now, he can see that Ponyboy hadn't considered this, having to talk about it, his fingers fiddling with the rim of his drink, eyes wide.

Two-Bit nudges him; Dallas nudges back, huffing out in a low voice, "C'mon, kid." He knows Ponyboy can hear him over the crackle of the fire and the alphas egging him on. Ponyboy swallows, and he abandons his coke to fumble with the tab of beer.

"Let him get some hair on his chest," Steve pipes up from the other side; Dallas can see he's the furthest out, denied of getting close to Soda by the buffer of Darry's body. Darry, who can't tell Ponyboy that he's not allowed to drink, Ponyboy looking a little disgusted by the taste at first. Soda says something and Ponyboy fights the grimace to take a long, sustained pull of beer.

"Yeah, kid!" Dallas joins in, Two-Bit whistling as Ponyboy drinks and drinks. At this point in his initiation, Johnny had choked a bit, gagged on it. Ponyboy winces, and manages to finish off the entire can of beer, coughing and spluttering as he wipes at his face, swearing. A few alphas surge forward; Dallas beats them, handing Ponyboy his whiskey bottle, the amber liquid bright in the light, with a smirk. "It'll taste better than that shit."

"Is it?" Ponyboy sounds skeptical and a round of laughter races through everyone. Darry clearly disapproves enough to make a sound — which makes Ponyboy reach over and grasp the whisky. He uncorks it, eyes watering and there's a whistle of encouragement from someone else and Dallas cocks his eyebrows challengingly.

With another small grimace, Ponyboy takes a small sip and then tips his head back to take a longer pull of the whisky. That makes him gag for a long second before spitting a bit of it out as he pulls it away, shaking his head, coughing and rubbing at his chest with his hand at the burn he's surely feeling.

"Like the hair, kid?"

"Gagging just like an omega, huh?"

A spate of laughter and crowing comes up at that, and Dallas can feel a hot streak of irritation in him as there's a few whistles to go along with it. Ponyboy's eartips go a bit red, glaring in the direction of the voice, Ed cutting in with, "Alright, that's enough from the peanut gallery!" He sits on a rock that's been there forever, plate in hand, tipping his own beer to Ponyboy. "Go on, Ponyboy. Tell us about that night, about what you did."

"I," Ponyboy clears his throat, plays with the bottle a bit in his fingers. He looks up through his eyelashes, his profile blazingly bright, the other half cast in shadow from where Dallas is sitting. He looks out at the sea of greasers and for a moment, Dallas thinks he might fuck up again. Ponyboy seems to find his voice, though, "We weren't out there looking for a fight. They didn't just attack us cause we were there." His fingers play at the wrapper on the bottle, voice getting a little stronger, "We — Johnny and me — were at the moviehouse, earlier. With Dallas," Ponyboy turns his head toward him, expression clearly not blaming, just asking him to join in, "We just went to see a movie, right, Dal?"

He nods in confirmation, deliberately lifting his mouth up in a snarl with the memory, "Sure did. Saw these two Soc broads — that redhead, Cherry and her friend."

"Marcia," Two-Bit adds in, shifting, giving a wink, "I showed up a little after the show started."

"They ain't wanna sit next to Dal," Ponyboy continues, "He got mad, went and had to cool off and their guys got mad at me, Johnny, and Two." Dallas knows that Ponyboy is editing in the moment, not wanting to mention he'd gone to slash Tim's tires. Something that Tim knows, eyes darting to Dallas and Dallas smirking at him, teeth sinking into the bone of the chicken, cracking at it to get to the marrow. "We tried to walk 'em home —" there's a hoot in the crowd "— they tried to pick a fight with us. Two-Bit even gave me a bottle, took out his knife. We ain't fight cause the girls didn't want to." That part, Dallas remembered well enough from Two-Bit telling him about it, before the cops had pulled him in. "We slept at the lot, and Johnny ain't want to go home so we stayed out longer." His finger rubs at the whiskey wrapper more. "Johnny... he wanted me to go home, but I ain't wanna leave him alone after. We were just minding our business that night. That's when they caught up with us, at the park. It was so cold, we could see our breath out there, and all of 'em were in greaser territory, drunk so bad we could smell it five paces off."

There's a twist of anger in Dallas' gut there, at the mention of it, as Ponyboy goes on, "We ain't wanna fight, but we didn't have a choice. It was five of them, two of us, and they're the ones who threw their liquor on us first." There's a hiss, some jostling and anger. "We told them it wasn't their territory — they called us white trash with long hair." The anger gets bigger then, and even Dal understands it then. "So — I called em white trash with Mustangs and madras and I spat on 'em."

A murmur of admiration goes up, a few low whistles joining in. This wasn't something Dallas had heard before, and he knows Ponyboy wouldn't lie about this. Soda seems a bit surprised by this too, and even Darry looks impressed by it. Ponyboy takes another swig of the whisky, before pressing on, voice wavering, "They chased us. Johnny got — one of the socs kicked him down, the rest ganged up on me. Kept pushing me down into the fountain over and over again—" Dallas isn't sure if the rest of them can see the hesitation, the flicker of fear on his face. "It wasn't me who stabbed Bob — it was Johnny."

"How many times was it?" It's Sylvia who speaks up, from near the back. "Heard it was three—"

"It was five!" Someone else insists.

"I don't know," Ponyboy shakes his head, not pulling away from their gazes, looking right at Sylvia. "He was just dead when I came up. Blood all over the ground, and Johnny and I just went to Buck's, to find Dallas." He turns then to look at Dallas, who knew his time was coming. He didn't think he'd like being looked at the way he is now, with admiration, pride on Ponyboy's face. "I hadn't thought about going to him, but Johnny did. Dallas told us we did good, gave us a gun, some money, told us where to go. And didn't tell no one where we went."

"Told the fuzz they was in Texas," Dallas boasts, a feat more than one of them wouldn't ever be able to do. "They tried all the little tricks, even convinced my pack." He nudges Two-Bit, who nods. "He was gonna go to Texas to look for 'em."

"Socs ain't take it lying down, neither," Two-Bit adds his own cents, as usual. "They were hitting on all of us — Curly got in the cooler cause of them. Two of 'em tried to get me, and our pack alpha helped me out." Darry, who normally doesn't even join in, nods with that. "They were gunning hard for them."

More than a few can attest to that; Dallas can see a few Brumly Boys nodding, and one of Tim's guys looks like he could spit nails. Dallas can vaguely remember coming back from Jay Mountain, and that hood was involved in something. Ponyboy takes the reins again, "We hid out at Jay Mountain. Cut our hair, dyed it, cause Johnny insisted on it." He tugs ruefully at his still platinum blonde hair that's got a few roots showing out, "He knew the fuzz would be looking for us, didn't want us to match the description. No one knew we were there 'cept Dallas and when he came up, we were gonna stay another week. Til the church started burning down." His voice gets a little quiet then. "That fire was gonna be the end but there were kids in there. Dallas told us to stay in the car, didn't want us to get caught, but I— I knew I had to go, get to 'em as fast as I could. I got there first, couldn't get in — then Johnny was there. He's the one who got a rock, threw it so we could climb into the church. The kids' teacher couldn't get inside, so it was just us, getting them kids out. One of them even bit me," he cracks a half smile that seems a little wobbly, but the audience around them just doesn't see it. They don't see how vulnerable he is, they don't know what it was like up there.

Dallas remembers it. He remembers the thought seizing him for one awful moment that he was going to lose Ponyboy and Johnny, not to the fuzz or to socs but to something worse. Then, that he didn't want them in there, dying for some snot nosed pups they didn't know. He remembers the smoke — how acrid it was, the way it mixed with the old wood, his senses going insane from the overload — the yelling and how for a moment, he thought Ponyboy was going to slip out of his grip, and how his arm had shot out, grasped him by the scruff, had used every ounce of strength to keep Ponyboy from plunging further in.

He can hear Ponyboy describe being rescued, and Dallas? He's not there, not at the bonfire. He's in the moment on Jay Mountain, seeing Ponyboy trying to stagger to his feet despite everything. Thinking that he shouldn't be up on his feet, that he shouldn't be able to go forward, admiring in a way even if he was furious. The horrible terror of seeing the flames licking at Ponyboy's arm and shoulder, of the thought he couldn't lose him, and winding his arm back, trying to get the fire off his front and back — and then watching Ponyboy collapse to the ground.

The thought that he had accidentally killed Ponyboy had been terrifying. He had leaned down, gone right to his knees, frantic, patting out the fire, shaking Ponyboy until he heard him moan and cough. The relief he felt, turning to go and get Johnny out, able to hear him yelling for help.

His scars seem to throb in response. The ones he hasn't looked at much in the past few weeks, but he knows with sudden clarity, that Ponyboy must have scars on his shoulders, too. That they have to share them.

Dallas moves, runs the inside of his scarred wrist against his knee. Now that he's out of the memory, he notices the awed quiet that has settled on everyone, Ponyboy's voice floating above them, "The adults ain't believe me when I said we were hoods. Even when we got back, they didn't believe me. Maybe cause they ain't think we got rules, think we ain't care about others. Don't think they understand we ain't like socs, that we ain't the type to just tear into each other for kicks." Ponyboy fidgets with his bottle more, and his eyes seem to glow in the firelight in a way that casts him differently than he had been in Jay Mountain. He doesn't seem like that kid at all, in front of the fire, the expression on his face serious, yet hopeful.

There's something in his face that's older than his fourteen years, that makes Dallas more drawn into him than what he's felt before. Something in his face that is so much more vibrant, more engaging, that makes Dallas want to pull him away from the gawking, entranced audience as Ponyboy goes on to talk about the rumble, how he hadn't felt well, but he knew they had to. How Ponyboy describes the rumble in a way that seems like something out of the movie, the way the socs had approached, the way the rain had fallen on them, the way he describes Dallas showing up from the hospital.

There are cheers, claps, some greasers recognizing themselves. And in their faces, more than admiration shows up. There is hunger, want and Dallas recognizes it not only on their faces, but in him, too. Maybe not from the same place, maybe not in the same way, but as he listens to Ponyboy, he understands. There is something in Ponyboy's words, in the way his eyes look at everyone, in the way he seems to care that seems to come out more and more as the night goes on.

There's silence again as Ponyboy runs his fingers on the almost empty bottle, looking over everyone's faces. "We beat those socs, out there. As a pack, all of us." He looks over everyone, eyes serious, earnest. "Wasn't just me or Dallas or Johnny. We did, as greasers." There seems to be something in the wind, the way it picks up, the way the firelight catches on Ponyboy's hair. "One of them — one of the socs told me he'd never do that for anyone, that he would've let those pups die. No greaser would say that, would believe that. Socs... they wouldn't care about their buddy in the fire, wouldn't care that he got burned." Someone gives out a whistle of agreement. "They wouldn't care that his parents ain't visit him, they would've just let him rot." For a moment, his voice breaks off and something in his face changes, solidifies and he shakes his head. "It ain't fair that we're here, doing all this and Johnny isn't here. He was with me the whole time, he saved me — we should be with him too, right now."

Dallas will never say out loud that he doesn't quite agree with his words. That this is Ponyboy's moment, his initiation, Johnny already had his. He itches to yank him over, tell him to enjoy this moment in the sun, while another part of him, that had dragged Ponyboy up from the mud, made sure he could speak and had dragged him to the car to see Johnny in the hospital, the part of him that knew Johnny couldn't pass without Ponyboy being there, agrees. That part of him agrees with the ensuing calls, the cheers of agreement.

And that's the part of him that watches Ponyboy get up from the blankets, swaying a little from the drinks. He's the first one to stand up, seconds after Ponyboy says, "We should go. Take this to him, too. Let him see he's still pack, too."

And like a sea, everyone rises up too, calling out, howling, whistling, as an answer.

Chapter Text

It feels like the rumble a little, as Dallas follows Ponyboy and the rest of the pack out in the darkness, away from the bonfire. There are greasers on every side, making noise, jostling each other, following Ponyboy away from the bonfire. If Ed has any issue with what they're doing, he doesn't say so; they simply climb up the hill together, flowing out to the street, to the surrounding neighborhood.

Some of them have remained by the bonfire — those who couldn't keep up or didn't want to party or didn't know Johnny well enough — yet most of them follow Ponyboy to the main road. It's not exactly selfless, Dallas knows. Some of them just want to get in Ponyboy's favor, some of them keeping close, reaching out to scent him or grab his attention.

It makes something in him burn with distaste, even as he thinks this isn't a bad idea, even as he jostles through, able to hear Steve trying to talk to Soda, and Soda brushing him off again to lean to talk to Ponyboy. It's not what they're doing that bothers him; it's the way the others are reaching toward Ponyboy for any reason to touch him, any reason to scent him, to try and earn favor.

Dallas can see it, knows it. Remembers when Soda was initiated, all the eyes that were on him, the jostling for his attention, the way that even Sylvia had ran her eyes over him, the way they had reached out similarly. It's amplified now as they move to Two-Bit's house, the way some are trying to vy for Ponyboy's attention, fingers catching onto the jacket (his jacket), his hair, offering him beer, encouraging him to have more.

The energy is electric.

Some of them aren't like that, talking about Johnny, asking questions as they keep moving onward. Dallas can't stand it though, elbowing himself to Ponyboy's side, snapping out, "He said Johnny stabbed him." His arm wraps itself around Ponyboy's neck, ignoring the way his side hurts, glaring down at the greaser. He was one of the few Tiber Street Tigers that had stayed, instantly cowed with Dallas' gaze on him. "You too busy sniffing around to hear him?"

"I ain't sniffin'," the guy mumbles — to the raucous laughter of everyone else, Ponyboy too busy grinning as he takes a sip of the beer in hand.

"Yeah, you were," Darry huffs out, as they move through the night, Dallas able to hear him. Darry cuts him a look, and Dallas doesn't back down, keeping his arm around Ponyboy, steadily moving on.

"Ponyboy's getting initiated?" Johnny can't keep the surprise out of his voice as Two-Bit lathers on shaving cream, followed by the razor getting himself as clean as possible. He leans back on the crutches he's got — the doctors are pushing for him to have a wheelchair around the house, but the cost is still so much that he hasn't brought it up to Two-Bit yet. "Ain't he young for it?"

"Sure as hell he is," Two-Bit finishes up one side of his cheek, moving as carefully as he can. "Ed must have other ideas, saying that he's allowed so early. I ain't gonna go up against him, though." He glances at Johnny, seeing him leaning against the hallway, eyes bright. "You think you're up for coming?"

At least Two-Bit asks, doesn't assume. Johnny's grateful for that, and hesitates for a moment. He knows that he could maybe get there, on crutches. He could maybe sit down awhile. The rest of the night makes him uneasy. The thought of seeing Ponyboy having to fight other greasers, of having to watch them all do this ritual that he had hardly passed himself, in front of everyone...

It doesn't sit right.

The rumble hadn't sat right with him. He'd been on what he felt like his deathbed, thinking about the rumble, about how no matter who won nothing would change. The note he'd asked the nurse to write for him still sits in the book, tucked beneath his pillow. The words he had wanted to add to it, that fighting didn't solve anything, that fighting was just an endless ring...

They still sit in him.

And as much as he wants to see Ponyboy, support him, his gut churns at it, at the idea of watching Ponyboy, so small and already teetering on the edge, go up and fight? Johnny shakes his head. "I ain't feel good enough for that. And I don't want y'all having to take me home." The last part is muttered a little shamefully, the cut on his palm from his own initiation stinging for a moment almost accusatory.

Two-Bit holds his gaze for a moment. Johnny looks back, not wanting to admit what he's thinking, too. That he can't scent anyone or anything now, anyway. That even if he could stomach the violence, he couldn't stand to be looked at as a coward, as someone who wasn't even able to do anything most people did now. That he didn't want his scars to be gawked at, that he couldn't stand all of this the way it is now. That he'd feel more separated from everyone else than what he already felt daily.

"Alright," Two-Bit nods, finishing up, turning on the tap. "Don't wait up, alright? I'll let you know how it went in the morning, Johnnycake."

Johnny smiles a little at the nickname. He watches Two-Bit get dressed in his best greaser look before departing, the door snapping shut.

The Mathews house is a little bigger than his own, and Johnny makes the most of it in the quiet. He rubs his clammy hands on his jeans, trying to ignore the way the old scar feels against the new ones as he makes himself and Katie dinner. Mrs. Mathews left hours ago for her shifts, and Katie isn't too much to handle.

It's nice to have someone else in the house, to have a sort of sibling even if Katie's no more than about eleven. She doesn't mind that his hands shake a little as he makes them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and she even doesn't mind it when he checks over some of her homework as the night goes on. He might not be as smart as Ponyboy or Darry, but he can figure out her homework well enough.

He tries to not feel uncomfortable as he hears people whooping, passing by the houses. Tries not to think about his own initiation; even though he'd tried his hardest to win the gauntlet, to prove himself. How he had lost — and had been accepted anyway. He remembers Ed's hand on his shoulder, the way the older man had stated that even if he had lost, he still had proved that he was willing to stand his own ground, still showed merit. That if he had been around socs, they would've simply let him lay there, make the defeat worse, and that greasers weren't like that. That no matter what, he would be supported.

There had been some shame then, despite his words. Even if they were true, there was still the seed of shame in him that couldn't let go.

And yet, as Johnny turns on the light in his room, makes his way to the bed he's occupied for the last few weeks, he doesn't think Ed was all that wrong. His heart had pounded, his palms had sweat and he felt as if he had reached his limit when Bob and those other boys had shoved Ponyboy into the fountain.

He doesn't like to think about it, doesn't like to relive it. His eyes shut, remembering their laughter, the way Ponyboy's cries had been about him, trying to tell him to run. How they had started to trail off, sputtering, no words. The way Bob had laughed, had called Ponyboy a dirty omega, the way Ponyboy's body hit the water, and Johnny only thought that he had to save him, had to save his best friend.

What a way to have proven Ed right in the worst way about being able to stand his ground. It makes bile climb at his throat, remembering the way Bob had gasped, the way his eyes had bulged when the knife had plunged into him, the feeling of blood on his hand. How his hand seemed to keep going, driven by the need to protect Ponyboy, to punish Bob for what he'd done weeks earlier, all of it spilling out.

The newspapers framed it as a crime, and the lawyer, Eugene even with his sharpness said it was self defense.

Johnny knows the hand he used to kill Bob with was also the hand with the cut from Ed. The mark that he was a greaser. He looks at his hand now, at the burn scars there, at the jagged line of the knife scar and wonders if it was good, actually, to be a greaser. To be marked for this, to be seemingly destined for violence in some form all the time, feeling so...

It wasn't as if he could do most things anymore. It wasn't as if he and Ponyboy could do what they did before. Already, it felt as if maybe... maybe they were separate. That all of this was Johnny's fault.

The thought is crushing, and Johnny shuts his eyes, tries to push it down and away. He doesn't want to be different. He doesn't want to go back to the way things were, having to live with his parents or to be out in the lot all the time, afraid. He doesn't, either, want to live like this anymore, on the edge, wondering if maybe he could never be close to his pack again, never be seen as anything but a burden. Two-Bit had said he wasn't, yet as the costs pile up, as the doctors shook their heads and used words like wheelchair, it feels different.

The sound of whooping, hollering, howling starts to get louder as he tries to fight off his thoughts. It's annoying in the way it's so persistent, in the way it gets louder and louder.

He knew that voices carried over in Tulsa; but this was starting to get ridiculous.

Johnny sighs, gets up and turns the light off. His leg aches as he moves to the bed, trying to get some sleep before more thoughts could come up, before he could think of Bob's—

A rock hits his window.

Johnny jumps at the sound, turning sharply, heart hammering in his chest. All at once he realizes that the shouting is coming from the street. That there are people out there chanting, bellowing, howling and for a moment, he wonders if a mob is outside.

Then another rock hits his window and this time he can hear Ponyboy's voice. "Johnny! Hey Johnny! Open up!"

Scrambling, Johnny gets to the window, legs paining him all the way. He peers out first and there's shock: there are greasers all over the front lawn and the street. It seems like every gang is out there, all at once, and a few of them give a cheer when he starts to try to get to the window. He looks around frantically and sees Ponyboy being hoisted up by a few greasers at once to help him get up to the window. He's in Dallas' jacket, his blonde hair bright in the light from the streetlights, and he can see a neighbor on their porch, scowling.

Ponyboy scrambles for the awning — the greasers holding him heave him up and he is on the roof where Johnny's window is, a big grin on his face. Johnny finally gets the window open, the cold air hitting him. Instantly, he can tell Ponyboy is a bit drunk, even as his eyes glimmer. "Hey, Johnnycake! Fancy meetin' you here."

It's what he said on Jay Mountain. One of the worst weeks in Johnny's life, and here he is grinning back at Ponyboy, "What are you doing here? Ain't it your initiation?"

There's a whoop below, and Ponyboy holds up his hand. It's still bleeding, and yet there isn't a bruise on him. "It is. Passed with flying colors; cause of you."

"Me?" Johnny frowns as Ponyboy beckons him out of the house. Reluctantly, even with some excitement building, Johnny climbs out of the window. Ponyboy helps him out, both of them wobbling — Johnny from pain, Ponyboy from the liquor — as they get out.

Breathlessly, Ponyboy explains, "Cause you saved me from Bob. Cause we saved those kids. Everyone thinks I did enough — and so did you, Johnny. I ain't have to fight no one, cause we both did. And I thought—" He blows out of his mouth as someone turns on a truck, cranking up the music so that it begins to fill the block. "I thought it wasn't fair that you weren't there with me. With— all the packs. So I thought we should bring the celebration to you."

It's not like it fixes everything. Violence is still violence, he still has nightmares, he's still so scared, but the way Ponyboy smiles at him, the way he reaches for his hand as Two-Bit and Dallas surge forward to help them climb down, Johnny can't help but smile back. Can't help the warmth that fills up his chest at the fact that he hadn't been forgotten, that Ponyboy didn't have to fight.

That maybe... maybe this wasn't all bad, as they climb down to the cheers, the howls, the back pats and the hands that come to scent him. That things might not be perfect, but he had a pack. A real pack.

Ed was right about that too. That packs supported each other, no matter what.

"C'mon, Johnny!"

"Grab a beer, kid!"

"You still able to shake a leg?"

"Oh come on—!"

There's laughter, none of it cruel, condescending. There's only the warmth, the fun of the packs around them as more beers are opened, as food is shared, and a party really, truly starts up in earnest. He can't do much of a dance, and by the time an hour has passed, Johnny can feel the exhaustion in him.

It's better to be exhausted around friends, around a pack, though, than to be alone, he decides.

Chapter Text

All night, alphas come up to try and scent Ponyboy and Dallas doesn't like it even as they party in Two-Bit's front yard. He can see Johnny is struggling to stay awake after awhile, that Steve has located Evie — who must've got off of work early — and has disappeared into the darkness with her in full view of Soda. Soda seems to not be bothered, talking eagerly to the Viper's pack alpha, who looks at Soda with something akin to keen interest.

Darry seemed to have peeled off long ago, and it's just various greasers mingling, dancing, and alphas sniffing around. Dallas can't help it, as he downs some Jack Daniels Two-Bit brought in from his house, that he hates it. That he feels like he has to keep finding Ponyboy, running a hand near his blonde hair, scenting away those others, glaring at them. It should be annoying and bothersome and Ponyboy should've probably shoved him off.

It might be the beer that's making Ponyboy allow it, leaning against Dallas as they sing along to the Elvis song on the radio. Maybe it's the fact that everyone's having a good time that has Ponyboy reaching up with a grin to scent Dallas back, and Dallas liking the feeling of his hand on his neck more than usual. Maybe it's pride, but all he knows is this: that he has to do it. He has to keep rescenting him, has to keep touching Ponyboy, has to keep him in his eyeline no matter what.

It's not exactly keeping an eye on Ponyboy, he knows that.

Yet, he can't stop. He doesn't want to, as the light from a small fire in the yard makes Ponyboy's hair turn honey gold, not when Ponyboy and Soda exchange beers, Ponyboy spitting out a particularly bad one and Soda laughing. He can't focus on anyone or anything else as the evening wears on, arm pulling Ponyboy in whenever he can, feeling the alcohol starting to numb out whatever little pain from the rodeo left.

And then a cry goes up, "The fuzz is coming! Everyone, get out!"

He doesn't think; just reaches out, grasps Ponyboy by the arm. He can see Darry again — on the edge of the packs, eyes wide. Dallas yanks Ponyboy with him, able to hear the sirens, and he doesn't feel an ounce of fear. He looks at Ponyboy — brown eyes big, the blonde hair in a sweep — and they both grin at each other like it's a game, like it's nothing.

He thinks of the day at the theaters. Of chasing the kids.

"C'mon!" He tugs Ponyboy and Ponyboy stumbles, throws down his beer and then they're both on steady feet, racing away. One glance over his shoulder and he can see Johnny looking around startled, Two-Bit rousing him; Tim Shepard is barking orders at his own. Packs are shooting in all different directions, some people laughing, others looking concerned.

Dallas just turns, letting go of Ponyboy's arm long enough that Dallas can jerk his head in the direction he wants to go. Ponyboy doesn't hesitate a moment to follow him as more sirens drench the street in red and blue, more cars begin to pour in, cars starting to screech. He can hear the dull thunk of some greasers leaping onto the cars, the shouts of annoyed cops.

They run behind houses, jumping fences together. Dallas can feel his legs burning as they run, climbing on top of a car to hop a high fence. His leg swings over, and then he turns around as he hears Ponyboy follow close — and with him the sound of a car screeching. Bright headlights fall on them both, and he moves quicker, hands scrambling for purchase.

"Get down!" A cop barks, trying to get out of his car. His car door smashes against the side, as he tries to get out, swearing when he slips in some of the trash.

"Eat shit, pig!" Dallas crows out, and yanks Ponyboy over the top of the fence. It's too hard of a yank as they both get over it, but roll around on the dirt first, his side having a burst of pain. There's no time to linger though, Dallas getting up, Ponyboy the one grasping his arm this time.

Then they're back on the street, Ponyboy turning around, laughing as he goes faster and faster. Dallas has to work to catch up, enraptured with the way Ponyboy is able to move so fluidly beneath the lights and winding his way to a back street that he knows is too small for any car to follow them.

That street plunges them to the edge of Tulsa, close to the train tracks, and that's where they both finally come to a stop in the gravel of the trainyard. They're both panting for air, they're both winded, but Dallas doesn't mind it. He's not sure when or how they grabbed hands on the run, and he only lets go so he can run his hand through his own hair. Ponyboy looks windswept, his voice is bright when he says, "You really told him to eat shit, huh?"

His smile is so wide, and his laughter after that is just so honeyed to Dallas' ears. He laughs with Ponyboy, and the alcohol feels like it's really hitting him as he tries to reach out and scent Ponyboy, drag him closer. It's meant to be funny, the words, "He probably almost got us cause you scent so much like a greaser!" His hands find Ponyboy's neck on either side, dragging him closer, intending to mess with his hair, foreheads pressed against each other and Dallas knows that's not really true.

Ponyboy laughs more, "Cause I am one." He looks up at Dallas, not moving, not pushing him up, just eyes focused on Dallas and Dallas alone, and for a moment, it's almost he didn't have every greaser in the whole county touching him that night. The way his skin feels beneath Dallas' hands, the way his brown eyes look up at Dallas through his eyelashes, the way his smile lights up as he says, "Ain't you tell me that?"

He's not wrong. Dallas had told him that, hadn't he? That he belonged, that he knew he was a greaser. That he deserved it all, deserved to not have to fight like everyone, that he deserved the party, the chaos, the fun.

Ponyboy was a greaser. He was pack.

His thumb runs down Ponyboy's neck, rubbing at his skin, getting away the scent of anyone else, and he looks again at his jacket on Ponyboy. At the way it was a little big for him, and at the same time, it seemed to be made for him. At the fact that Dallas didn't ever want it back from him in any real way, that the moment he gave it to him at Buck's, he hadn't thought anything much beyond trying to make sure Ponyboy would be warm on the way out of Tulsa.

Too, he thinks that if he would've given it to Johnny or Soda or anyone else, he'd have taken it back now. That he wouldn't have cared about them being scented so much, that...

That scenting Ponyboy was no longer enough. That the way his mouth curves up, the way Ponyboy shifts closer to him, it's not what he wants anymore, to simply be pack with Ponyboy. He's never thought about that until now, that he doesn't want to be just that, that the way Ponyboy looks at him in slight confusion now looks good on him in a way that it hasn't looked good on anyone else.

His hand moves up to touch Ponyboy's hair, tugging it like he had at the church. A whine leaves Ponyboy, high and needy, and that's all Dallas needs. He moves his head down, drags Ponyboy closer until they're flush, Dallas kissing Ponyboy before he can whine again.

Even a bit buzzed, he doesn't particularly kiss gentle, too occupied with the thought of having Ponyboy as he does it. If Ponyboy doesn't like that it's not gentle, that Dallas' hand is tight in his hair, he doesn't show it with the way he tries to kiss clumsily back. It's not like the movies, where everyone kisses in a way that's so practised, stiff: Dallas certainly bites down a little where he shouldn't, and Ponyboy fumbles, fingers grasping at Dallas' shirt, breath hitching.

It's still good, though, Ponyboy slowly mimicking Dallas, the taste of whisky and cheap beer from the both of them not in any way a deterrent. The way Ponyboy whines when they part for breath just makes Dallas want more; Ponyboy beats him to the punch, surging forward, almost knocking Dallas back with it.

The force is enough that Dallas slips on the gravel, can barely hold onto Ponyboy as they scramble for better footing until they're both laughing more than kissing, easing into the trainyard in the dark night.

They don't separate for a few more minutes, Dallas' hands unable to leave Ponyboy's for long, kissing each other again, slower until Dallas can feel that there's sleep tugging at him. He knows they should say something, talk but the alcohol is heavy, and he can tell Ponyboy's getting tired too. "C'mon," Dallas slowly gets up, wincing at the sitch in his side. Ponyboy follows him, gripping Dallas' hand as they both wander the train yard until they reach the treeline.

It's a few more minutes walk to an old patch in the trees where there's a known greaser hide away. It's not much of one; just an old shed that had been forgotten, mostly full of candy wrappers, old blankets, and a hard floor. There are enough holes in the roof that when it rains, most people avoid it, and half of the roof is rotten.

Dallas doesn't care as he and Ponyboy move, curling on the blankets there. His arm wraps around Ponyboy's slim waist, Ponyboy tucks his head on Dallas' shoulder. Dallas' tongue is too heavy to say anything, and he shuts his eyes, and goes to sleep within minutes.

There's someone moving beneath him, trying to squirm.

Dallas huffs out; it doesn't seem to make sense, given that they're warm against him, that their scent is so nice and calming. He shifts, bringing them closer, burying his nose into their hair. Even if there's product in it, he can scent them underneath, and his head feels woolier than usual.

A whine comes from somewhere near the center of his chest, and a leg shifts against his. The whine stirs something more feral in him, enough that his teeth ache, and he cracks open his eyes to see Ponyboy beneath him, eyes big and a little frantic.

Immediately, he loosens his grip, Ponyboy scrambling up. "S'going on?"

"Drank too much," Ponyboy stumbles up, and then Dallas gets it. He puts his face back into the blankets as Ponyboy scrambles away, and outside. He's sure that Ponyboy's relieving himself, and he's proven right when he hears Ponyboy make his way back a few minutes later, face pink, adjusting his jeans, hands wet probably from some of the water kept in the back.

A snicker leaves Dallas, voice hoarse, "Pissed out everything from last night, huh?" Ponyboy goes pinker, standing awkwardly at the shed door. No matter if he was drunk or buzzed last night; Dallas still thinks he looks good, more than good framed in the doorway, hair still windswept, in his jacket, the sun not all the way up.

Gingerly, Dallas gets up, side still aching. He hisses as he does it, and Ponyboy reaches out to help him get on steady feet. They make it out to the front of the shed, and Dallas goes to the back, splashes some water on his face, rinsing his mouth out until it doesn't feel as thick.

Ponyboy's eyes drift from him to the horizon, watching the sun start to make it's morning climb. It turns the sky a brilliant riot of pink and orange as it comes up, none of which is as interesting as Ponyboy. Dallas can feel water seeping down his chin and neck as he watches him, the way he seems to not be aware of anything else in the moment except the sun.

Normally, he might be annoyed. In this moment, it gives Dallas the time to reaffirm what he'd felt, what he thought the night before. That Ponyboy wasn't a puppy, that he was more than pack now. That even standing there, taking in the sunset was fascinating, was, well...

Dallas doesn't know what word could describe how he feels, then watching Ponyboy soak in the sun, watching him fiddle with his jacket zipper absently as he watches. He knows that he wants to both watch Ponyboy like this a little longer and he wants to dig his fingers into his hair, turns his head around and kiss him again. Kiss him and kiss him until he can scent slick, until he can make Ponyboy whine again.

It's not like how he's felt around Sylvia, the possessiveness and anger and more than a little heat that wasn't exactly soft. How around her, he always felt like he was on his toes, waiting for her to disappoint. It's not like omegas he's met where all he wanted was a one night stand or just to fuck them and go.

It's.... it's more and the thought is startling to him that he would want it. That Ponyboy could make him want it as he turns back to look at him, eyes searching as the sun makes his hair shine even more. "Last night—," Ponyboy begins, stops, and then swallows. "Did..."

He stands up. Ponyboy doesn't back down, doesn't flinch as Dallas gets closer. He scents Ponyboy again, running his hand down his neck, able to see Ponyboy shiver this time when his ring touches his skin. He can think clearer than before, when he leans down to kiss Ponyboy again. And like last night, Ponyboy leans up, kisses Dallas first, closes the distance in a way that's more final.

This time, the kiss is gentle. Dallas lets Ponyboy keep it gentle, sweet, and when they pull back, he says, "C'mon. Darry's gonna have my head if I don't get you back home before noon." He smirks and kisses Ponyboy again, for one last measure.

Ponyboy nods, as if he wants to say something more. Instead, Dal frowns, catching the stray scent of blood. He looks downward and Ponyboy's hand is bleeding again. It might've gotten irritated, and quickly, he grasps for it. There's no resistance from Ponyboy as he holds it up, seeing some blood coming out of the cut. Some of it's scabbed a bit at night, but not enough to fully cover it.

And, Dallas realizes, it's the hand he was holding last night as they ran through the night. There's an impulse in him to press Ponyboy's hand to his mouth, to lick the blood up that he struggles to keep at bay — all the more confirmation of the change in things, how he used to wrestle with those feelings with Sylvia, wanting to clean up blood like that. "Let's clean this first, alright?" His thumb swipes at the blood, and Ponyboy nods.

He leads Ponyboy back to the water, moving carefully as he does it, dousing it with water, getting as much blood and grime away from it as possible. The wind is cold, Dallas trying to ignore it as Ponyboy shivers. Once he's satisfied it's clean, he tugs at the shirt he's got, wrenching it at the bottom until a piece rips off.

The material is dark at least, and he wraps it around Ponyboy's hand easily, tying it off. Ponyboy flexes his fingers, looking through his eyelashes when he says, "Thanks, Dally."

"Not gonna give me a reward for it?" Dallas asks, just to test the waters. Ponyboy looks confused for a moment — and then it clicks. He looks shy for a moment, caught, as Dallas grips his hand, standing up with him.

"Can... I mean...," Ponyboy swallows, "What are...?" He looks at Dallas' mouth, and that look of defiance, pride from the night before shows on his face again. "I don't wanna be like — like Sylvia or someone else, Dal."

He gets it; Ponyboy's not innocent to what Dal does, what he likes. Too, though, this is new. Fragile and unexpected. Dallas rubs his thumb on Pony's open palm. "You ain't them. This ain't like them."

Whatever this was, now or going to be. It's not a concrete answer and it wouldn't entirely hold. For now, though, it's enough for Ponyboy to close the distance one more time for a kiss.

Chapter Text

The yard looks mostly untouched from the party from the night before, Ponyboy finds. He can still feel his hand curling around the strip of shirt as he makes his way up the steps, seeing a few beer bottles still on the ground, and down the street, he can see that Two-Bit's lawn still is need of a bit of a clean up.

He keeps a small smile to himself as he walks up the steps to his house, opening the door carefully as he walks back inside. There's the smell of bacon frying, and Ponyboy isn't surprised to see Darry poking his head out, looking at him from the kitchen, expression a little tight for a moment.

In all the commotion last night, they'd lost sight of each other and now Ponyboy was home hours later. Darry's clearly cleaned up from the night before, and the house doesn't seem to have had anyone come in. Soda's gone, too — he probably went into work as soon as he could. For a moment, Ponyboy thinks that Darry might get on him about being out so late, his face pinching, looking over Ponyboy.

He wonders what he sees, who he sees: the blonde hair a mess, reeking of all the packs, of Dallas, of the outside. The way his jacket looks on him, the bandage on his hand, the way his jeans look with grass stains. He wonders if Darry really still sees him as a pup despite everything the night before.

"You gonna shower?" Darry's tone isn't as harsh as it could be, appraising Ponyboy.

"No," Ponyboy grins at him, thumb rubbing against his bandaged palm. "You going to work today?"

"Yeah, got half an hour," Darry seems to want to say more, and then turns away. "Don't go out too far, today. Cops are still out on the street." Ponyboy nods, moving to the hallway, down to his room. "Remember what the lawyer said about keeping your nose clean."

"I know!" Ponyboy shuts the door behind him, taking a seat on the bed, grateful that Soda isn't there. His head is still spinning with the night before, with everything that had happened. From the initiation to the party, to Dallas. The way he had touched him, the way his hand had felt on his neck, his lips on his and how Ponyboy had felt so... so startled and happy and curious and wanting...

All of it was so much, so big and he doesn't know what to do.

Dallas had let him go home without much fanfare, and in all that, Ponyboy hadn't known what else to do, except to go home. And now he had all the time to dwell on it as he lay on the bed, breathing, looking at the ceiling, trying to sort through his memories, his feelings — mental and physical. Kissing Dallas hadn't just been something retained in the mind; his body had reacted too, reaching out for him, feeling an odd sort of warmth in him, a need he hadn't had before.

What did it mean? Where did they all go from here?

His teeth sink into his lip — still tasting a bit of Dallas, a bit of whiskey and water there — hand flexing where Ed had cut his palm in the firelight. He was a greaser now, officially. Everyone knew that this made him, well. If he wanted to be with someone, if he wanted to date, go steady, he could. He hadn't even been thinking of it most of the night, despite the touches, the scenting the looks.

Then it had all just. Happened.

Running off with Dallas, away from the cops. The trainyard, the urge to kiss Dallas back, over and over again.

It had felt right. More than right, and confusing too now that he was home. Since when had he wanted to kiss Dallas? Since when had he gotten that comfortable, since when had Ponyboy cared about Dallas the way Cherry Valance or Sylvia did?

Even thinking about them doesn't feel quite right, though. Sylvia, who cheated on him all the time. Cherry who seemed to not even care about him anymore, who seemed to talk about Dallas wistfully. The way they wanted him — both alpha girls, one greaser and one soc — wasn't really right.

It doesn't match the way he thinks about the kiss, how he had thought that Dallas' lips on his, his fangs on his lips, the feeling of his tongue in his mouth, they all feel different. He can feel that heat creep up his neck, can feel something stir in him that isn't the same thing, yet at the same time...

When had he wanted this? When had he become comfortable with the idea of kissing Dallas? Of wanting more?

Because he does want more, his eyes moving to the window, able to see Steve driving by in his car towards the DX. He can see Evie in the car with him, and he thinks not of them but him and Dallas in a car together, driving somewhere. Thinks of what it would be like to kiss him in a tuff car, of what his hands might feel like on his waist, what his teeth might feel like along his neck and the flush on his neck, that feeling of need in him gets stronger.

There's an urge in his teeth that he doesn't know what to do with. To sink them into Dallas' neck, and it makes his whole body feel electric all at once, that he could — and just, simply. Confusion.

He hadn't been consciously thinking about Dallas before like this. Hadn't wanted him until he'd been kissed and that...

Wasn't it out of nowhere?

Ponyboy reaches up to run his hands through his hair, thinking again of Dallas at the bonfire. How he'd looked with a mouth full of sharp fangs, the way he'd told him he'd always belonged. Thinking about how he'd wanted to draw him, wanted to capture him on paper.

He turns on his bed, fingers seeking out his sketchbook. It's one of the most expensive things he'd ever gotten — and he'd actually paid for it. He flips it open, fingers running over the pages. The first few aren't exactly what Ponyboy likes to see. It's from when he first got it, soon after his parent's deaths. Most of the drawings are dark, detailed drawings. Some words still pop up from the page for him that he'd had: bodies twisted — burned — unrecognizable. Words from the cop.

Further in, there are more drawings from the spring and summer. Ponyboy can see the colors start to seep in: bits of sunsets and sunrises, Soda's smile, Darry's furrowed brow. Sometimes there are poems, words scrawled into pages, and he can recognize Dallas' hunched shoulders in the corner of one page, his snarl on another. More and more pages flow: him trying to get down the anger on Dallas' face, the sometimes pensive look there, a whole page for Dallas' eyebrows in various expressions. They're all rushed, attempts to get Dallas down in a few lines.

Then, he's fleeting again. Ponyboy thinks back to Dallas getting in jail, and how the drawings go back to Soda, go back to Johnny's big eyes, Steve and Soda curling into each other. There are still dark scribbles of nightmares, and as soon as he goes to more recent drawings, it's not hard to notice that every single one of them is of Dallas, somehow: his fingers holding a cigarette; his eyebrows working together; a full page of sketches of his snarling, expressive mouth; and all the recent failed attempts to get Dallas down more and more.

Even if he hadn't known it consciously, he had been drawn to him more and more. Ponyboy can see it in front of him, in the pages and pages of Dallas dominating the sketchbook, in the ones he'd done weeks before.

He reaches over, finds the pencil he's been keeping for the past month, and thinks about Dallas. Thinks about him in the bonfire, the black eye half healed, the tilt of his mouth, the way he felt being told he was a greaser. He lets his hand and mind go, thinking about the comfortable way he felt around him, about how it had become easier and easier to be around Dallas, to trust him and to be with him.

He thinks about the way it felt to wake up with him that morning, his scent mingling with Pony's the way his chest had felt against Ponyboy's back. The way his arms felt around his waist, his legs tangled up with him. The way it felt to kiss him, the way Dallas had seemed confident, the way Ponyboy had felt kissing him back, needing it more and more. Wanting something more that he couldn't quite put his finger on, knowing what bodies looked like together in the bonfire, but not knowing exactly how to achieve that himself.

He concentrates on getting Dallas down on the page — the sharpness of his teeth, the way his eyebrows looked, the lines of his back, the way his hands were — and when he finishes, over an hour later, he thinks that it's good. That he really does want Dallas, want more even if not everything felt well defined now, even if he wasn't sure of the extent of this.

Ponyboy looks at the drawing, can feel his ears get a little pink, but he knows now. And at least knowing that made things easier for him, he could figure out what to do.

That at least, in the moment was easy enough: to take a shower, and try to find Dallas.

The shower in and of itself is easy, getting up from the bed with a sigh. He knows he reeks of the greasers and probably mostly Dallas. Which makes him feel reluctant on a level as he grabs towels and goes to the shower.

He shuts the door and takes time to get undressed, frowning at the beer stains and grass stains on his clothes. The jeans get thrown in a corner, and when he looks at his reflection, Ponyboy knows he isn't older than he was yesterday; yet he feels like it as he looks at himself, some indescribable change rendered to him now that the initiation is over. Some invisible threshold has been crossed, forever, that he can't return to.

Maybe it already had happened at the fountain, at Windrixville the way Ed implied.

In the more human, normal sense though, he focuses on the way his hair is messed up. Normally it would annoy him, fingers going up to run through his hair.

When his fingers touch his hair, though, he thinks of what it felt like to have so many greasers touching him. All those scents, all those grasping hands. Of Dallas' hand in his hair, the way he tugged it like he had in the church, the way it felt so easy there. How much he liked it when Dallas had gripped him, pulling him closer both times and Ponyboy can feel that flush creep up his neck, can feel something tugging at him near his midsection that feels...

Familiar yet foreign. A feeling he's never actively explored before.

He's not totally innocent. Greasers weren't exactly like socs when it came to sex: it was more out in the open. Ponyboy could count on his hands twice over the times he'd heard things or walked into things or a scent had tipped him off as to what was going on. He's been there, listening to Soda or Two or Dallas talking dirty, even joined in a time or two with the few things he'd heard. More than that, Ponyboy had eavesdropped on more explicit bull sessions before, with Soda and Two-Bit and Dallas. He thinks of them now: the way Soda talked about the first time he fucked an alpha, the way he'd described how he liked it; the way that Two-Bit would snicker about fucking into a girl during a rut, the way Dallas' voice dragged at the bottom of his throat as he bragged about having a knot, even outside of a rut.

And that flows to another memory: the time Ponyboy had been in Buck's, before. He'd snuck up with Two-Bit once, and he'd wandered away from Two-Bit. It had been weeks after he had turned fourteen and he had gotten to Dal's room by accident. The door had been cracked open, and Ponyboy had peeked through the door. Sylvia had been on the bed, her legs pushed up almost to her chest. Hands had gripped her thighs, she was swearing and between her legs was Dallas.

Even though Ponyboy had presented by then, he hadn't registered their mingled scents, the smell of sex. But he understood for a moment what was happening, watching Sylvia's fingers grip Dallas' hair, watching her rock into his mouth.

He had been frozen, not understanding, not sure of what to do or say — and he hadn't known to move until Dallas had lifted his head, his eyes landing on Ponyboy for what felt like a minute but had really been a split second before Ponyboy had turned away. He had seen him, looked right at him, and Ponyboy had felt flushed, confused, then. Dallas hadn't ever said anything about it besides ribbing him for knowing what all went on.

He's rarely thought back to it, yet each time it's always had that flushed, confused need to it. It holds him now with the same feeling, recalling the memory.

Except its a little different now as he turns on the shower, stepping into the hot spray. The water cascades down his skin, and the way he recalls the memory makes his body feel different than before.

He's heard things in the bull circles at night. About how alphas felt arousal in their cocks, the concentration there. Soda.... Ponyboy has rarely listened to Soda, mostly because before he presented, he thought he'd be an alpha and even then, Soda was still his brother. Some things weren't for his ear.

So it's strange that now, the more he thinks about it — Sylvia's thighs in the air, the way Dallas had looked at him, the way he saw that there was something wet on his mouth, the way Dallas had locked eyes with him for one moment — his body reacts differently. He can feel that his cock certainly is reacting, can feel an erection start but his mind isn't there. That's not where most of what he knows his arousal is centered.

Ponyboy flushes, the memory sinking into him. Starting to scent something new in the shower, feeling something hot and wet that wasn't water start to slip down his thigh.

Slick. He's smelling slick. He can tell by the scent, by the way it feels thicker when he reaches his hand between his legs. The last time he scented this was the day he presented, waking up to a mess of it in his bed and the shock that he wasn't an alpha. He would never be.

Back then, he'd thrown away the sheets, had tried to ignore it. Hadn't wanted to acknowledge his dynamic, had felt bitter and sad that his father wasn't there to talk to him about it, to reassure him. Soda had congratulated him mutely, and Ponyboy had done his best to bury it.

He'd read harlequins, remembered bull sessions. How it had always felt over the top and funny about omegas having slick, about the need to be filled, to touch oneself to achieve it even if no one else was around. Ponyboy hadn't understood it then, barely understood it now even with the evidence on his fingers, even with the cresting need in him to chase after the sensation building in him. There's hesitance, embarrassment — most omegas in those books seemed ridiculous, strange. No one had ever talked to him directly about any of this.

Ponyboy bites his lip, remembering passages in the books about passion, thinking about things he'd glanced at in skin mags. His face goes red, halfway with shame, and halfway with... with need. With wanting to discover it.

His thoughts go back to Dallas again. Go back to kissing him. Go back to how he looked in the fire, goes back to the bedroom. Tentatively, Ponyboy slips a finger between his ass, searching for his hole, from where the slick was coming from. It feels strange to press there, and he hesitates before a roiling sense of real want pulses through him. The need to have Dallas back, to be Sylvia on the bed, Dallas above him.

His finger pushes, and Ponyboy isn't expecting how tight he actually is. For a moment, he thinks to draw back, stop, but the rest of his body can't stand it. He shuts his eyes, his finger pushes forward and he thinks of himself as Sylvia, groaning as the first wave of strangely nice sensations work their way through him.

Thinks of what it might feel like to be beneath Dallas, of what his mouth might feel like. What is might be like to have Dallas looking at him that intensely, what it might feel like to have Dallas push his legs up, to have Dallas sliding between his thighs and—

He almost slips and falls in the shower as the orgasm hits him, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open wordlessly as the pleasure crests. He doesn't have words to describe what he's feeling, the arc of intense, new sensations in his body, the mix of slick and cum in the shower. Desperately, he tries to get purchase, grasping onto the barely able soap dish wedged into the wall as his legs stop shaking.

Only he feels different, blinking into the hot water of the shower when it's over. He pulls his finger out, raises his hand to see the slick there and glances downward. Whatever cum that came from his cock is down the drain at this point and Ponyboy swallows thickly with the awareness of it all.

There's a thought to try again; then he remembers how Darry might react to the use of hot water like this.

...and then, hell. Darry could stand for him to be in the shower a little longer, just this once. He's sure that both of his brothers have done this in here, themselves at his age.

He was just a little late to it is all.

Ponyboy just makes the water a little cooler and then thinks of himself in Sylvia's place again. Thinks and thinks and thinks, going from one finger to two, working himself furiously, until he's able to feel that cresting euphoric high again.

Eventually, he's tired. He turns the water hot, cleans himself and stumbles his way to his room wondering just what on earth Dallas had unlocked in him. Not even the girl in the yellow dress — who Ponyboy had dared to think a time or two was pretty, who he maybe wanted to kiss — had gotten to him like this. Thinking about her now — the pretty yellow dress he used to look for, the way he had felt ashamed to even talk to her as fleeting as his interest in her had been — as he pulled on his fresh clothes, she wasn't as luminous as she had been in his memory before, the yellow not as bright as he used to think of it. Her gasp of distaste at the switchblade, her judgemental eyes are too much like Cherry's avoiding glance in the hallway, too much like a soc who didn't look at him the way Dallas had looked at him.

He folds up Dallas' jacket, tucks it under his head like a pillow, turning his head and thinking not about himself as Sylvia, but simply of a warm day. Thinking of what it would be like to take out a switchblade and instead of Dallas gasping like that girl had, he'd grin.

It's easy to sleep after that.

Chapter Text

"Pony? You awake?"

"Hmm?" Ponyboy feels bleary, tired as he turns around on his bed. He's half asleep; it's got to be past nine for Soda to be here so late, the sun long gone, and the house quiet. He yawns, sitting up as Soda shuts the door.

It's been hours since the shower — one that still made his ears burn a little. He'd woken up at some point in the day, had cleaned up a bit, went back to sketching, and trying to sort out his feelings. After all that, he'd crawled into bed for what was supposed to have been a second nap.

Fumbling, he turns on the lamp as Soda changes into another shirt. "Time is it?"

"A little after nine," Soda's head pops through the shirt, squinting at Ponyboy. "How long you been asleep? You even eat dinner?" When Ponyboy shakes his head, Soda motions to him. "C'mon, let's get you something to eat. Darry ain't gonna be back til late."

Ponyboy yawns, pushes away the covers and follows Soda out to the kitchen. In no time, Soda has blue pancakes with chocolate chips on the pan. When they're all done, Ponyboy grins at him as he bites into it, Soda grinning back. Soda drags his pancake through the syrup, asking, "So, how d'you feel after all that?"

"The initiation?" Ponyboy chews his pancake thoughtfully, not sure of what to talk about. Fully hesitant at even telling Soda what had went on; it feels quiet, too personal to tell Soda about the kiss, that he had curled up with Dallas in a way that felt very different from the way he and Johnny had curled up in the church together. "Hand hurts a little. I didn't think we'd have so many people out like that, all those packs."

"They had a lot when I got in too," reaching for the chocolate syrup, Soda puts a bit on his plate, mixing it with the regular syrup. Even that is a bit too sugary for Ponyboy though. "Probably cause there ain't so many omegas around here. Everyone was trying to get something."

There's an urge to ask about Sandy. About what she had done, and Ponyboy decides to keep it to himself as he nods. "I didn't think I'd have so many beers at one time." He pulls a face.

"You puke it or piss it out?" Soda asks and Ponyboy laughs with him. "I puked mine out, all over Steve's shoes. You should've seen his face!" He imitates the sound and Ponyboy finds himself both grossed out and laughing with Soda as they eat.

"The whiskey tasted better," Ponyboy says, shrugging. "I pissed it out, this morning. Drank a bunch of water before I got home." He chews his pancake, and then bites at his lip. "You think anyone'll be upset about all the cops out last night?"

"They shouldn've called the cops anyway," Soda takes a swig of milk, pushing the glass to Ponyboy, who turns the glass around to drink from the opposite side. "Wonder who it was; we were having so much fun before they broke it up."

As he swallows the last piece of pancake, Ponyboy feels full and sleepy. He rubs at his face, a scowl on his face. "Probably the Cades."

Sodapop doesn't share who he thinks it was or at least, if he does, he lets it go as he finishes off the milk. "Whoever they were, doesn't change the fact that it was great." He reaches over the table, ruffling Ponyboy's hair with pride that feels magnetic. "My little brother, all grown up like the rest of us, throwing the biggest party on the block!"

And hell, who could blame Ponyboy for loving him for that? Who could blame Ponyboy for feeling happier than ever as he cleans up, slips into bed with Soda to pleasant dreams of Dallas opposite the fire, offering him whisky, their fingers touching? Who could blame him for wanting to dream of Dallas?

Sunday comes in brisk, cool. Everyone's lawns are mostly cleaned by then, and Ponyboy knocks on the Mathews' door as soon as he can get up, brush his teeth and get some clothes on. He'd shoved a book in his backpocket, but before he wanted to do anything else, he wanted to see Johnny. Mrs. Mathews is the one who opens the door in her Sunday clothes, smiling at him kindly. "Hey there, Ponyboy. Two-Bit's asleep, but Johnny's having breakfast with us."

"Mind if I have some, Mrs. Mathews?"

"Course not, you're a little skinny anyway," she opens the door wider, the scent of bacon and eggs making Ponyboy hungry. He walks inside, and in the kitchen there's Johnny cutting at a sausage, looking a bit better than he had by the end of Friday. His hair's ungreased, in a new shirt, and he beams at Ponyboy immediately.

Ponyboy settles himself in with them easily, taking a plate of scrambled eggs and sitting next to Johnny. Johnny still seems exhausted from Friday, rubbing at his eyes, yawning as he eats. Katie bounces off tons of questions to Ponyboy as they eat, and by the end of it, Ponyboy ends up doing dishes with Johnny, pushing the plate into the hot water, Johnny leaning on the counter with the rag.

"You think the news of the fuzz'll get to the lawyer?" Johnny rubs at his hair, waiting for Ponyboy to finish with the dishes. "He told us not to get into trouble."

That was something Ponyboy hadn't considered and he chews at his lip as he scrubs at a dish. "I dunno — no one got arrested, did they?"

"Nah, man," Johnny shakes his head. "Not anyone from our pack, anyway." Ponyboy offers him one of the plates, Johnny taking it with a steady hand. "I got inside quick cause of Two-Bit, and I saw everyone else just run." He grins a little. "Kinda cool, watching everyone run like that; I think I saw a Brumly boy hop on a car, climb over it and run!"

That makes Ponyboy laugh, and so does Johnny. "I think we'll be okay. Darry wasn't even mad when I got in late."

"He wasn't?" Johnny raises his eyebrows.

There's a voice in his head tells him he should tell Johnny about gripping Dallas' hand. About running into the night with him, and sleeping with him in the hide out. That he thinks he should say, should be able to say...

He doesn't, though. Selfishly, Ponyboy wants to keep this thing between him and Dallas something private a little longer. Wants to be able to keep him close to his own heart for just awhile longer now, until he feels ready to share. "Nah, he wasn't."

"Where'd you go?" Johnny asks, eyes big in his face, imploring.

"Just near the train racks," Ponyboy lies, and flicks soapy water at Johnny. Johnny gives a half yelp and Ponyboy laughs — right until Johnny throws the rag at him. He ducks, and unfortunately, it hits Katie square in her pigtails.

Too bad it's hilarious, at her big eyes, her glasses slipping halfway down her nose, her hair wet, and a piece of egg in the towel clearly seen. Ponyboy and Johnny crack up at the sight, Katie glowering at them.

By the time he's done, he asks Johnny, "You got any plans today?"

Johnny chews at his bottom lip and nods. Ponyboy looks halfway surprised; Johnny usually doesn't have them, which makes it all the more interesting when he says, "Gotta go into town with Mrs. Mathews today."

"Really?" Ponyboy pauses, bewildered. "Why?"

A red flush rises in Johnny's cheeks and he scratches his bitten up fingers against his hair. "Uhm, she spoke to that lawyer. Eugene — he told her that we ain't gonna be okay during the h-hearing if my parents ain't gonna show." He grows redder. "So, she's going to the court to file to be my guardian. We gotta go together."

As if things couldn't change all the more. Ponyboy feels a lump in his throat, hit like a ton of bricks all at once. Johnny wasn't going to be tied to his parents anymore — legally he wouldn't. Johnny looks red, and when Ponyboy wraps his arms around Johnny tight. Johnny lets out a sound of surprise, and hugs back as tight as he had in the church. "When did she tell you?"

"This morning," Mrs. Mathews answers. Ponyboy lets go of Johnny, looking at her in the doorway. "I already tried to talk to the Cades — they won't answer me, but they'll have to answer the state." She gives a determined look to Ponyboy. "Soon as you guys finish, I need you to get dressed, Johnny."

"Yes'm," Johnny says and Ponyboy is just about bursting with feelings of pride mixed with relief.

It doesn't take long to finish, and once he does, Ponyboy waves to them both as he walks down the steps, unsure of where to go next: to the DX just to see Soda and Steve (halfway curious about how things have panned out and wanting to tell them what he just learned); to go to a diner for lunch; take a bus downtown to the library for a book; or, to Buck's.

He dawdles for a moment, unsure of himself. Would it be too... soon, too clingy to go to Buck's place, after that? Even if it had only been a day between them, Ponyboy worries at the corner of the street, toeing at a still unpicked up, empty can of beer. A thousand words of advice from the years occur to him from various people in the pack and out, from books, movies, and television.

The fact of the matter was that this was his first potential relationship. His first foray into the idea that he liked someone enough that he wanted to kiss him, that he had actually touched his body for the first time, thinking of Dallas, that he actually got all those books about omegas infatuated with an alpha, understood even a little of how Soda felt about Sandy.

And that's the key to it, he thinks. How Soda had told him early on that he loved Sandy. Soda hadn't hesitated much about his feelings about Sandy, he had been eager and forthright. Even if Sandy was gone...

Ponyboy turns, and makes his way to Bucks.

If anyone in the world was right about love, even if it hadn't turned out perfect, it was Soda. Ponyboy trusted him, especially as the only omega he knew, now. He shoves his hands into his pockets as he goes, shivering a little. He'd forgotten his jacket again, but stubbornly walks his way to the bar, his mind drifting.

It felt a little funny that he was making his way back to there. Last night, they had ran all the way to the tracks Dallas had pointed him to during that night, months ago. Back then, Ponyboy hadn't thought to look around much, to care much about getting there, hopping the freight where they could.

Having that place as his first kiss, in the darkness with Dallas was altogether different. Even buzzed, Ponyboy remembers Dallas clearly, the way something on his face had changed, the press of his hand against Ponyboy's cheek, the way he had leaned forward, pressed his lips against Ponyboy's tasting of beer and whisky. It wasn't bad at all; whatever old thoughts he'd had of Dallas were simply gone now, washed away with the closeness they had now, with the change of things.

Before all this, Dallas had been a little ugly to him.

Now, he wasn't exactly going to make a cover model, not anymore than Ponyboy could. But there was a handsomeness to his features, Ponyboy thinks, only expressed in movement, in who he was. All his features individually might be ugly, could look to be ugly on the surface. The way he grinned full of danger, the way he was so wild and reckless, made it all seem different.

It was like the difference between a wolf, menacing someone from the cover of a magazine to seeing a wolf in nature, moving fluid and natural and all on it's own.

And in that, Ponyboy wonders what exactly Dallas could see in him in what he could want from him. There's a vague memory there from some of those bull nights — Two-Bit nudging Dallas about wanting omegas, Dallas not rebuffing him; Steve making a remark once or twice about Dallas and slick in a way he didn't understand. They all know something more, and for a moment, there's a worry about it. Maybe Ponyboy was easy, maybe it's because the only other omega was Soda, someone who Dallas had never been interested in.

He wonders to himself, resolves that as soon as he gets to Buck's, they'll sit down. Talk. He picks up the pace as the bar looms overhead. Every time he's been here, it's been to seek Dallas, whether for help or for comfort and the thought is calming as he goes up the steps.

There isn't much in way of commotion at the bar; some people are out at church or working or not even awake. Ponyboy knocks on the door, catching his reflection in the window. The blonde hair is longer than it was, some of his reddish, auburn roots showing. He scowls at his reflection, hair still too short for his liking.

Footsteps from the other side approach, and Buck opens the door. The bar is clear, but not necessarily clean, and Ponyboy says, "Is Dallas in?"

"No, he ain't," Buck stands in the doorway himself, looking hungover, smelling hungover (and slightly worse) in the doorway. He's got his corn pokey, terrible cowboy hat on, his figure halfway slumped. "Ain't seen him since Thursday, kid."

Ponyboy's heart plummets. He clears his throat. "You know when he'll get back in?"

"Nope," Buck drawls out. "You want me to leave him a message?"

For a second, Ponyboy considers it, and then shakes his head. "No. I'll just come back later."

"Sure," Buck rolls his shoulders, glances at Ponyboy's hand. "Congratulations, by the way."

Great. Buck had a comment about that. Ponyboy doesn't say thank you, just leaps down the steps, and makes his way to the bus stop. He feels disappointed, a little let down, kicking at the dirt — he lifts his head up as he hears a car making a sharp turn, and to his surprise, Dallas slows down Buck's car, half overtaking the curb when he stops.

"Dally!" He grins at him, and then is startled to realize that Dallas is worse off than before, with more bruises beneath the grin he gives him. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Get in," Dallas waves him over with a wince. Ponyboy hops into the passenger side, and Dallas puts the car into drive, going right back to Buck's.

Chapter Text

The thing about Sal is that he's predictable. He tends to sniff after omegas, he goes to whatever party is loudest, he likes to dress more like a play greaser than a real one and he always licks his wounds at Benny's.

Benny's is almost a county over, and Dallas is intent on getting there. His side hurts, his leg is throbbing with pain and he's feeling slightly hung over as he lights a cigarette on the bus. He hadn't even drank all that much comparatively to everyone else at the initiation last night and as he leans on the window, he can feel gooseflesh break out on his arms.

The pain is there, bothering him and the only thing that beats it back is concentrating on something else entirely. Sometimes, that was thinking about the next race, sometimes it was thinking about the next month. Today? That something else was the morning: waking up with Ponyboy against him, the way it felt to kiss him over and over in the sunrise. Of what he said before Dallas had left him at his place, intent on making sure that Sal knew that what he'd done wasn't acceptable.

Fooling around usually was Dallas' game, on and off with Sylvia over the years. It wasn't all that bad of a game, but that's what it really was: a game. The idea of marriage wasn't even something greasers generally aspired to in the first place, and the idea of mating her?

Even thinking about it makes his lips curl up, thinking about mating her of all people. Having to tie himself to someone like Sylvia who couldn't even be faithful during a jail stint was a joke to him. The whole idea of it was a joke, really; most people could barely work out marriage and the other half didn't do well with mating either, letting bonds drop or mating too many al at once.

In the short term, Sylvia was fine. In the long term, though...

In the long term, Dallas could admit to himself that no one appealed really. That the idea of going into something that big with someone he hardly knew made him annoyed, angry thinking about it. Who would ever do that with him, who would he ever want?

What's the worst thing about it though is that Ponyboy had looked at him with those big eyes of his, and Dallas had agreed with him: This wasn't going to be like fooling around with Sylvia. It wasn't going to be like an omega he fucked every so often, greedy for slick and the chance to knot. It wasn't going to be like a one night stand.

But he didn't know what that was, in all of that.

He wasn't the first person to date their own pack member; most packs tended to have an overlapping dating pool. He would be, however, the first person to go steady with Ponyboy, the first person in their pack to, and ever.

That made it feel different, in every respect.

It wasn't as if he'd treat him softly, breakable. He knows that by the way Ponyboy was last night, illuminated by the fire, the way Ponyboy had never taken anything laying down. He knows that what he's feeling for Ponyboy isn't like Sylvia or an anonymous omega either.

As soon as he spots the bright red sign of the billiard, he reaches up, tugs on the signal cord. The bus halts, Dallas pushes open the side door and climbs out, hand coming up to touch his side. He can see his scar from the fire on his left arm, and breathes better as he makes a few strides down the street.

Whatever he was going to have with Ponyboy, it was going to wait til after this. He can scent some of Sal's pack as he goes, and he puts all thoughts of pain out of his head, straightening up, squaring his shoulders, grinning at them with a level of menace that lets them know to stay out of his way.

Only one or two seem to notice him at first which is fine; Dallas is hunting not for Sal first but his pride and joy: his 1957 Ford Fairlane. The thing was as red as a fire engine, loud, and Sal had always been proud of the fact that he took good care of the car, that he had gotten it on his own.

Dallas, though, hadn't just immediately left the Curtises. He'd stopped by Buck's first to pick up the switchblade Two-Bit had lent him. The switchblade was tucked in his back pocket, and he picks up the pace as he goes around the back of Benny's. It's mid day, and as predicted, it's parked in the back, away from everyone else's vehicles. It's shiny, well kept — he must've cleaned it that morning and waxed it himself.

The smile Dallas gives, he can see in the rim: sharptoothed, big.

And he gets to work, flicking out the blade. He's only got so few minutes to do as much damage as possible.

Doing that was better to concentrate on than last night, taking his time to pull his shirt off, wrapping it around his hand and smashing the glass of every single window, and then taking it to the lights and mirrors. To make sure to drag the knife, to stab it through the upholstery, to kick at the door handles until they came off, to get the rims off of the car as quick as he can, rolling them down and away from the car.

It's systematic, familiar. He did only a little bit of damage to Tim's car, and that pissed Tim off bad enough to give him a black eye.

Sal? Sal wasn't going to forget this, as Dallas makes his way to the tires, jamming the switchblade into both of the front ones, and kicking at the beads of both. Even if he somehow didn't puncture them to hell, there was no way Sal would get air in those even if he tried.

By the time he's on the back, he can hear people in the billiard — someone must've seen him. Dallas works quicker than before, stabbing at the back tires, and when he hears a door open, he takes one last stab at the back right tire.

"Hey—!"

"Shit, it's Dallas—"

"The fuck are you doing?!" Sal comes stumbling out last, looking hungover and pissed off as Dallas straightens up, switchblade in hand. Sal freezes for a moment, looking at the damage, and Dallas savors the look on his face as he realizes it. The way his jaw drops, the panic on his face, and then the mounting anger.

"Sal," Dallas smirks at him, pulling the blade from the back tire, keeping it in front of him, ignoring whatever signal his body is giving him about pain. "Guess you ain't fucking an omega in here tonight, huh?"

"You piece of shit!" Sal lunges for him, barehanded and angry and reckless and fuck does Dallas love a fight. He likes it enough that he puts away the blade, allows Sal to give him the first punch — not nearly as hard as Texas ever hit him, not nearly strong enough to do anything but make him stumble back, for the burst of pain to give him enough shock of adrenaline to recover faster, to grip Sal by his stupid blonde hair and slug him back. It feels good to deliver the punch, he feels focused as he punches Sal again and again.

The blood hits his nose, his face and Sal can't recover enough to do anything but give a wordless yell, trying to use his weight to force Dallas against the car. Dallas is a good twenty pounds smaller than him — he hits the car, but gets his leg up, lets go of Sal's hair to kick him back square in his chest.

That takes the wind out of Sal, who's wheezing and gasping on the ground. Dallas can feel the blood pumping, tongue darting out of his mouth to lap at blood. He's going to have another black eye, a bruised cheek — he bares his fangs at Sal, aware that other people are watching, that they're too afraid to approach two fighting alphas.

He cocks his leg back, and hits Sal square in the crotch. The sound Sal gives is pathetic, and Dallas spits out some saliva and blood next to him. "Come sniffing around again, you piece of shit and I'll do worse."

He looks up and the greasers there — Sal's little croneys — are frozen in the doorway of the billiard. "That goes for all of you."

No one follows him as he turns to walk back to the bus stop. He might not have everything figured out yet, might still need a roadmap, but Dallas? Dallas knows how to do this. He knows how to fight, knows how to protect his pack, and even if he's going to limp his way back to Buck's, he's proud of what he's done.

The ride back to Buck's is smooth, quick, and by the time he gets in, he thinks that all he needs is a quick, easy nap. The bar isn't that busy, and it's easy to reach behind the counter and get some seltzer. It goes down with two painkillers, grimacing a bit at the taste. He folds into the bed easily, curled up on his side.

Sleep pulls him down into dreams that he's used to having: static memories of the apartment in New York, watching his father in the living room. He knows he's about three or four here, watching his father talk lowly, a cigar in his mouth, bouncing his baby brother on his knee. There are men gathered at the table, all of them listening intently.

In the dream, he's sure that he can smell bacon, eggs, coffee. His fingers clench the wall, and he knows that he has to get in there as soon as he can. That if he doesn't, he won't be eating at all, and he doesn't want to keep starving. The ache in his belly is too acute now.

His father turns his head to look at him, a frown on his face. Dallas stares back defiantly in his dream —

— and then he hears the banging of his door. He jerks awake; it's early evening and the acute feeling of hunger lingers in his belly as he rolls over, barking out, "What?"

"It's me," Buck's voice floats through. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah," Dallas sits up, grinding his teeth as he does so. His side hurts something fierce, he's hungry, he's sure that he aggravated his black eye more, and his tongue feels thick. Buck walks in, and that weasley little look on his face. That usually means he's got a job for Dallas. "I ain't riding tonight."

"Don't need you to ride," Buck clears his throat. "Need you to take something to Knowles. Tonight. Pay you double the score."

Something must've happened with Tim. Probably blew Buck off or was too hungover from the previous night at the initiation. Dallas was probably his best, only option, for an offer like that. He feels sore, tired, but the amount of money on the table was a lot. A whole lot. "You're covering for gas and food."

Buck looks relieved and like the cowardly little beta he is, he scuttles out with the confirmation. Dallas groans, stands up and goes to take a brief shower. The heat helps as it washes down his body, and he has a stray thought of what he'd like to be doing: talking to Ponyboy, having him back in his bed, burrowing his nose in his scent, sorting this out, whatever it was.

He knows that's got to be put on hold. This money was needed.

He finishes up, hissing when he gets his clothes back on, taking another two painkillers, and then making his way down to the bar. Buck hands over a sheet of paper to him, with the address, hands over the money for a meal and gas.

They don't have to exchange words with this; Dal has been driving for him since he was fourteen years old and tall enough to see over the wheel. He makes his way out of Buck's and into the cold night, throwing a glance down the street and down to where Pony's house is.

Then he turns, makes his way to Buck's car, opening the trunk up first, then popping open the false bottom. All kinds of alcohol glimmer in the sparse light from regular beers to spirits, glinting amber in the dim light. Dallas closes it with a snap, then the actual trunk. Climbing into the front, he slots his key into the ignition, turns up the music, shuts the door and heads to the road.

Four hours is what it takes to travel from Tulsa to Knowles. Dallas mainly keeps to the backroad as he does it, familiar with the route, the places cops usually lurked. All along, his mind works his way over various things from the previous week, ranging from the anger over the paper from Bob's parents to the way Ponyboy had looked over the fire, with his eyes so brown, the smile he'd given him.

Kissing Ponyboy had only felt right. Dallas knows that as he presses on the gas, goes through the backroads. Kissing him had been impulsive and necessary and it was something Dallas would do again and again.

He knows Ponyboy is probably having bigger, more complex thoughts about this. He probably was fretting, turning it over in his head. And Dallas...

It's not to say that he's stupid, that all he was was impulse anda nerves and anger. It was a lot of him, would always be. That didn't negate the fact that he had a brain, that he had feelings and thoughts and the one that bothers him most as he drives is that Ponyboy is not only an omega, he's one without experience.

Dallas had been on and off with Sylvia for years in a way that had left him unhappy, unsatisfied yet coming back. Mostly because there were so few who caught his interest, more than anything. Some alphas in Tulsa genuinely were into other alphas all the time — Dallas liked alpha women, but when it came to men, it wasn't his interest. No one had ever caught his eye and it seemed as if Sylvia might have been the best option.

He knows that's not exactly the best thing. That he and Sylvia had been more concerned with not showing emotions with each other, sure the other would use it. That things had been more convenient in a way that had broken the last time he had gotten out of jail.

He hadn't told her, never would, but the convenience had worn off. What little they had had gotten tiresome, and Dallas didn't want to be in any damn relationship where he had to keep watching over his shoulder. He'd rather be in none at all than tied to her.

And now...

Now he was thinking about having a relationship with an omega he'd known for most of his life. Who had been a pup to him a few weeks ago and who he now didn't view as one at all. There were two very, very big things about it that no matter what, Dallas knew he had to address on his own: the fact that Ponyboy was an omega, and that it was his first relationship.

Sylvia knew about the fact that out of every dynamic, Dallas would pick an omega over anyone any day. She'd teased him about it, and he'd told her about the few times he'd go to another town and get his fill at an omega bar — a place full of omegas that you got to have some fun with. As soon as she had seen Ponyboy at the bonfire, they'd both known then what she was thinking. What she could say if they got together, Dallas sniffing around the youngest omega around, that it was clearly a fetish even if that wasn't true.

And what she'd use for ammo, what Dallas worried about more was that Ponyboy was youngest. Ponyboy was vulnerable, he was new to this and it makes Dallas' instincts itch at the idea of messing that up for him.

It's a stereotype, an omega drawn to someone older, an alpha usually in a way that others might not like. Alphas using up an omega or discarding them and none of that feels right. None of that is what Dallas would do, but he'd also be a moron — and he wasn't — to think that people wouldn't bring it up or that it bothers him to maybe do that to someone he considered pack. Someone who wasn't a nameless omega he fucked to satisfy himself.

Ponyboy, he'd almost died for back in Windrixville, the terror when he hit him so acute it makes the scar on his forearm itch. Ponyboy's that brave kid that tried to keep Johnny from drowning, the kid he'd first met, hiding behind his mother's legs, semi terrified of him.

His instincts itch and grow upset at the idea that anything they could do together could mess him up.

But the thought of not confronting it is worse. Ignoring it, pretending it didn't exist was worse, and that's what makes Dallas determined to finish up in Knowles and then make his way back to Tulsa to hash it out.

It's just too long to get to Knowles without sleep once he makes all the needed deliveries, gets the money. He knows that Buck owes him for this, and once he makes the deliveries, he parks the car in a public rest area, locks the doors and puts his head down to sleep in the back for a few hours.

The sleep he gets pulls him right back to the old apartment in New York. He's alone now, this time, aware his parents aren't there. In the dream he knows that he's six, that he knows how to count money, where to find little slips of bills and change around the house.

He knows that this played out differently at six. That he found the money and successfully got out, was able to get himself enough food for a week. In the dream, though, when his hand reaches out, his mother's hand wraps around his wrist. She looks at him with a piercing, angry glare.

In his dream, he bares his teeth back at her, feeling a burst of pain.

In the waking world, he jolts awake to the sound of horns blaring, and the sun starting to peek into the horizon. He's had maybe four hours of sleep, and the burst of pain doesn't come from being shoved away but his side, his legs. He's taken too many hits, and driving back to Tulsa is going to be a pain in the ass given it's five in the morning.

But he's gotta get back.

So Dallas limps his way back to the front of the car, puts it in drive and goes. Goes and goes, using the pain to keep himself awake until the interstate turns to the familiar in roads of Tulsa. He's not expecting Ponyboy to be near the sidewalk when he gets near Buck's, but he thinks it's a good sign to see him as he comes barreling down the street, able to see that shock of blonde hair easily. He's cleaned up at least, but to Dallas' lack of surprise, there's no jacket on him.

Ponyboy hears him, jerking his attention away from the street. He looks halfway between startled and pleased as Dallas banks the car on the side of the walk beside him. The action makes another shoot of pain well up in him. "Dally!" He grins at him, and then a startled expression takes over his face as he comes over. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Get in," Dallas waves him over with a wince. Ponyboy hops into the passenger side, and Dallas puts the car into drive, going to Buck's.

Chapter Text

"What the hell happened to you?" Ponyboy can hardly get an arm around Dallas to help him up into Buck's, repeating what he'd said earlier. Dallas looks almost as bad as he looked after the rumble, hissing as they go into the bar. Buck looks at them go, and Ponyboy wonders what he knows as he gets Dallas up the steps.

"Had to do a job for Buck," Dallas says, wobbling as he and Ponyboy take the steps slowly — that annoys him, that Buck lied. "That and had to go visit Sal, show him he can't just run his mouth like that." He gives Ponyboy a ferocious grin through the pain as they get up the steps and into the room. Slowly, Ponyboy eases him onto the bed, letting him sink into it as best he can. Dallas hisses painfully, and Ponyboy frets for a moment, not sure what to do.

Dallas just looks bad: his face roughed up, his shirt looks stained from grass and blood, his jeans are torn. Something about it aggravates Ponyboy's instincts, as he gets him on the bed. It's not as if he hasn't seen Dallas beat up before; it's practically a once a month thing.

Still... Ponyboy feels a little helpless, a little unsure as Dallas swallows, rubs at his side. He'd wanted to come here to talk, wanted to try and find a way to understand what was happening and now... now there was this.

"Kid?" Dallas squints up at him, through his swollen up eye and pallid skin. "Kid, you okay?"

Dallas is worried and that's what makes Ponyboy come into himself, nodding. "I'm fine. You got any ice anywhere? Uhm, bandaids?" He kicks himself, usually used to being the one cared for and not the one doing the caring of someone else — particularly someone who cared about him differently than anyone else. It makes him feel useless, a little young, and still. Ponyboy has to do something.

"Can ask Buck for it," Dallas squints again. "Listen, I got it—"

"You could barely get up the steps," Ponyboy shakes his head, finally moving to the door. "Just lay down, I'll get it from Buck." He doesn't mean to sound snappy, just going through the door and down the steps, not looking back.

What a time to get goddamn cold feet. Buck isn't there, so Ponyboy takes a chance, peeking behind the bar. He's not surprised to find a baseball bat or a shotgun there, from the stories he's heard. There are tons of liquor there, and remembering other times, he grabs a bottle of whisky. From there he grabs one of the pitchers, fills it with ice. There's a few towels out that are freshly pressed and cleaned — which was funny given Ponyboy knew that people used to gossip about how Buck kept the place.

Once he gets them all, he moves up the steps, to see Dallas shoving his jeans off. He looks even worse just down to his underwear: his side has a huge dark bruise on it, his right leg looks like a mottled mix of angry reds, and Ponyboy can see as he shifts in bed to roll over, his back is bruised up too. For sure, some of that wasn't from the past day.

He didn't bring enough ice for this. "Jesus Dally. You look like you went a couple of rounds with someone." Ponyboy dumps everything on the bed, barely catching the whisky bottle when it tries to roll down. "I ain't — I only got some towels and ice."

"Just put it on my back," Dallas grunts out, reaching behind him. "That's freshest, hurts the most." Ponyboy watches as the light glints off of the skull ring and Dallas' chain. "Just use the ice and a towel, like a compress." Ponyboy puts the whisky on the dresser, putting the towel on Dallas' back, dumping the ice in there. "I went, gave Sal a little visit is all. My old man hits harder than him."

Annoyance flares up in Ponyboy's gut, along with admiration. "I thought Ed settled that." He moves the ice with his fingers, hearing Dallas hiss with the cold. "You went defending my honor or something?" He wrinkles his nose, not liking the thought — that with the initiation and everything else, Dallas had tried to step in. He had proved he hadn't needed to be defended, and more than that, it almost proved Sal's point, didn't it? He was an omega who needed his alpha pack member to go behind his back and fight for him.

"No, I did it because Sal's a fucking asshole who thinks every omega should be bowing to him," the words are snapped out, "and I wasn't gonna let him think he could just pull that shit." Dallas huffs more, and Ponyboy isn't sure for a moment if he's annoyed or not, if he'll let himself smile a little. "He's just pissed Soda beat his ass, and he couldn't take it out on you."

Ponyboy stands up, grunting out. "So it's not cause of everything last night?" He feels a little cautious, small as he walks to Dallas' bathroom, deliberately not looking at him in the eye as he hunts around for his aspirin. "With us?"

Behind him, Dallas shifts on the bed. Ponyboy finds the aspirin, heart pounding a little as he pulls it out. He feels a little queasy, nervous as he walks back in, unscrewing the top. Dallas is up on his elbows, his hair in his face, squinting at Ponyboy, hand open. Ponyboy tips it, shaking out at least six aspirins, waiting.

Instead of answering, Dallas, tips about four of the aspirins back into the bottle, before dry swallowing two. Once they're down, he keeps his dark eye fixed on Ponyboy. "You asking me if I'd have done it even if I wouldn't have kissed you? Or are you asking about everything from last night?"

"Both," Ponyboy says. He swallows, ears burning pink. "You ain't even... It's like—"

"Kid, I'd eat you up right now if I could," Dallas interrupts, and the way he says it, voice scraping the bottom of his register, a half growl, "But I'm beat to hell and back." His hand reaches over, tugs at Ponyboy's hand, pulling him back to the bed. "You mind just staying here for a bit? Let me get my wind back and we can talk?"

A grin works its way on his face. "Yeah, Dal. Sure." He glances at the bed. "Can I...?"

"Yeah," Dallas scoots over a little. "I'll probably fall asleep in a bit. Soon as I'm back though, we'll talk." Ponyboy sits in the bed, grateful they're both scrawny.

He doesn't feel sleepy himself, but in no time, Dallas' eyes shut and he's asleep in the bed, the ice starting to melt in the cool air. Ponyboy shifts, pulling the book out from his pocket as Dallas slips into sleep. It's a dime store novel — one of those not that great cowboy reads but had enough in it to make the time pass.

Once or twice he finds himself dozing off, woken up only by the crackle of ice on Dallas' back as it melts. Barely, Ponyboy keeps it from spilling when Dallas rolls over, hastily grabbing the ice and towel. He wrings it out in the sink, climbs back in bed and he's just finishing the book when Dallas rolls over, groaning back to wakefulness.

Wordlessly, Ponyboy goes to grab more ice from the back. He wraps the ice in one of the towels, offering it to a now yawning, but awake Dallas. Not for the first or last time, Ponyboy is entranced by the way he looks as he presses the compress to his swollen eye. Once again, he's not sure how or when he started to think Dallas is good looking except that he is as he relaxes, back on the wall, legs outstretched over his bed. Something about him — from his dark, thick brows to his dark eyes (even one bruised purple) to the pale-pink of his body just simply fits now, something that Ponyboy longed to touch more than he had ever known before.

"You gonna keep gawking or are you gonna do something about it?" His voice interrupts, teasingly.

"You'd probably be worse off if I tried," Ponyboy admits, sitting back down on the bed, not sure of how to begin, of what to say or do besides watch Dallas and deflect. "You feeling better?"

"Yeah," Dallas massages the ice on his eye, "Good thinking with the towel." He looks at Ponyboy, turning his head, looking him up and down. "Answer your question," he yawns again, rubbing at his face, "I'd have done that shit to Sal anyway. Just made it better I was thinking of you, too, I guess."

"Thinking of me, how?" Ponyboy finds himself looking warmly at Dallas, even his words are still tinged with anxiousness, apprehension. "I just... I ain't exactly. You said this wasn't like Sylvia. I ain't sure what that means." He isn't sure what else to say, thinking of who he's seen dating before: Evie and Steve who always seemed together yet distant at the same time; Soda who had loved Sandy so intensely and utterly devoted to her but who was gone now and Soda wasn't talking to Steve, the only other person who might fill the space she left; Darry who had dated before yet Ponyboy couldn't remember anything significant about anyone except a time or two he'd thought Paul scented like him; his parents who had always loved each other more than anyone, mated and married even though most greasers thought mating was enough. Dozens of movies and books fill his head, and yet none of them are helping him much here, looking at Dallas.

Dallas isn't exactly like someone in a book or a movie. He looks at Ponyboy in a way that can't be assigned to film or words. Everything about him is so much more — and it pulls at something in Ponyboy too. He wants to live up to that need, he wants to be that for Dallas and yet...

He knows when he slips into the bed, getting closer to Dallas, he doesn't even want to think about mating yet. He doesn't want to marry either — socs cared about that sort of thing and he's too young for both.

That's the problem, though in a way. He doesn't know what he wants either, even as he fumbles his words. "I mean I —," Ponyboy swallows, ears burning, "I just don't wanna be some kind of... like how Two-Bit's got his blondes."

They both know what that means. Dallas nods in understanding, probably thinking of how Two-BIt just got with one, left her quick and easy. His look is warm, mouth hooking up as if he wants to say something more. It looks so at home on his face, and suddenly... Ponyboy doesn't exactly want to just talk anymore, even as the words form on Dallas' tongue. Even though a part of him that sounds annoyingly like Darry thinks he should let him speak, he'd rather just lean in and take the kiss he's been wanting from Dallas for over a day now, swallowing up whatever words Dallas means to say.

And it's good, to kiss him. It's better than the shower fantasy, it's better than the one on the train tracks. He notices how Dallas kisses with more tongue now that he's not drunk, notices how his hand doesn't go to Ponyboy's waist but to his hair, sinking his fingers in. He likes the way it feels, to try and emulate what Dallas does, to dig his fingers into Dallas' side, accidentally hitting the bruise — he thinks to apologize but Dallas just nips him right on his lip. It doesn't make Ponyboy pull back, which surprises him more than anything.

It does the opposite — he can feel that flush in his body starting again, that familiar feeling from the shower, and it's what makes him pull away, panting. Dallas looks halfway out of it, grinning lopsidedly, pulling Ponyboy back by his shirt. "Where you going, blondie?"

Ponyboy huffs, feeling flushed, pleased, and he shakes his head, "Dal —"

Dallas pulls him back. "You want an answer?" Ponyboy nods, heart pounding in his chest. Dallas' legs lift up and he puts the ice compress down, hand waving. "Turn around then." Ponyboy's heart goes even faster he thinks, as he turns around.

There's a quiet clink, the sound of movement and then it comes into his vision: the St. Christopher necklace. He watches as the medallion dangles in front of him and then settles on his neck, the metal feeling cool against his already too warm skin. He can feel the tips of Dallas' fingers on his neck and shoulder as he fastens it on Ponyboy's neck.

They both know what it means to have it on his neck. The one thing that Sylvia never took as seriously as she should, the one thing that everyone could look at him and know the answer to the question of who Dallas cared about, of who Ponyboy cared about.

There's no need for any further discussion about it when Ponyboy feels it settle against his chest. All he wants to do is drag Dallas in for more, and when he turns his head, the lopsided, pleased look on Dallas' face agrees.

Chapter Text

"You think you'll be able to come pick me up for lunch this week?" Ponyboy can't help but ask, lingering in the doorway. He still doesn't quite feel like he'll be able to get home in one piece like this for as long as he and Dallas have been in that bed, kissing each other, touching each other. It isn't like his imagination from the shower, but it's better, real. Dal is too sore to make anything else happen anyway, and Pony is willing to wait, willing to gather more intel for his fantasies until the time is right.

And it's more than worth it: He knows now that Dal kisses rough, likes his fingers in his hair, to pull it. He's learned that he likes a little pain from Dallas, hadn't liked those little moments where Dallas had tried to be gentle, as if Pony were breakable. More, he likes how Dallas clearly loved how his neck looks with the St. Christopher. His eyes had been dark, focus intense as he kissed along scent glands, marking him up in a way that made their scents so confusing no longer sure where Pony's scent ended and Dallas' began.

It's possessive and better, his imagination couldn't have told him all of that.

"Probably not til Thursday," Dallas says around a cigarette, looking tired but pleased with himself, eyes flicking to Ponyboy's neck again. "Don't worry about me, kid." He leans on the doorframe, and it doesn't miss Ponyboy that his eyes focus on Ponyboy's neck. "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, well, you better," Ponyboy grins, feeling silly and elated all at once. "See you, Dally." He leans forward for one more kiss, one more playful tug at his hair. And then he's going down the steps, slipping out of Buck's and into the cool night.

The entire way back to his house, he doesn't pay much attention. He's more caught up in the new feeling of the chain around his neck, on the feeling of the medallion banging against his chest, drunk on the entire afternoon spent kissing Dallas, touching him, laying next to him. It feels good, buoyant, and when he finally gets home, it's nice to see that Soda and Darry are home.

Darry looks tired as he flips a porkchop in the skillet. The smell makes Ponyboy's mouth water, Soda on the couch watching television. They both look to him when the door opens — Darry glances up and then freezes; Soda's nose wrinkles and when he looks at Ponyboy, his eyes get very, very wide in his face.

Ponyboy belatedly realizes what it means to his brothers that he's coming in later, scenting of Dallas, with the medallion on his neck. What every greaser knows. Reluctantly, he stands in the doorway, clearing his throat, teetering in indecision and hesitance. Darry's gripping the fork he's using for the porkchop hard, and Soda just seems to not know what to do or say.

A desperate, red flush works it's way up Ponyboy's neck and ears. The sound of grease pops and Ponyboy can't help himself, "Darry, it's gonna burn."

That jolts everyone back to themselves: Darry swears, moves back from the pan and turns the fire down. Soda continues to stare as Ponyboy darts to his room. He slams the door, unsure of how to even look at either of them, unsure of what they're going to think or say — only that he doesn't want either of them to reprimand him over it. That this is his first boyfriend and he should get to enjoy himself.

Homework has never seemed so appealing, and Ponyboy gets to his desk, pulls it out and works. Works until Darry hollers them out for dinner.

His stomach turns nervously as he gets up, well aware that whatever Darry cooked was good. He's still reluctant to get to the table — some of the pork chops are a little burned but the mashed potatoes look good and the corn on the cob is nice and Darry cannot stop staring at him as he sits.

They all pass the food around in silence, each of them very aware of each other. Soda keeps glancing over at Ponyboy, Darry keeps cutting and stabbing his food too hard, the television feels too loud and Ponyboy is having the hardest time chewing the porkchop, as good as it is.

A fork clatters down and Darry finally bites out, "You wanna tell me how you got that necklace?"

"Same way Sylvia got it," comes flying out of Ponyboy's mouth before he can stop himself. Soda gags on his corn and Darry looks downright angry and Ponyboy hastily adds, "Darry — c'mon! It ain't a big deal."

"Ain't a big deal?" Darry echoes, clearly upset. "Dallas shouldn't be involved with you, you're too young—"

"No I ain't—"

"Darry, he ain't," Soda overtakes Ponyboy's words, eyebrows raising. "He got initiated, ain't nothing wrong with Ponyboy and Dallas being together."

Of all moments, this has to be one for the books. Ponyboy's eyes go wide at Soda and Darry looks red faced at Soda. Of all reactions, Ponyboy hadn't betted on this, Soda raising his eyebrows. "I remember you told me when you got initiated, you went for—"

"I wasn't fourteen," Darry pushes back.

"But you knew the rules," Soda pushes gently. "If he gets initiated—"

"We can do what we want," Ponyboy pushes back as well, sure Darry can't go against this. He looks frustrated, angry. "I was already wearing Dallas' jacket, we already were close, Darry. There ain't nothing wrong with it."

For a moment, Darry looks like he'll protest more, that he'll push more. But something in the way Soda is looking at him, there's something there that is holding Darry back. Something that Ponyboy would love to know as soon as possible.

Darry breathes out of his nose. "Long as you keep up with school, fine. But those grades slip—"

"Yeah, yeah," Ponyboy says, throwing a pleading look at Soda when Darry turns his head. Soda pretends like he doesn't see as he digs back into his food. "I won't slack off."

That night, when he goes to bed, Soda still won't tell him what he almost said. Ponyboy goes to sleep with the question ringing around his head, unsatisfied.

At least when he dreams, there's no nightmares, only blackness.

School is different, though. The moment he enters, he can tell that people are looking at him differently, and it isn't just greasers that do it. The greasers of course are celebratory of his initiation; they clap his shoulders, gather round him. Some of them still offer things to him — and then back off at the sight of the St. Christopher around his neck.

Everyone knows what that means.

What's more striking is the way socs regard him. They whisper around, gossip with each other but Ponyboy is never sure of what exactly they're saying or how they're saying it. People just look at him in ways that are varied from some clear disgust on some seems to be a bit of admiration mixed with apprehension. One of Cherry's friends passes him and she gives him a disgusted look as she does so. He gives her a glare of his own this time, not wanting to have her have the last look.

It seems to work, her steps quickening as she moves down the hallway.

If the teachers know anything, they don't say anything about it. Ponyboy goes through his classes much the same until lunch time. The bell rings, and Ponyboy gathers his things, on the other side of the school. He moves as quickly as he can, going down the isolated hallway to the parking lot when he sees Cherry, having missed her scent in the throng of others.

She's alone on her side of the wall, wearing a pretty blue sweater that resembles the one from the night at the movies. For a moment, he thinks there's a lonely quality about her as she stands there, her hands clutching one of her books, head cast down, lost in thought. She looks up, though, as his sneakers squeak on the floor.

It's then that it occurs to them both at the same time: they're both alone in this corridor, where people are passing them on each side for the most part. Only one middle class kid runs past them, and Cherry's eyes are focused on him for a moment, unable to look away. Ponyboy keeps his gaze on her too, no longer willing to look away, searching her face for whatever words she wants to say. He's sure she must want to say something: he can see it in the set of her mouth, the way her eyes linger on him. Maybe about the way he looked, maybe about the initiation.

He looks at her defiantly, only slowing down a little bit, and whatever words she wants to say die on her half parted lips when her eyes drop to his neck. Her hand goes up, almost to her own neck and Ponyboy thinks all sorts of things at that moment: You could've said something earlier. Did you think that you really had a chance with Dallas? You going to even keep your promise with the lawyer?

Then Cherry whirls around, her red hair glinting in the light, and she's the one who leaves this time, eyes lowered.

The last thing he sees is her hair, her form turning into the hallway. That's all there is to it.

Ponyboy makes his way to the parking lot. Steve is there, honking the horn in irritation. Two-Bit and Johnny are waving him over and he runs over to them. He doesn't mention her to them, just climbs in and grins at Johnny as Steve floors it out of there.

He doesn't think about Cherry for the rest of the school day. All he does is get all his schoolwork done, and when Steve picks them up at the end of the day, he asks to get to Buck's. Steve doesn't even put up a protest about Darry. They all know the score at this point.

Buck's isn't very busy, he finds. He goes up the steps easily, and the door is already open, Dallas sticking his head out, grinning. "Knew I scented you. C'mon, kid."

"I ain't a kid," Ponyboy huffs with no real heat behind it. Dallas doesn't look that much better than he did on Sunday, groaning when he sits in the bed. For a moment, Ponyboy wavers in concern — then Dallas' hand tugs him into the bed.

He follows him into it, and Dallas' lips are on his before he can think to say or do anything else. He falls into the bed with him, easy, like he's been doing this for more than a few days.

It feels so damn good to kiss him. All those times he used to get annoyed at Soda or Darry or anyone else for being so into this that they were distracted? He gets now why they liked to do this so much. He loves to feel Dallas kiss him, loves the feeling of his hand in his hair, that starting to be familiar warmth creeping up his neck, the way that the arousal he feels starts to quicken in him.

He hates it, though, when Dallas hisses or has to pull back. Ponyboy wants more, so much goddamn more, yet he has to be careful. Dallas senses it, looking a bit apologetic beside him, hair messed up from Ponyboy's hands. "Sorry, kid. I don't think I'm up for much for awhile."

"It's okay," glumly comes out of him, even if that's not entirely true. Dallas does look good though, like this, eye still healing, body still a bit bruised up. "We got to kissing and I ain't even ask how you were."

"Not as bad as I was yesterday," Dallas sighs out, bringing a palm to rub at his good eye. "Got a visit from your brother, though. Didn't sound too happy about me and you."

A scowl crosses Ponyboy's face. "Darry shouldn't—"

"He's your brother, I get it," Dallas shrugs, "Ain't gonna stop me, either. I told him that." The rakish grin he gives Ponyboy makes him relax a bit, grateful that Dallas' reputation as the toughest hood still proved true even now. If anyone wasn't going to fold in front of Darry, it was Dallas.

He flops down on the bed, coming closer. "Good. I ain't... I'm not soft or nothing. I don't wanna have to break up with you or..." He struggles for words, images popping up of omegas over protected, guarded. An image that doesn't work for him, curling up more on the bed. "He tell you anything else?"

"No," Dallas tugs him closer by his hip. "Nothing I ain't heard of before. I'm not trying to get you in trouble, not like that." He nips at Ponyboy's ear, and that warmth pushes it's way forward again.

Ponyboy follows it into a sloppy, happy kiss that Dallas returns. He loves the feeling, hand grasping at Dallas' side — only to ease up when Dallas gives a hiss of pain. His hand jerks back, only for Dallas to grasp it, putting it somewhere else on his side, without pain. It's comforting, and then they part again, Ponyboy still wanting to talk a bit, fingers tracing Dallas' cheek. The bruising on his skin doesn't really mar him at all; it adds to him.

"Pony?" Dallas asks, eyes dark, clearly wanting to lean closer again, keep on kissing but expectant. Waiting for him to say something else. Ponyboy has a few things he probably could ask, should ask.

And then, well. He leans closer, pressing his nose against Dallas'. Letting Dallas lift his hand up to touch his neck, to scent him and then all he cares about after that is kissing Dallas. Touching his side, curling against him.

Talking can come later. Much later.

"You going to keep coming in late, huh," Darry remarks when Ponyboy comes inside. He looks up from where he's cooking, gaze critical. He's surely not missed the hasty way Ponyboy fixed up his hair or the fact that his clothes are wrinkled — or the hickeys that are on Ponyboy's neck. They're all on the left side, lazily placed there by Dallas over an hour ago, on the opposite side of where mating ones would go.

"It ain't that late," Ponyboy remarks, knowing how pointed those words are now, might forever be. "I already ate, you don't have to make anything for me."

For a moment, Darry looks so much like their father as he cleans his hands on the dishtowel, like he used to do on Sundays, making dinner. It makes Ponyboy's chest constrict a little, and then Darry's harsher expression of concern settles on his face. "You need to get to bed, early. We gotta go see the lawyer tomorrow morning."

The door slams, right as Ponyboy's veins run ice cold with worry. Soda bumps into him, and they're both staring uncomfortably at Darry. "What for?" Soda almost chokes out behind Ponyboy.

"He said he's got a definite court date," Darry draws out, clearing his throat. "So we all need to get there, soon as it's seven-fifteen."

Ponyboy dully thinks that it's a good thing he already ate. He wouldn't be able to now, after that.

Chapter Text

"Pony! Ponyboy — ow!"

Run. He has to get up and run he has to—

"Pony!" Hands grasp his upper arms and then Ponyboy's eyes fly open, he gasps and thrashes, feeling hands gasping him tighter, the entire air filled with the tang of fear. He whimpers, gasps, and then the grip on him shifts. He feels arms wrap around him, and he can't help but cry into the warm, solid chest against him, fall into the sweet, familiar scent of the person beside him. The sobs that come out of him are harsh, worn out, and he bawls.

A light falls into the room. Soda's voice falls on him, "It's okay — I got him, Darry."

Ponyboy holds on tighter to Soda. His hand cascades through his hair for what seems like an hour until Ponyboy can finally feel himself calming down, mind going blank. Until the only thing he remembers is the sharp taste of chlorine in his mouth, down his throat.

"Pony?" Soda says softly. "Honey, you okay?"

"N-No," Ponyboy chokes out. He takes a few more breaths, "D-Don't go, Soda. Please."

"I ain't going nowhere, honey. I promise," Soda's voice stays gentle, and Ponyboy holds him as close as he can.

It's not a good start.

Breakfast is silent as a graveyard and when they pile into the truck, it isn't any better. The wound on Ponyboy's hand has scabbed over and he picks at it idly as Darry drives them to the lawyer's office.

He knows that Darry is scared of his nightmares. That he doesn't remember. Soda, too, is pale and quiet as they make their way through the town. It feels ominous and heavy for them as they make their way through, the entire weight of the past few months on their shoulders.

He thinks he can still taste chlorine in his mouth when Darry parks the truck. Clearing his throat feels difficult as he gets out of the truck, the cold penetrating him sharply.

Soda rubs his palms on his jeans as another car pulls in beside them. Mrs. Mathews opens the door and waves to them. Her hair is pulled up, and she comes around to open the door for Johnny. Ponyboy grins a bit at the sight of him, his hair half askew, using crutches to walk.

"Good to see you, Darry," she nods to Darry who gives a terse nod back.

Everyone is quiet as they make their way inside the building. Mrs. Mathews reaches up to adjust Darry's tie in the elevator and when they disembark, she clutches her purse so tight her knuckles look white.

Eugene opens the door for them all and it's a bit cramped to have them all in. He has more books around than before, notes everywhere but looks put together as he shakes hands with Mrs. Mathews. "It's nice to finally meet you, Kathleen. I was told you're in the process of being Johnny's legal guardian given his parents absence."

"It's been a long time coming," she says, and Ponyboy feels so much warmth for her. "I'll be here every step of the way."

"Good, I'm very glad to hear that," Eugene takes a seat and sweeps a look over them all. "This is mostly informative today. The hearing date is set for three weeks from today at nine am sharp. Between then and now, I'll be speaking to those involved in this case and once that's done, finishing up my preparations for this case. In that time it is imperative that you all stay out of trouble. The court will be looking for any reason to come down hard on you — do not give them that ammunition." He looks at Ponyboy in particular with this. Ponyboy's ears grow red, and he flexes his hand, feeling the scab. "I can't stand playing into the hands of people who will use anything to hurt you. I will also be calling in just in case I need a few details cleared up as well."

Ponyboy nods even if he doesn't quite feel like he grasps it all. What else was he looking for? There were only so many things he could learn about court from Perry Mason and he itches thinking about it.

"Details?" Mrs. Mathews asks, hands clutching her purse tighter, leaning forward. "What kind of details?"

"Confirming people's accounts, clarifying intent and seeing if they'll take the stand," Eugene takes out his glasses, the thick black frames glinting in the overhead light. "Some people will need to be heard, some won't. I'll have to speak to the prosecutor on this, come to an agreement depending on the responses and their case. I'll admit that it will be interesting given a dead boy can't speak," Ponyboy sees Johnny go pale, hears Soda squeak, feels himself freeze at the casual mention. "It makes this a little harder in some ways and easier in others. From what I've heard so far, though, you have a fighting chance."

He looks at Ponyboy then, gaze intent. "And I take it you haven't forgotten what I've said about fighting, have you?"

Ponyboy shakes his head."No, sir. I haven't."

Eugene glances at Johnny who nods his head too.

"Good," he says and the first feeling of relief touches Ponyboy.

Mrs. Mathews looks troubled — her hands are still clutching her purse tightly, face still drawn — as Eugene continues, "I have a list of people I'll be speaking to. I won't be sharing that but I do need to speak with you, Kathleen and Johnny, now. Everyone else... you're free to go. I'll see you in a few weeks."

Ponyboy glances at a still pallid Johnny and nods. Johnny nods back, still looking vaguely sick. Darry opens the door, Eugene standing up to shake his hand. Soda shakes his hand too, and when Ponyboy gets to the door, Eugene shakes his too.

However, Eugene holds on a moment longer, looking at the cut on Ponyboy's hand, and eyes going to his neck. Belatedly, Ponyboy remembers he still has hickeys there. "Out of trouble." Eugene raises his eyebrows."You know what that includes?"

Ears burning, Ponyboy nods.

"He said that?"

Dallas looks a bit better than before as be bites into the burger. His hair is half pushed back, in a sleeveless black shirt and his jean jacket over his shoulder. He reaches over for the ketchup as he continues, "Sounds like he knows what to say."

"Yeah," Ponyboy dips his fries in the ketchup he has, swirling it in there absently. Rightfully he should be nervous about all the greasers glancing over at them, should feel self conscious about the fact that everyone saw Dallas pick him up for lunch, that they were in the diner together for lunch at the biggest greaser hang out. It was making things official.

Instead his mind can't get away from the meeting with Eugene. With the stacks of law books, the scribbling on the notepads, the thought that people were going to file in and out of the office soon. That he'd be talking to people like Randy and Cherry and Marcia and—

There's a sharp rap on the table and Ponyboy is jolted out of his thoughts. Dallas looks annoyed at the other end of the table, "Kid, where's your brain?"

"Sorry," Ponyboy mutters, shoving the fry into his mouth. Even now that they were together, it still felt awkward to tell Dallas about his thoughts, spiraling so far, the nervousness in his stomach.

He wants to think about the way Dallas' eyebrows work together in annoyance. About what they were going to do this week, about the bonfires, about homework or the book in his pocket.

Instead, as they finish their food, he thinks if the lawyer will have to talk to Dallas. If Dallas might have to go talk to a judge about helping them and...

This time, Dallas catches his attention by reaching over and getting his fingers in his hair, tugging at it. Ponyboy doesn't realize he's done it until the yank, and he's forced to look at Dallas' expression, at the annoyance there, at the irritation. "Kid, you're about to make your shirt an art project." Ponyboy blinks, looks down and sees his fry is just about swimming in ketchup, inches from his shirt. He drops it reflexively, but Dallas doesn't keep his hand out of his hair. He just keeps looking at him from across the table, expression dark. "You sure you wanna go back to school?"

"No," the word comes out without thinking. "Can't just skip. Darry'll kill me."

For a moment, Dallas sneers, as if he wants to defy Darry, But evidently, the lawyer's words might work enough for him to drop his hand. Ponyboy misses the feeling, the warmth as Dallas rubs at his cheek and chin ruefully. It looks good on him, tough and Ponyboy knows he could be doing something else at that moment than fretting about Darry or school.

Dallas catches his eye, and raises an eyebrow almost as if he read Ponyboy's mind.

He couldn't have, though. He can't know that Ponyboy is thinking about his mouth on his cheek, think of kissing his neck again.

He thinks that right up until Dallas throws down the money, cocks his head towards the car. Ponyboy decides to leave his anxious, unhappy thoughts in the ketchup soaked fries for just a few moments.

It was better, easier, for a few moments to just climb into Dallas' lap in the car. To feel Dallas' hand in his hair as he leans up to kiss him, fingers grasping his shirt tightly. He wants the warmth between them, the feeling of Dallas' mouth on his neck, his hands on his sides. Dallas' scent is a comfort on him, almost as much as the feeling of Dallas' hands are. His fingers against Ponyboy's neck — hand larger, fingers, thicker — makes him almost melt into his lap.

It's over much too quick, given he has to go back to class. He hungers for more, wants more, needs more. He can't articulate what exactly that is, really. Dallas' hands were all over his sides and back, mouth all over his neck and it's not enough. The obvious answer isn't exactly what he needs right now, and yet.

When he gets back to class he can't help but put his hand on his neck and think about it. Think about Dallas' sharp fangs sinking further into his skin. Not being teased with just them skimming his skin, thinking of what they would feel like, truly driving into his neck.

He has to shift in his seat, think of something else when he feels himself slick a little. The way his ears burn red makes him uncomfortable, hoping no one scents him.

At the end of the day, Dallas isn't there with everyone else waiting to go home. That's fine enough, as he hops into the car with Two-Bit, Steve, and Johnny. Everyone's a little quiet as they make their way home; Ponyboy sneaks a curious glance at Steve, though, wondering if he and Soda were anywhere close to making up.

Johnny sees his gaze, and they both share a knowing glance about it.

It wasn't something either of them were going to ask about, and as Two-Bit fills up the car with questions and comments, there's a silent agreement that if they talk about it, it won't be here. Not now.

That night, he goes to bed, feeling a little better than he had in the morning.

This time, there aren't any dreams to remember, which is a relief.

Chapter Text

"Mr. Curtis," the substitute's voice is loud, authoritative, and ultimately, annoying. He opens the door to the hallway, "I don't like liar's in my classroom. If you and your friends won't stop lying then you don't deserve to be in my classroom."

"It ain't your classroom, it's Mr. Syme's," Ponyboy says back as he grabs his books. "None of us are lying about my name." He should really sit down, just swallow it but Ponyboy doesn't feel much like obeying a pushy, puffy substitute who doesn't want to listen to him or his classmates.

Given this was one of his few classes with greasers, it was going to be hell on the guy anyway. He probably needed to show he meant business by kicking Ponyboy out for supposedly lying about his name — especially because it was first period. If he pulled this off, word would spread about it, and people would probably hesitate to push back against him.

Ponyboy doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of winning. "You don't want me in here? Fine. I can teach myself better." He walks out, the other greasers jeering as he goes, and the door shuts with a slam behind him. He can hear a ruckus go up at that, and sees a paper ball being thrown through the window.

At least, he's not lying about being able to just teach himself. It's English — he's been ahead of the class for at least two weeks now, even with everything. He shoulders his things, and decides to walk to the study hall. Johnny always had that during this period, and unlike most of them, he actually used it to study.

When he rounds the corner, he can hear a door slam and someone yell out, "Eat shit!" He grins as he hears sneakers on the floor and speeds up on his way down the hallway.

Study hall is in the library, quiet, and sure enough when Ponyboy enters he can see Johnny's crutches leaning on a wall. He makes his way over — some people look up at him, some people don't — and he drops his books onto the table as quietly as he can. Johnny looks up, still a little startled, and then confused. "Ponyboy? Hell are you doing here, man?"

"Got kicked out by Syme's sub," Ponyboy shrugs as he sits down beside him. "Didn't believe anyone that my name was my name." It's not the first time it's happened, and he doesn't mind it as he looks at the books Johnny has.

None of which, he realizes are for school. They're all big legal books — most of which seem to be overturned, or stacked haphazardly. Johnny fidgets nervously as Ponyboy reaches over for one, reading the cover: According to The Evidence — an Essay on Legal Proof. He flips through the pages, and Johnny looks at him, eyes big in his face, "Wanted to see what... what it might be like in there."

Once again, the seriousness of the situation hits Ponyboy. He swallows thickly, looking at the book, at Johnny. He keeps his voice down, aware of the people in there with them. "You hear what he said about witnesses?"

"Yeah," Johnny's hand shakes a little — Ponyboy can see the burns wrapped around his skin, still — as he leans on the desk. "I think he can call anyone who was there. Ask 'em what they saw, what they ain't see. So can the... state?"

"Prosecutor, I guess?"

Johnny nods in agreement. "He couldn't give us names of who. Said that he didn't want us influencing them."

A snort leaves Ponyboy. "Influence who? We ain't even sure if they're gonna say yes or tell the truth." He thinks of Cherry in that moment. In the hallways, the way she had refused to see Johnny when they thought he was dying. Randy, in the car. "Parents might make 'em do it, but the truth..."

That hangs in the air, grimly. Ponyboy likes to think that they'll get up on the stand, be truthful. He remembers Randy's words in the car and yet... And yet it's not as if he's seen Randy around either. Heard about him, yeah, still hanging with socs. Still around Cherry, and there was a rumor about them at the funeral. But nothing else.

For all his words before the rumble, he sure didn't seem like just a guy. Not when he stuck with them.

He shifts in his chair, uncomfortable. Johnny's eyes glance down at his neck, at the medallion and Ponyboy cuts him off at the pass with, "What else did he talk to you guys about?" He knows that it's somewhat silly, that he doesn't want to talk about Dallas with him, that he should be fine with it. He ate at the diner with him, he was wearing his necklace.

And still, he feels protective over it, over the feeling, over Dallas.

Johnny shrugs. "He wanted to know about the night, how Mrs. Mathews knows me. And," his fingers twitch nervously, "Why my parents ain't coming." Ponyboy feels some anger well up in him at the reminder. "After that, he just signed some papers and we were done. All the legal stuff was kinda—"

"Hard," Ponyboy finishes for him. He glances at the books, and back at Johnny. "You wanna cut out early for lunch?"

Of all of them, Johnny's the most law-abiding, so when he grins and nods, Ponyboy loves it. It makes the earlier feeling of wanting to keep Dallas to himself, to keep that part of himself, ease a bit.

Johnny has been with them through thick and thin. Johnny admired Dallas more than anyone, and Ponyboy tells himself he's being silly for wanting to keep Dallas to himself. "Give me two minutes, okay?"

"Sure," Johnny's eyebrows work together, as Ponyboy stands up, "Where you going?"

"Front office," the grin on Ponyboy's face is a little rakish. "Gonna go call Dally."

"Dally?" Johnny says, and Ponyboy's already out of the door. The front desk isn't that far from here, usually staffed by the secretaries. Most of them were pretty harried, young betas with nice hair. The best thing about them — that normally, Ponyboy wouldn't take advantage of — was that they were nice, generally didn't ask too many questions of him. To them, he was the good little greaser, the smart one.

His eyes trail over the posters that are all over the school now, ranging from the announcement of plays coming up to the bright flyers advertising the junior high sock hop that was coming up. The plays he never cared about, and the junior high sock hop was something that could be fun, depending on who showed up. Some of the younger greasers or those who had been failed back, would come to that.

He pushes his way into the door of the office, flashing the secretary there a smile. She's new, young, asking, "Hello there! Do you need to talk to the principal?"

"No," Ponyboy shakes his head, remembering how to use that stupid aw shucks expression he used on Jay Mountain. "I need to call my brother, come pick me up. I ain't feel too well."

Her expression softens. "Oh sure, sweetie. Phone's right over there; use 7 to dial out."

"Thanks," Ponyboy makes his way over to the phone. He uses the rotary to dial Buck's, glancing at the clock, hoping that Buck picked up.

Three rings go by, then Buck's cowpokey voice comes on the line, "Buck Merrill—"

"Put Dallas on," Ponyboy keeps his voice just low enough, "And hurry up."

It shouldn't be so easy to bully a twenty year old. Buck grumbles out, "Who's calling?"

"It's Ponyboy," He bites at his lip a little, gripping the receiver better. The secretary seems like she's looking over when the door swings open and a gaggle of middle schoolers comes through, along with their teacher, an older man. They must be here to help with some of the sockhop stuff, he thinks.

The noise is just enough for Ponyboy to relax as Buck says, "Hold on." The line goes muffled for a moment, and then there's a scrape, Dallas' voice pouring over the line, "Pone? What's going on?"

"Dally," Ponyboy grins into the phone, "I got kicked outta class. Can you come down, pick up me and Johnny?"

"Jesus, Darry's gonna kick both our asses," comes out of Dallas' mouth, but there's not a single bit of fear there. "I'll be there in about ten, fifteen minutes, kid."

"Thanks, see you," he can't help the grin on his face when he puts the receiver down. The secretary is trying to talk to the teacher, and the middle school kids — a group of ten — all look at Ponyboy as he walks past them. He glances over, seeing about two little greaser kids with eyes like saucers as they look at him, and one kid who seems frozen, looking at him.

That kid looks oddly familiar, Ponyboy thinks. The shirt on him is expensive for a kid of his size; his hair's a bit curly, an odd shade of dark honey. That's all the details he has before he grins at the greaser kids, waves, and steps out of the office.

He hurries his way back to the library, Johnny looking up. "We got about ten minutes!" Ponyboy helps Johnny put the law book back where he found it, gathers his books. The librarian shoots them a slightly annoyed look as Johnny grasps his crutches, excitement electric in them both to just skip school.

Dallas makes it in about eight, the car kicking up gravel as he pulls up to the sidewalk. He throws the car into a hasty park, not even turning off the engine, giving a tooth filled grin at them. "C'mon, get in already!"

"Can you wait a second!" Ponyboy grins back at him as Johnny grasps his crutches, following Ponyboy. He takes his time with Johnny, helping him off the sidewalk and then to the car. The crutches are thrown in the back and for a moment, Ponyboy hesitates where to sit.

Usually he's in the back. Johnny sits beside Dallas, had been at the movies and in Windrixville which felt like a lifetime ago. It felt right then, given how much Johnny wanted to be beside Dallas, wanted to be in his shadow.

Except things have changed. Johnny still wants to be in his shadow, Ponyboy can still see the admiration on his face. Now, though, it's Ponyboy is wearing Dallas' medallion, his jacket, and the one who kissed him. He's the one that Dallas wants to be closer to and it is Dallas who gets impatient, tugging him towards the passenger side. He makes the decision for Ponyboy in that moment, and Ponyboy thinks only for a second to pull back, to fight him.

That voice in his head that wants to be selfish with him almost rises up. That impulse to shy away, rises up. The fact that this won't be in public or surrounded by others who won't question or pry later pops up in his head, along with the fact that he's still not ready for that yet. He doesn't want Johnny talking with him later about it, doesn't want to look at those big eyes and wonder if maybe, maybe Johnny might be upset or jealous or feel misplaced. He doesn't want to have to defend himself, doesn't want to have to do anything more than just exist without someone else saying something that could prod at how delicate and new things are.

And yet, with all those tumultuous, conflicting thoughts, he doesn't push away. He goes with it vaulting over the door and into the passenger side as Johnny gets himself in the back. Briefly, Ponyboy glances up at the windows, searching for Syme's classroom. There's no luck; it's on the other side of the school building.

Still, Ponyboy's able to see a greaser peering out of a window on the top floor. He gives them a grin as Dallas peels away from the curb.

Whatever chance there was at keeping Dallas solely to himself was certainly well and gone now — with his pack and other people. He was in the passenger seat, everyone who hadn't been at the initiation or Buck's could see him beside Dallas or knew about the medallion. He had to accept it now that there would be questions, that people might pry. It makes his heart race, with Johnny in the backseat even, as Dallas says, "What do you boys say about having some fun on the town?"

"Sure, long as you're paying for it," Ponyboy grins at Dallas as the car whips into the street. "Can't make your boyfriend pay."

Boyfriend comes out. The sky doesn't fall and Johnny just snickers in the back. He doesn't pry either, just says, as Dallas presses on the gas, "Buck let you have the car all day?"

"I ain't ask 'em," is Dallas' sharptoothed reply, the hair whipping his brown hair. "You pups have a plan for today?"

"No," Ponyboy admits, leaning back, looking at Dallas sundrenched profile, at the way his fangs glint. "Just wanted to get out of there. Wish it was a week or two ago, could've gone to the fair."

Dallas shrugs, "Ain't miss too much besides that new ride. Wanna come with me to the billiards, hang out for a bit? Ain't neither of you that great a pool or cards, could teach you something."

Ponyboy glances up at the mirror to catch Johnny's raised eyebrows. Dallas hadn't been in the church for a week, playing cards with Johnny. He had no clue how good his poker face was and it makes him nod. "Sure, Dally. Just don't—"

"Tell your brother, I know," Dallas rolls his eyes, the engine picking up. "We'll go on the other side, near the Brumly's. He ain't gonna hear if we go out there."

So he drives. The miles pass easily, the songs on the radio alternating between country music and Elvis, until they're on the other side of Tulsa, not where Socs are but in Brumly territory. It's further into the city, and the billiards are easy to spot. It's a different kind of rough here, that makes Dallas grin more when he parks Buck's car.

Johnny's hardly said a word on the way out, perking up when they begin to get out. Ponyboy pauses, helping Johnny up and out, Dallas grasping his crutches. There's a flurry of worry in him as Johnny arranges himself with them; that maybe Johnny might tire out, that they'll have to look out for him in a place rougher than home.

It's not an unfair thought, given the way the place looks as he and Johnny follow Dallas towards it. Buck's was usually full of cowpokes and the more rodeo sort. This place — Sharky's — is a bigger than Buck's at almost two times the size. Some of the Brumly boys are inside, visible through the windows. Some he recognizes from the rumble — and they recognize him too, a big guy with sandy brown hair who exclaims, "Hey, Curtis!"

"Hey," Ponyboy raises his hand up, not remembering if he'd been at his initiation or not, pausing at the front door. "You doin' okay?" He shoves a hand in his pocket, Johnny pausing beside him, Dallas glancing at the Brumly boy with a look that might seem like mild interest to others; to Ponyboy it was the cool look he gave other people whenever Sylvia caught their attention. His neck flushes in response to it.

"Surprised you were a good bopper," the guy sounds good natured, cheery almost. He's got a black eye, nodding to Dallas out of respect. "Probably was the smallest pup I ever seen at a bop-action. You guys comin' in to play?"

"Sure am," Dallas points to the door, "They card here?" The Brumly gives a derisive laugh in return, Dallas pushing open the door to enter.

"Tell 'em you can have a round on me," the Brumly boy grins, and Ponyboy's able to see a missing back tooth, sticking out his hand. "I'm Bear."

Ponyboy grips his hand, shakes it with a grin. "Thanks, Bear."

"Anytime," there's an odd reverence in the way he says it, the respect there that Ponyboy doesn't know what to do with as he and Johnny follow Dallas inside.

Johnny looks at Ponyboy curiously as they enter. Unlike Buck's, where it was dark no matter what time of day, sunlight filters in through the blinds, the clatter of balls, people talking fills the room along with a mingling of scents, beer, and smoke. There's a mixture of greasers and hoods inside, ranging from as young as maybe ten or eleven years old playing cards and dice in a corner to a man who looks about the age of his parents at the bar, nursing a beer alone in a corner.

"Who was that?" Johnny whispers as they get away from the door, the sound of his crutches punctuating the air, the jukebox apparently not turned up for another song. It almost glows in a corner, Johnny looking concerned. "I ain't ever had a friendly talk with a Brumly."

Neck still feeling flushed, Ponyboy shrugs. "He was at the rumble with us. Got a cigarette off of me, we talked before everything." He doesn't know if he should feel suddenly defensive of Bear, except that he does, not minding the way he'd grinned at him.

There's something else on Johnny's face, though, as they move through the billiard. Something on his face shifts, something that Ponyboy can't pinpoint exactly. He knows it isn't happiness or pride, shaking his head.

They get up to the counter, Dallas already talking, "—cokes, water for me. Got a free table?" The bartender confers with him, and Dallas beckons them over to one. It's further in the back, Dallas already getting a pool cue, expression cocky. "You wanna play pool first or cards?"

Whatever emotion Johnny had been feeling before is wiped off of his face, replaced by mischief as he looks over at Ponyboy. "Cards first."

Ponyboy can't wait to see Dallas lose.

Chapter Text

"Fuck sake!" Dallas snarls as Johnny reaches over, claiming the twenty bucks on the table between them. "When the hell did you learn how to play poker that good?"

"That good?" Johnny looks shocked himself, even as he pockets the twenty bucks. "I only won half the time!"

"That's more than the last time we played!" Even as he grasps the cards to shuffle them, there's no real anger in Dallas' voice. Ponyboy can't keep from laughing a little, taking a pull of the cider Dallas got for him between rounds. It wasn't all that strong, better tasting than a beer on an empty stomach. It's been over two hours since they've been here, the game of pool forgotten in exchange for the card games that had amped up more and more.

Mostly because, as Ponyboy knew, Johnny was better at poker than what Dallas knew. He didn't brag too much about it — not as much as he had on Jay Mountain, at least, cause Dallas was more of a firecracker about it. Or, well, maybe with Steve who cheated often or Soda who cheated even more. It was just them, though, in a corner, enjoying themselves. He'd tapped out in the second round, finding it more entertaining to see Dallas and Johnny go up against each other, the way that they'd mess with each other, trying to win.

At some point, he'd migrated to Dallas' side, without thinking about it. The cider had been passed between them casually as a cigarette, Ponyboy trying not to aid either of them even when he thought he knew the next move. His leg brushed against Dallas' own beneath the table, his leg looped around Dallas' at the ankle.

It feels innocuous, normal almost to do it. It'd been his move, Dallas only glancing over to him with a half smile before he'd gone back to playing cards. The billiard was filling up more and more though, with more hoods and adults than before as the day crested to noon. "Can we go to the Dingo for lunch?"

"One more round, kid," Dallas glances up, eyebrows furrowed. "Or are you real hungry?"

For a moment, he's unsure if he should back down with that look. If it was really a question or teasing. "Real hungry," Ponyboy answers, "Ain't have much this morning."

With a grunt, Dallas nods. "Alright, let's go." Ponyboy moves his leg with some level of surprise, Dallas gathering up the cards. "Dingo's pretty far away, so you should probably piss out all that soda I gave you both."

A scowl crosses Johnny's face, even though he stands up quick. Too quickly — he gives a hiss of pain, and Ponyboy swears he can see him go green around the gills for a second. He scrambles over to him without thinking, trying to help him get steady. "Johnnycake — hold on —"

"I got it," Johnny says, despite the fact that he looks pale, uncomfortable as Ponyboy helps steady him, helping him lean on him. Some people are looking; Ponyboy ignores them as he rubs Johnny's back, watching sweat break out on his face.

"You sure?" Dallas comes around, expression dark, mouth pulled into an angry, tense line. "We can take you back to —"

"No," the word is forceful, insistent, and Ponyboy thinks, a little angry. "I'm fine. Just need to go to the bathroom, wash up." He averts his eyes, grasping for his crutches. There's an impulse to help him, to do what he should that pushes against the clear need to make sure Johnny keeps his pride, his dignity.

Of the two of them, it's Dallas who allows it, handing Johnny his crutch, not adjusting it for him. Ponyboy watches, gut clenching as Johnny stubbornly makes his way to the bathroom, away from them, from other people's looks. Once the door to the bathroom swings shut, he peels his eyes away, hearing another song blaring up on the jukebox. It's loud, the lights in the billiard making the tips of Dallas' hair bright as he focuses his gaze on Ponyboy.

"We should..." he trails off, feeling helpless, feeling upset. That this was just a fun day for them, and Johnny needed help. "He—"

"He's gonna get embarrassed," there's a hard edge to Dallas' face, voice low as he puts the card back into the pack, the light glinting off of his skull ring. "He wants to tough it out, we gotta let him."

Ponyboy knows. He knows that one of the only things greasers have to their name is their pride. Still, it makes his scars from the fire itch, it makes his stomach turn uncomfortably that they have to just let Johnny do this on his own even though he's clearly in pain, even though he needs help.

So many things at that moment occur to him, what Johnny might be thinking or doing. Things he might not have ever told them about his recovery, about the burns, about everything after. Things he had every right to say yet... wasn't.

His mind goes back to Windrixville, to the look on Johnny's face when he'd asked if his parents missed him. The way Dallas had lashed back out that the pack had missed him. The way his mother had screamed at them in the hospital—

A hand grips the back of his neck, right along his scent glands, and Dallas is there all of a sudden, blocking the view of the rest of the billiards. He's scenting him here and now, looking down at Ponyboy with an intense, almost unsettling look of concern. "Pone," his voice scrapes the bottom of his throat, low, "Kid, he'll be okay. He will."

He thinks about the car. About what Dallas had said, about being cold. Except there's no coldness in his expression, same as last night. There's a note of desperation, of trying to will it to be better as he drops his head down, forehead connecting with Ponyboy's own.

Without thinking — about Dallas' reputation, about his own, about being out in front of others — Ponyboy reaches out to grip Dallas' shirt, at the sides. There's so much welling up in him, the fact that Johnny was irrevocably changed, that they all were. That maybe in a few weeks, a few months, it could all change again all because of a trial, all because he had left a cigarette lit in the church when he shouldn't have, all because Bob Sheldon had decided that he couldn't leave two pups alone in a park, all because he had come home late.

What if he had turned to Johnny and asked him to come home with him that night? What if he had gotten home on time, with Johnny? He and Darry wouldn't have argued, Darry wouldn't have hit him, he wouldn't have run, Bob would've never found Johnny, the fire wouldn't have happened, none of it. None of it at all.

He shudders with the weight of it all. Suddenly, he doesn't want to go to the Dingo. He wants to go home, curl into a ball with Dallas' jacket, not move. Except he can't. He's here, with Dallas, falling forward, his nose going for the crook of Dallas' neck. He's inhaling his scent, battling with the need to cry, to apologize to Johnny, to Dallas all at once. There's just Dallas there, his chest warm, his scent strangely calming, his arms going around Ponyboy, pulling him close. The song over the jukebox continues on, and Ponyboy shuts his eyes, falling into Dallas' scent, trying to steady himself, trying to breathe in more, trying to just stop feeling as if he was lost.

Dallas doesn't push him off. He doesn't tell him to stop. Just holds him for a moment, his nose in Ponyboy's hair, his hand on his back. Ponyboy breathes in deeper, a half whine leaving him, voice low, "M'sorry."

For everything. Everything.

"Why?" Dallas says, pulling back. "You ain't do nothing."

Yes, I did. He wants to say it, almost does. The door to the bathroom swings open, however, and Ponyboy turns to it instead of answering Dallas. Out comes Johnny, his face more normal than before he'd gone in. Coming up behind him is Bear, saying something to Johnny that's drowned in the crowd, another, louder song crowing through the speakers.

Ponyboy pulls away from Dallas, watching Bear pat Johnny's back, then nod at Ponyboy as he takes his leave.

Johnny's the one who breaks the silence with, "Can we still go to the Dingo?"

The drive to the Dingo is quieter than the way to the billiards. Not that Ponyboy can blame it, entirely given everything. It's not until they're halfway there that he begins to feel better, and he suspects it's because Dallas took a slightly longer way, his expression dark the whole time.

When they hit the Dingo, it's midday, and warmer than before. Ponyboy wraps Dallas' jacket around his waist, both him and Dallas hovering a little as Johnny walks up with them. Where it had been a teenage mix on the Dingo on the weekends whenever they went, it's midday during a work week. Or, rather, school.

The greasers here who are older than them all — ones who had dropped out of school, had graduated, or were old enough that it didn't matter anymore — mixing with hoods, regular people on their lunch breaks. Ponyboy spots Ed at a booth as he waits for Johnny to enter. Ed looks a little tired, smoking and looking down at his sandwich. He looks up with a bit of curiosity, hands stained with grease in places, same as his work uniform. He's dining there alone, and he nods respectfully at them.

The leader of the Vipers is there: she's a tall alpha girl, Ivy Ueda, with hair in a black curtain down her back. The green ribbons she's known for are tied around her thin wrists, flashing in the corner of Ponyboy's eyes as he moves past her. She throws a glance at him — the expression on her face is a little inscrutable, her dark eyes flitting over him as if she's looking for something in him. Ponyboy looks back at her curiously, wondering what was going on.

Whatever she's looking for, she doesn't find or doesn't want. Ivy turns away as another one of her pack calls out to her.

Belatedly, as he passes her, Ponyboy remembers that she was in Soda and Sandy's class. She'd transferred from California, and was in a grade above him. Her name was always bandied about with semi awe, given she wasn't from Tulsa, and yet had carved the Vipers out for herself. He wonders if she had known Sandy, if she missed her.

"C'mon," Dallas gets Ponyboy's attention, pulling him towards the booth. Instead of Ponyboy sitting opposite them alone or beside Johnny, he ends up inside the booth, Dallas sliding in beside him. It was the same way at the billiards, only this time, Ponyboy really feels how he orients himself around Dallas. Dallas cocks an eyebrow at Johnny as he grabs the menu. "You gonna pay for lunch with all those winnings or is it on me?"

There's a bit of a chuckle between them all, pecking at some of the tension.

Johnny shrugs, smile more casual. "Maybe. Haven't been a hotshot with this much before." It's bittersweet, the fact that he was completely correct.

Still, it's not as tense as before, all of them casting about the diner, knowing what they wanted. Ponyboy is able to look across the diner, towards the door. It's a good view of the whole place, really: there are a few bikers in the front, from some gang he didn't recognize; Ed is still in his booth, biting into his sandwich with the tomato halfway hanging out; Ivy is talking to a member of her gang with blonde hair and a pink shirt beneath the standard green Viper jacket; he can see one of Sal's members nervously glancing at Dallas and then back to the middle class girl he's out with, who's got a high ponytail and a cute laugh; some of the older greasers are congregating, and Ponyboy can see Curly Shepard, walking up.

Or trying. He pauses, talking to other greasers.

"It ain't gonna break your bank if I get a steak?" Dallas challenges, smirk on his face. "Or if he decides to get a milkshake? Really, Pony's gotta worry — he ain't got a job."

"Oh, and all the money you get's real legal?" Ponyboy fires back. It distracts him from Dallas' arm getting around his waist, tugging him closer. "We came here cause of me! You should treat me."

The grin Dallas gets is sharp, Ponyboy flushing. The blonde breaks away from Ivy, waving to her as she goes to the bathroom. "You making a lotta demands, kid." Ivy bumps into Curly, and Ponyboy watches curiously as Ivy says something to Curly he can't quite catch as more greasers start to come in, the jukebox kicking up. Curly looks annoyed with her as Dallas turns his head, "You got a smoke, Johnny?"

"No, 'm all out," Johnny says, and Ivy makes a dismissive gesture to Curly. Ponyboy watches as Curly tries to push past her, but Ivy glares down her nose coldly at him. Ed looks up at the both of them, seemingly catching Curly's eye; Curly stands down, and Ivy makes her way through the crowd and out the door.

"I got a smoke," Ponyboy tears his eyes away, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his pack of Lucky Strikes. "Not Kool's, though."

Dallas grunts, "Some kind of boyfriend you are, not carrying the smokes I like." He glances up at Ponyboy with a grin, and Ponyboy isn't prepared for how red his ears get at the way Dallas says it, at the demand in his words, at the way Dallas deliberately leans over, expectant.

Which is why Ponyboy can't help himself a little bit when he taps out a cigarette, mumbling out, "I'm your boy—"

"Hey!" The waitress finally arrives — it's the Viper blonde, hair in a long blonde cascade down their shoulders, made up in a way that fit the Dingo. The Dingo had tried to update a bit, making their waitresses dress in pink uniforms, and it suits well enough. "I'm Mimi, can I get your orders?"

"Didn't know you were working today, Mimi," Dallas grins, but not the way that he grins at Ponyboy, at least, or Cherry. It's interesting for Ponyboy to start to understand the difference between them now. "You ain't know my usual yet?"

"I mean for them, I know what you like," the waitress points to Ponyboy and Johnny, "I haven't been here to wait on them."

"Cheeseburgers, four," Ponyboy automatically says, remembering how this goes, happy to fall back into the usual routine, to get away from the tension more. "Two chocolate milkshakes and you got any Pepsi-Cola?"

"No, honey, just Cokes. That okay?" Ponyboy nods, and Mimi looks warmly at them, seemingly at home in the pink Dingo uniform as much as the green Viper jacket from before, at the initiation. Mimi was another Viper who might've been Sandy's friend, shared the same classes with her. Some of Sandy's expressions were close to Mimi's, and Ponyboy racked his brain, trying to remember if they'd been cousins or something. "I'll be back in a bit with the coffee for you," they point to Dallas, "and your milkshakes."

"You gonna bring me something too, doll?" Curly strides up, the expression on his face hungry, leering. Mimi doesn't respond with anything except a middle finger, turning on their ankle and walking back to the kitchen, dodging Curly's hand attempting to go up their skirt.

He snorts, and Dallas grasps the matchbook he has, squinting at Curly. His nostrils flare; Ponyboy has never seen Dallas like Curly's scent even casually, and the way that Curly turns to look at them with a dark look that was both incredibly like Tim and not at the same time, graces his face. For once, he can agree — there's a turn in Curly's scent that he doesn't care for. "Curtis. Winston. We need to have a talk."

"About what?" Ponyboy frowns at Curly, not pleased at the interruption. Things had felt like they'd be getting back on track, the tension mostly dissolved. Even if Dallas liked Curly — and he didn't — this wasn't exactly the time or place for them to talk to Curly. Not with whatever he's angry about which feels palpable as he frowns at them.

"Your Soc problem," Curly drawls out.

Chapter Text

That is not what Ponyboy wanted to hear, not now. Whatever tension has leaked out of him, whatever calm he had, it's gone. His blood runs cold as Curly leans over, trying to intimidate him, trying to make sure that his point is made. His scent sharpens almost menacingly as he continues, "Your Soc problem is becoming everyone's Soc problem, Curtis."

His eyes are boring holes into Ponyboy's own. Something sick crawls up Ponyboy's gut as Curly glares at him, something he doesn't want caught there. He feels like he might break into a sweat, even though he doesn't pull his eyes away. "I ain't know what you mean."

Curly looks like he's going to lean over further when Dallas' voice snaps down like a knife, "Shepard, back up." There's a growl at the edge of his voice, one that Ponyboy knows must make Curly's hair stand on end.

Only for a moment does Curly look as if he might move away; except he's as stubborn as Tim can be sometimes, even if he's a whole lot dumber. "I got a right to talk! He's initiated, ain't he? He gotta hear it from someone, sometime."

"Hear what," Ponyboy pulls the focus back to him, trying to keep himself grounded, to keep his eyes on Curly, keep the taste of battery acid down in his throat. There isn't a cowardly bone in his body, and in a way, Curly is right. Ponyboy wasn't a pup who had to always be shielded from things, and if Curly wanted to say it to him, here in front of everyone? Then Ponyboy wanted to hear it.

If Johnny could get through his pain in front of him, Ponyboy could do this. If that was his fault, then maybe this was his fault, too.

Curly goes on, "That soc you killed, they ain't happy to just lose the rumble. They keep targeting greasers; pups and all." Curly could almost be something like protective in this moment, if Ponyboy were more generous than what he was feeling, if his bloodstream had turned so cold in his body, if he couldn't stop the thought of this is my fault. "Every single time, it's one of his friends, or his—"

"That's not his fault," Dallas still leaps in, Ponyboy still trying to process what Curly's said. His fangs flash in the life, lips pulled back. "Rules of the rumble were they get the fuck out once they lost. Ain't Ponyboy's fault they don't follow the rules."

Curly levels a glare at him, and for once, Ponyboy can feel some humor. It's like some tiny little dog trying to go up against a wild wolf who's a lot angrier than it, more powerful than it. "How ain't it his fault? He killed their friend—"

"They using my name to do it?" Ponyboy can barely get the words out of his throat, "They say something about me?" There's a buzzing in his head, he can feel his palms sweat as he waits for Curly to answer, for Curly to continue.

It's one thing for it to have been assumed. It's another for it to be said and Ponyboy can feel himself tense up more, can feel his scars start to itch on his shoulders, his legs, his back. Curly pauses, shakes his head. "They ain't saying your name but we all know it's about you. They get in pup's faces, say it's revenge for that dead kid. Who else would it be about?"

Johnny is Ponyboy's logical thought. Johnny was the one who stabbed Bob, yet he knows that if he brings it up, it'll get a worse reaction, what with him sitting here. (And, a voice in the back of his head, reminds him that it's his fault Johnny was there in the first place.) "That ain't about just me, Curly and you know it."

The argument feels weak in his throat, hurting.

Dallas shifts beside him, leaning forward. If he agreed... he'd say something. And Dallas isn't saying anything to deflect. Just says, "What else do you want the kid to do, Curly? We whoopped their asses already at the rumble, the kid has to go to fucking court —"

"That he does," Ed's voice breaks through, and all of them turn to look at the older man, at once. He's wiped his face clear of most of his sandwich, in spite of the small smear of mustard on his lip that he pats. "Curly, you know you aren't supposed to go after people like this. You got an issue with someone targeting pups, you don't go to someone that socs are clearly after cause he's an easy target." Ed raises his eyebrows, expression firm. "You come to me. You know better too; we can't get Ponyboy anywhere near trouble until the trial."

For once in his life, Ponyboy is grateful for an adult, despite the embarrassment that renders his ears pink at it having to come to this, despite the relief he feels to not feel spotlighted. "Ed—"

"Ed," Curly talks over him, angry. "He's—"

"Initiated, and you aren't," Ed asserts, his voice sharper this time. "Come here, we need to talk. Boys," he nods to Dallas, Johnny, and a squirming, uncomfortable Ponyboy. "Have a good lunch."

The waitress approaches as Ed steers Curly away from them, back towards his booth. Wordlessly, the waitress puts down their drinks, turning on their heel and moving away, letting the silence engulf them, Curly's angry words and Ed's careful words permeating them all.

This was supposed to be a fun day, where they could just get away from things. Ponyboy reaches for his drink almost like a zombie, eyes flicking up to look at Johnny's washed out, pallid face as he fumbles with a straw.

It certainly isn't that, not anymore. Ponyboy just flicks his eyes to the table where Ed is talking with Curly (face scrunched up, baring teeth), and back to the table. His leg bounces, the soda going down cold and sweet.

He hates this. He hates living with a cloud over his head for the rest of his life, he hates the fact that he'll have to deal with this forever: the fact that he was involved in the killing of a boy, that no matter what he did or said, everyone thought he did it, and that he was starting to believe it. The apology at the billiards don't feel like it's enough anymore.

The meal is quiet, after that. Whatever joy they've had so far, it's mostly gone by the time lunch is over. Dallas doesn't have to suggest it, just drops Johnny off at Two-Bit's place afterwards, clearly flagging, clearly needing some time to himself without prying eyes.

As he puts the car in drive, Dallas doesn't say anything. He just drives them to Ponyboy's place, a little further down the road. Instead of just pausing in front of the house, though, he parks the car there, cutting off the engine.

Ponyboy furrows his brows, blinking at him. "You ain't leaving?"

"Kid," he huffs in the front seat, pocketing his keys, "You ain't been right since the pool hall. I ain't letting you go inside by yourself."

In everything, at least, there was this. Ponyboy feels something warm bloom in his chest as Dallas opens the door, climbing out. Some of the weight on his shoulders is lifted when he gets out, following Dallas up the steps and into his house. Soda's still at the DX, Darry will be working til nine at least, and it feels... it feels good that Dallas didn't just leave him. He could've left, like Steve does with Evie, and taken forever to talk back to him. He could've just averted his eyes. Just staying with Ponyboy, it means a lot for him as he kicks off his shoes, shutting the door behind him.

It's still a bit warm for an October day, Ponyboy toeing off his own shoes, kicking them to the side. Undoing his jacket, he glances at Dallas, well aware that they're alone. "You wanna watch tv or something?"

"Ain't the Newlywed Game on about now?" Dallas moves to the television, flicking it on. He's right: it's playing already, and Ponyboy goes to the kitchen, just to get a sip of water. He comes back to sit next to Dallas, leaning against him.

Dallas lights his cigarette beside him, the flame jutting up brightly in the afternoon light. He concentrates on it, on the way Dallas' hands look, itching for a sheet of paper to draw it, his hand around that warm little flame. Once it's out, Dallas leans back, beckoning Ponyboy closer.

Of all the things they could be doing without Darry or Soda home, Ponyboy didn't think Dallas would otherwise have just kept it to this. Maybe he would've let more happen, except now, he feels better to just slip into Dallas' arms, to turn his attention to the television. Dallas' scent washes over him easily as he curls into him, feeling his hand on his side, the cigarette smoke wafting up, filling his nostrils.

The people talk. Dallas makes a comment, and the end of his cigarette glows and glows, and Ponyboy finds his eyes getting heavy, Dallas' body warm. His body gets heavier, and the last thing he sees before his eyes shut is the glowing ember of Dallas' cigarette.

The next time he opens his eyes, he's alone in a dark house, moved to the bed. He shifts in it, trying to get his bearings, to look for Darry or Soda or Dallas. When he sits up, he glances outside of the window where can see not his usual neighborhood, but the field outside. Except... there's no field outside of his house. This though, he can see a huddle of people out there.

One of whom turns around, eyes squinting up behind a pair of black rimmed glasses, heavy set with dark hair. Jerry, from Windrixville. He's got kids with him, and the other teacher —

— and the scent of fire reaches his nose. Ponyboy freezes for a moment, mind racing. Cigarettes. Did he fall asleep without putting out his cigarette?

All at once he realizes that there's smoke in the room, thick and dark; that he can smell flames, wood going; and he can hear screaming in the house around him. He can hear Johnny's voice, Dallas', the kids all at once and terror ignites in him. Ponyboy doesn't think, just moves, trying to move through a maze of a house.

It's not just his house he finds as he stumbles into the hallway, eyes roving. "Johnny! Dallas!" They holler back at him from different places, flames blazing around him. The hallway is from his house, yet the rooms don't make sense: one of them is Dallas' door from Buck's, that doesn't budge when Ponyboy tries to grip the knob, tries to ram in; one of them is his classroom door, where he can hear pounding, little kids on the other side as he tries to get inside, desperate; the other is the Cade's door to their house. It's the last one in the hallway, with Johnny's cries getting fainter the more he tries.

He can taste salty tears on his face as he tries, tries the doors. None of them give, none of them will let him in no matter what he does. The smoke, the flames are getting thicker, worse. He begs for them to answer, for the doors to open, throws himself, kicks at them.

None of them open. He can't get in to save Dallas, Johnny, the kids no matter what he tries, no matter what he begs. The cough he gives is harsh, eyes watering, and for a moment, Ponyboy thinks he has to stay. He has to stay here, he did this, he set this fire —

But his body won't let him. He has to run, now, save himself.

It's all he can do. Leave them, run out of the house to try and save himself. Even that door is hard; he throws himself against it, harder and harder. The flames grow higher, and right when he thinks he might faint, succumb to it, he's able to push through, tumble out the front door.

For a moment he feels suspended in time, caught between the flames and the field. All Ponyboy knows is that he's running, leaping without looking.

His body hits grass, he raises his head. He doesn't see Jerry or the other teacher or the school kids. He sees Bob Sheldon there, grinning down at him, his shirt stained with blood as he snarls out, "Give the dirty omega a bath."

"Johnny—!" Ponyboy cries out for him, as he's lifted up from the grass by more hands than he can count. He kicks out, flails, panting, desperate. "Dallas!" Ponyboy thinks he cries out for him again. He doesn't know, shoved into the cold water of the fountain, forced to suck it up, for it to invade every sense he has for panic to overtake him.

He's going to die here. He's going to die here and he smoked, he set the house on fire —

"Pone!" Hands grip him tightly, his head lols about, but Dallas' voice gets to him, yanks him out of the dream. "Pony!"

A horrible gagging noise leaves Ponyboy's throat, limbs flailing, body twisting. Dallas is forced to let him go, and Ponyboy moves on instinct more than anything else as he runs down the hallway and into the bathroom. His fingers struggle for a moment to get the lid up and then he's heaving into the toilet everything he'se eaten.

He heaves, gags it up as he feels a hand in his hair, on his back. Embarrassment washes through him as he pulls his head up, spitting into the bowl, hating that the first time he and Dallas were alone, he had a nightmare. A nightmare that he could still feel as his hand clumsily went up to get the toilet handle. It's smacked away, Dallas depressing the handle for him instead.

The flush permeates the air, Ponyboy putting his head on his forearm, Dallas rubbing his back. "You think you got it all out, kid?" Unable to speak, Ponyboy nods. "Alright, come on. Let's get you to bed."

"Not that kinda sick. Just a nightmare," Ponyboy mumbles out, shutting his eyes. "Usually — I don't remember 'em."

"I remember Darry saying that," Dallas' hand rubs Ponyboy's back, there's a note of anger in his voice, though. "Ain't that doc say some shit about getting tired so you ain't remember it?" Ponyboy nods again, still too ashamed, too tired to look at Dallas' face. "You're tired all the fuck time now, it doesn't work."

Huffing, Ponyboy lifts his head to look at Dallas, at the anger there, at something he thinks is derision. It makes his ears burn, neck flush. "It doesn't mean nothin—"

"Was it about those pups?" Ever straightforward and somehow right, Dallas glares down at Ponyboy. "You were mumbling about them while you were sleep and kid —" That wave of anger grows in Dallas' face, mouth twisting into a scowl, "Curly can go fuck himself. None of that shit is on you."

"Yeah, it is," Ponyboy argues back, tired, moving away from Dallas' grip, his warm hand and putting his back against the tub. "It is. If I hadn't been late that night, none of this would've happened. If I remembered—"

"Johnny could've gotten jumped the night after or the one after that. You could've gotten jumped at the same time," He snaps, fangs flashing. "They could've come at any time, made an excuse or just didn't need one. It wasn't your fault, Ponyboy. None of it." The anger on his face isn't calming Ponyboy, isn't making it exactly better. Dallas just doesn't broker for anything else, continuing, "Those Socs would've found any kind of reason to hunt down those kids, with or without that piece of shit dying cause that's how they are."

Johnny's words from the lot ring in Ponyboy's ears. About wishing that there was a place without this, without this divide. A place of just people, who wouldn't chase down kids, who didn't judge you for wealth or the amount of hair oil you had, where you could walk around without being jumped.

He wants that place. He wants that time.

He can't have that though, not right now. Right now all he's got is Dallas frowning at him, the anger there, the hand on his back rubbing in rough circles. The sound of the door being banged open, Soda's voice filling the air with a greeting distracts him only for a moment.

He wants to apologize for a lousy day. For throwing up. For having a nightmare. For starting all of this. Except Dallas' hand remains on his back, even as Soda peers into the bathroom curiously. "Hey, honey. Everything okay?"

"He just ate too much," the lie slips out effortlessly from his mouth, hand continuing to rub circles on Ponyboy's back, "Can you get us some water or something?"

Soda casts a worried look over to Ponyboy, who can only feel a burst of warmth that Dallas didn't rat him out. "Sure, I'll be right back." He moves away, and Ponyboy peels himself up from the toilet, Dallas' hand moving away. He looks at Ponyboy, expression still dark, muddled and yet...

Ponyboy realizes that it's not just anger on his face. It's concern there, mixed in with the anger. Concern for him, for Johnny. He can see it in a way he hadn't before, and he's grateful for it, asking quietly, "Can you stay for dinner?"

Dallas' face softens, nodding. "Sure, kid."

If his mouth didn't taste bad, if he didn't feel so lousy, Ponyboy would have leaned over and kissed him. Not because everything's fixed, not because he's got a solve in his back pocket. But just for the fact that Dallas is staying, that when Soda comes, he hands Ponyboy the glass of water easily, not leaving, not acting cold because the day wasn't perfect.

He's still not sure how this is going to go between them, he doesn't even know how they'll handle dinner together. But it's good, to have Dallas there, to be able to lean on him, to have his arm around him, helping him stand.

At least, dinner's not a big deal. They're low on money, so it's mostly soup, crackers, and drinks. Mercifully, Soda doesn't put food coloring in anything, just handing it out in bowls to everyone. Darry still isn't home by then, the sun going down as they eat, and talk lightly.

Ponyboy tries not to think about his nightmare as he eats, focusing instead on the fact that Soda seems interested when Dallas mentions the diner, of seeing Ivy and Mimi there. He thinks of Sandy again, but doesn't want to bring it up, just in case.

When they're done, Ponyboy walks Dallas to the door, well aware that even if they were together, were pack now, Darry would have a problem with Dallas staying over during the night now, at least. Even if Ponyboy didn't think they'd be doing much tonight, it's better to avoid an argument.

At the porch, Dallas squints down at him, mouth in a line. "Think you're gonna have another nightmare kid?"

"Don't know," Ponyboy answers honestly, hand coming up to tug at the medallion. "Hope not."

Dallas reaches up, tugs at his still mostly blonde hair the way he did at church. Ponyboy scrunches up his face the way he'd done at the church, but doesn't pull away. "I meant what I said, kid. It ain't ever been your fault, what they done." He keeps a serious tone, tugging Ponyboy closer, leaning his head down to kiss him. It's not really sweet in the sense that sweet kisses have seemed like; Dallas doesn't kiss gently, but it's not all force, not all greed when he kisses Ponyboy there. It's just... it's firm. Tender in it's own way.

When he parts, Ponyboy finds his hands gripping his shirt, wanting to keep him closer, keep him there. Except it's close to nine, and Darry would be home soon. As much as he was okay with Soda and Johnny seeing them, the idea of Darry being there, questioning things makes him let go. "See you tomorrow, Dally?"

"Sure, kid," Dallas lets go of his hair. "Lunch?"

"Lunch," Ponyboy agrees.

Chapter Text

"Mr. Syme's still out," one of the greaser kids pipes up as soon as Ponyboy steps into the halls of Will Rogers. "Might as well not go in, specially on a Friday."

Still feeling tired, Ponyboy scowls. Even if he didn't remember the nightmare from last night, he still woke up exhausted, scenting fire. The idea of another substitute bugged him. "Thanks. Gym empty?"

"They got pups putting up that sock hop stuff up," Two-Bit comes to Ponyboy's side, Johnny beside him. "Coach Keeley probably wouldn't mind you in class helping out if you poke your head in." There's a silent warning there; Two-Bit's mother must've reminded him about the court deal. Skipping two days in a row wasn't going to happen.

Ponyboy exchanges a glance with Johnny. He looks better than he had the day before, in a new pair of jeans and a shirt. "You going to study hall?"

"Yeah, got a math test," he looks apprehensive about it. Unfortunately, all Ponyboy can do is wish him luck seeing as math wasn't his strong suit anyhow. Ponyboy waves him off, still feeling that flushed feeling creeping up his neck. It's an oddly persistent thing, and every time it happens, he can't push it down the way he used to. It's spreading more to his shoulders every time, his senses flaring up with it.

He rubs at his nose as he makes his way to the gym with other greaser kids. They chit chat around him, until they're all into the big, noisy gym. Ponyboy can see the gaggle of little kids from the day before there, already working on the sock hop decorations. The theme this year was pretty easy: Starry Night. It was supposed to have been Halloween; but once they'd all come back from Jay Mountain, the school had quietly shifted the theme, probably out of respect for Bob.

Respect.

Ponyboy falls in line with the other greaser kids, who've been mixed in together with Coach Keeley's gym class. She's a tall alpha woman with red hair that was more on the brassier, curly side when she spots Ponyboy. "Curtis? I take it you have a pass?"

Generally, Keeley was touch as nails, her freckles on her face stark as Ponyboy shakes his head. "No, Coach — Syme's sub kicked me out."

"That jackass," one thing that also made Keeley popular was that her no bullshit attitude also affected her speech. She never sugarcoated anything, her head bobbing. "Alright, you're an art kid, right? Go help some of those pups from the junior high. They've been asking about you anyway."

"Me?" Ponyboy turns his head, and sure enough the little greaser pups from the junior high are staring. They're a mixed bunch, two boys and a girl. They're all in tale tell tale markers of being from the wrong side, in older clothes, not as good as their richer peers. And almost all of them are watching him. One of them is Ivy's little sister, with that same inky black hair, with those similar green ribbons in her hair. The other two, Ponyboy doesn't recognize as he puts his books down, coming over to them with a wave.

"Hey," he grins down at them. They're all about twelve to thirteen years old, Ponyboy taller than them all. They're all working on a blue background between them, painted hastily on brown paper cut into what seemed to be something meant to go around the bottom of the stage. "Coach Keeley told me to help. You Ivy's kid sister?"

"Yeah," she nods, clearly getting some of Ivy's seriousness. "I'm Connie. We're supposed to be painting this and getting some stars."

"Supposed to?" Ponyboy echoes. The other boys glance at each other, communicating silently. Connie looks like she's afraid to say more, or hesitant to.

The boy to his left, with short cropped blonde hair and a farmer's tan pipes up, "Our banner got torn last night." He points to it, and Ponyboy can see the long tear that's crooked in the middle and the haphazardly put together tape on it. Tape that has paint that's not keeping to it. "We keep trying to make it look okay, but it ain't."

Ponyboy crouches down, wrinkling his nose. "How big are the stars?" The smallest kid turns, grasps for the already cut out, thick boarded star that Pony's seen a dozen times at these dances, back when Soda had dragged him in. "Okay, that can just cover that. Got any glue?"

He doesn't think it's likely, and he's right: Connie offers up a sad looking bottle of glue. It looks like the worst one he's seen, actually, half of it dry. "Jesus, okay. Hold on, I'll go find some. Just paint around it til I get back."

He goes to the side tables with all the art supplies, going through a few glue bottles. It's not exactly a surprise to him to see that some of the other kids — with better clothes, with those Beatle cuts — have better glue bottles. Ponyboy sees one of the girls in a really nice dress put down a bottle, and he swipes it up, checking it. It's much, much better, and he brings it over to Connie and the two boys with a grin.

They seem in awe of him when he does it, which makes his scars itch, and his neck flush. Brushing it aside, he crouches down, helping to smear glue on the big start. "Just gonna press it on and then paint around the corners."

Quietly, they get into a routine. Ponyboy does his best to work around things, giving the better glue to another group of greaser kids once they're done with the big star. They seem to understand what he isn't saying out loud: keeping it between them, as they only pass it to the one other group of greaser kids in there. From there it's easy for him to go up to the main craft table, getting the better paints and brushes, moving around the little tight knit bunch of greaser kids.

He wishes it weren't this way. He desperately wishes it were different to not have to see this so soon, and all he can do is just make sure that everything's going okay between them, because Connie and her friends aren't the only group dealing with issues.

The group he passed the glue onto, they tug him back within a few minutes. "Can you help us with this?" One of them flips over a star that's had the point torn off. It's got a rough looking back patch and the tape is hardly any help. For that, Ponyboy ducks into the Coach's office, coming out with a stapler.

It's hard to do, and frankly, the start doesn't look quite the same. But it works well enough for the pups to grin at him and for Ponyboy to grin back. Even if when he does it, he looks at the other kids, thinking of Curly's words. Even if he hates that he and other greasers have to look out for them instead of someone else doing it.

It's not fair, he thinks, as Connie looks grateful for the better paint he hands her, the better brushes. It's not fair that they have to deal with this so young, that he can see them watch the richer kids with apprehension.

"Curtis!" He's pulled away from Connie — and David and Simon, as it turns out — to Coach Keeley. He makes his way over to her, pushing some of his hair from his face. He'd been late out of the door, wasn't able to grease his hair up like usual. Keeley cocks her hips, saying, "You mind if you stay here another period? I know Connors, if he has a protest over it."

"No," Ponyboy brightens up, happy to skip another class. Behind him he hears Connie give a cry, but when Keeley only nods, he doesn't turn around. "I'd stay all day if I could."

"Oh, I bet," Keeley pats him on the shoulder. "Go on, I need a cigarette before the next bell." Keeley turns around, walks out. Ponyboy turns back to the kids, only to see Connie looking furious, looking at another boy — and then seeing her and the boy tussle, until the blue paint splatters all over Connie's clothes and face in the front.

There's a gasp and a wave of silence that travels through the gym.

"Hey!" Ponyboy snaps out, striding over towards them, seeing Connie's face go red. "W—"

Apparently, Connie has Ivy's take no attitude shit too, seeing as she throws the remnants of the paint back at the boy. This gets a stronger gasp from the people around them, Connie looking visibly, hugely angry. "There, you got what you wanted!"

The boy lunges. Ponyboy is faster, grasping him by the collar, pulling him away. "Break it up!"

"That was my paint! Not yours, it wasn't to share!" The boy squirms in Ponyboy's grip, looks up at him and freezes. For good reason too: the moment their eyes connect, Ponyboy realizes with a plummeting, sick feeling that he looks like Bob Sheldon, if Bob Sheldon were fourteen and with a lot more acne than what he'd had before he'd died.

The word floats in his head, and his grip loosens, almost repelled like a magnet from this Bob Sheldon in miniature. Even with the blue paint on his front, even with it flecked in his hair, it's so obvious he's Bob's little brother. A little brother that Ponyboy didn't even know he had, staring at him with a slowly livid, familiar rage that Ponyboy had seen reflected weeks ago in his brother's face at the fountain.

Except this kid isn't drunk. He's startling sober, scenting like an alpha, glaring at Ponyboy with all the hate he could muster in him. "Asshole," the kid hisses out, "You think you can just touch me like that? After what you did?"

"I didn't do nothing," Ponyboy says the words, and he can't help but notice that the other boy is the same age, that he's the spitting image of Bob from the color of his eyes to the curly, sandy hair. He can't help how his throat tightens, how he can faintly scent aftershave. "The paint is for everyone—"

"You gonna stab me if I don't give it back?" The kid snarls back, and the gasp in the room ripples out. Ponyboy can feel his gut turn to battery acid at the mention, thinking he can smell blood, see Bob's body curled up on the pavement again next to the fountain, can scent the aftershave and the liquor thrown on him.

He swallows hard, not wanting to give in, give this stupid kid the satisfaction of rattling him. "You got a problem, go to the principal's office. After you say you're sorry to Connie." He tries to think of Darry as he does it, and it's the wrong move. He thinks of yelling at Darry to leave Soda alone, and then the shock at Darry hitting him.

The kid glares at him. For a moment, Ponyboy think he'll spit at him. His heart pounds in his chest at the realization, at the fact that this could go wrong. Just like that night over a month ago went wrong.

"Richard Sheldon!" Marcia's voice breaks over them all, Ponyboy jerking up to look at her. Cherry is nowhere in sight — Marcia, however, is marching over to them, her face livid. "What is the matter with you?"

"That greaseball—"

Marcia grips his arm and to Ponyboy's surprise, she throws him a sympathetic look. "Richard, let it go. Come on."

"You aren't Cherry, I don't have to — owch!" Marcia grips his arm tighter, his glare at her withering and at the same time, it's scared. He looks young, incredibly young and alone and angry as Marcia yanks him through the gymnasium.

She's hissing something in his ear as they leave, Ponyboy not knowing what to do for a moment. All everyone — from the high schoolers joking around, to the junior high kids — are staring at him now. They all think that he's the one who killed Bob, he knows it. He has known it for a long, long time. Anything he says or does before the trial, maybe after, won't matter to him in this moment.

To them, he's the greaser who spilled blood, who killed someone. To them, that's all he is even if the truth was that Bob had tried to kill him, that all he'd done was get attacked and hurt. They don't know how much he thinks of Bob's body beneath the moonlight, they don't know how it feels to see Bob's body, blood pooling out of it eerily slow.

They don't know. Will never know.

Flexing and unflexing his hands, he tries to stuff down the feelings as he turns to a still paint soaked Connie. She looks like she's an inch away from crying, her rather nice shirt stained a huge swath of bright blue.

Even if he feels branded wrongly, Ponyboy doesn't push her or any of the greaser pups away. "Hey, let's see if we can get that off of you."

Connie nods, and Ponyboy puts a hand on her back, leads her out of the gymnasium where everyone can stare at them. His hand shakes as he tries to gather himself, "I can walk you to the girl's. See if someone can give you some clothes to wear home. I'm real sorry he did that to you."

Glumly, Connie shakes her head. "He's a jerk. No one wants to call him one cause his stupid brother died." Ponyboy tries not to flinch at the venom there as they walk down the hall, Connie sniffing, rubbing at her face. "He's always been mean, he's just worse now. His parents give him all this stuff, and just..." She sniffs again, trying not to cry.

He feels awful for her. It's easier to focus on her as he knocks on the door to another one of the coach's. "Hey, I got one of the junior high kids. She's got paint all over her—"

The coach leaps up at that, and Ponyboy backs away as she takes over. He's left standing in the hallway, struggling with the taste of chlorine invading the back of his throat, the phantom sting of a hit and the image of Bob's body beside the fountain in his mind. Connie's crying is soft on the other side of the door; he feels jealous that at least Connie can cry. There's no way he can, even as his cheeks flush and eyes burn. There's a whole day of school ahead that he can't skip. Someone has to look out for those pups in the gym, and isn't he too old to be a bawl baby? Wasn't it time he stopped?

He wipes at his face, looks at the clock. It's close to lunch, and Ponyboy ducks into the gym. The kid's teacher is there, arranging them into a line to go to the cafeteria. He can see the kids carefully tucking their projects away from everyone, and he breathes out.

Dallas should be waiting for him about now.

Ponyboy comes out of school early, looking very, very distracted. Dallas squints at him from Buck's car, knowing something was up just by the fact that his hair wasn't greased up, and the way his shoulders are slumped. It makes his instincts itch, looking at him.

With Sylvia, it wasn't ever all that hard to know when she was angry. Partly because when she got pissed, everyone in the whole fucking county knew it simply by her scent and the sound of her heels on the pavement and partly because she'd just throw it at him all the fucking time when she was pissed. Pissed at him, pissed at her parents, pissed at any fucking thing. That used to be half the fun, getting in trouble with her when she got pissed off. It also was the thing that Dallas ended up growing tired of, what always kept him from going much further.

Sylvia was always, always pissed. She liked to blame him, whether it was true or not. After awhile, it just wasn't for him. Her cheating on him with someone else? It was just a long, overdue coffin nail.

Ponyboy was altogether different as he looks at Dallas, halfway leaning over the car door. There's something very, very wrong with him that isn't just his scent when he says, "Can we go to the Dingo?"

"Nah," Dallas shakes his head, leaning back in the car. "Sure you don't wanna be there after everything yesterday."

"No, I do," Ponyboy insists, despite how quiet his voice is. "I don't wanna go anywhere else." He climbs into the passenger side, the wind picking up his hair. His roots are coming in more and more, that brassy auburn off setting the still platinum blonde from the mountain. Dallas wants to reach over, tug it, bury his fingers there for a good bit of time. Instead, he puts the car in drive, and makes his way to the Dingo.

"So what are they teaching you in there, huh?" Dallas tries to talk as they move through the parking lot, the streets. "How to be a good little college kid?"

Instead of Ponyboy getting annoyed with him, he just stares off into the middle distance, teeth worrying his bottom lip. He looks a lot like that day in Windrixville, at the Dairy Queen. Even if Dallas had mainly been upset at Johnny, he'd glanced back at Ponyboy, had seen the look on his face like this, worried about Johnny going to jail.

That makes him brake hard when they get to the Dingo. Ponyboy finally startles, finally out of his own head, blinking. There's a sure bet that he didn't realize they were anywhere near here, something Dallas believes when he watches him stiffly get out of the car, making his way into the diner.

Like the day before — and most days he could afford to — Ed was in his corner, eating his sandwich, the newspaper spread in front of him. Dallas nods to him as he follows behind Ponyboy, seeing Ivy at the counter, about to leave.

Oddly, Ponyboy goes stiff for a moment. Instead of going to the booth, he goes up to Ivy, saying her name. She looks down at him with her usual coolness, her voice easily heard as Dallas walks behind Ponyboy, "Yes?"

"You got a little sister, Connie, right?" When Ivy nods, Ponyboy swallows. "She came up to the high school today. She had an accident, one of the kids got paint all over her — on purpose. I let Coach Jameson take a look at her, she was real upset."

Ivy's expression cracks a bit, looking surprised, and then upset. "You saw that? When?"

"About half an hour ago," Ponyboy looks like he's ready to throw up. "I've been helping the pups—"

"Thank you," Ivy keeps her voice curt, heading towards the door with a look of concern on her face, pushing through some of the older hoods immediately. Ponyboy watches her; Dallas watches Ponyboy.

He's never gotten school. He hadn't been to a school since he was about nine or ten years old, and the importance of the social going ons hardly mattered to him. That Ponyboy was interested was something Dallas had never understood, and it's even worse with Two-Bit.

Something though, had happened. Something drastic enough to make Ponyboy quieter than normal as he goes to the booth, making him too scatterbrained to even register that Dallas has ordered for them both when Mimi comes around.

Eventually, once the drinks are down and Ponyboy is still picking at the counter top, Dallas feels his impatience get the better out of him, rapping on the table hard. "If I wanted to just hear the damn juke box, I'dve come alone." He scowls at Ponyboy, seeing his neck flush, his fingers clench. "Come on, what the fuck is going on?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," is the rebuff he gets, even though Ponyboy seems worse for wear.

So Dallas picks. "Oh, but you can talk to Ivy about it? What the fuck for?" It's a shot in the dark that whatever's gone down with them is what's bothering Ponyboy. It's on the money; he can see Ponyboy tense up more, that look on his face from earlier there. "What's wrong? She's a pup, ain't she? What—"

"It was Bob Sheldon's brother," Ponyboy snaps out, similar to how he had in the parking lot, days before. "He was the one who got the paint on Connie. He and his friends have been picking on those kids, all the greaser kids, tearing up their shit, giving them the worst stuff. Just like Curly said and it's — it's my fault, Dal." His voice is rising, and there's real anger, real anguish in it. It isn't like Sylvia picking at something because she just wanted to, and it isn't like...

Dallas doesn't want to think about her dark hair and those green eyes in the apartment. Instead, he focuses on frowning at Ponyboy, at the way Ponyboy looks as he continues, "It's my fault, and I don't know how to fix it. Hell, I ain't — I ain't even wanna go back there." The misery in his voice is real, true, and if he wants to say more, he snaps his mouth shut when the waitress comes back with their drinks.

Once they move away, Dallas continues, "All cause of some pups? Cause Bob's brother is being an asshole?"

That's not it, entirely. He knows it as Ponyboy's eyes slip from his face to the table. It can't be it.

But, seemingly, it is. It's what's keeping Ponyboy there, keeping him from going back. On one hand, he doesn't blame him. School isn't for Dallas anyhow, and if Ponyboy doesn't want to go, he won't make him go. He had a right not to, Dallas thinks. If he wanted to just go out all day, have fun, he should.

He's about to suggest it, just shoot it out of his mouth when he remembers exactly why Ponyboy can't do that. That killing Bob — even though Ponyboy hadn't actually done it — had a bigger effect on everything.

The suggestion to just let him go almost dies entirely in his throat as Mimi comes back, setting down burgers and fries. It would be the easiest solve, wouldn't it, just walking off with Pony, taking him back to Buck's.

"I just — I can't stand it," Ponyboy picks a fry up, pushing it into his mouth. "All of them pups being punished cause of me."

"But you..." this position is strange, and new, for Dallas to have to wrangle with the idea that total freedom wasn't something Ponyboy could afford for now. That he actually doesn't want Ponyboy to get in trouble, so he backtracks, "You been helping them, right? With Connie and all?"

Humming, Ponyboy nods. "Putting their projects together. Trying to get them good supplies since those soc kids are hogging it all." Ponyboy shrugs, reaching for more ketchup. "I ain't know why I keep doing it, those kids'll just pick on them more."

Dallas doesn't go to school, doesn't care about it. Just the way that Ponyboy says it, the way that he clearly looks put out about it wrestles with the rest of Dallas' impulses to just tell him to say fuck it, to ignore it, to just leave.

More than that, though, he knows what's at stake. He's seen the newspapers, the way that there are things beginning to be written about it, the attention. The lawyer had told Ponyboy he had to be on the straight and narrow over something actually serious: a murder rap. Even if Ponyboy hadn't done it himself — Dallas well aware that Ponyboy hadn't been the one to stab Bob — everyone else thought he did. People were watching, waiting for him to slip up. If he didn't go to that school, as stupid as Dallas thought it was, people were going to notice.

Any other time and it'd making him sick to have to suggest this as he takes a swig of water, swallowing down harshly. He doesn't want to be the one to say this, can hear Tim Shepard making fun of what he decides to say. "You should probably go back, kid. I can't take you with me to Buck's."

"Why?" Ponyboy looks up at Dallas out of surprise, and fuck Dallas doesn't like it. He doesn't like that he has to be put into the position where he's choosing to say this, where he's more annoyed with everyone else's reaction to what he's saying even though he knows he's in the right when Ponyboy pushes back, "We skipped class the other day."

"You did, I ain't," Dallas huffs out, running his hand through his hair. "Look... you can't skip all the time. Everyone around here knows I'm a hood, and you aren't. That lawyer said you gotta keep your nose clean and all — skipping out with me ain't keeping your nose clean, is it?"

The look he's getting from Ponyboy is incredulous, and Dallas gets it. Anyone else, anything else and he wouldn't give a good goddamn.

And that's the thing about it: he cares about Ponyboy. About his future. About the trial. Even if he wasn't interested in school or being some sort of upstanding citizen, Dallas was willing to do so much for Ponyboy, including this. "Those pups need you, too." Dallas picks up his burger, scowling, not knowing how to take the incredulous, curious look on Ponyboy's face. "You said they went after Ivy's sister, right? She and Ivy aren't gonna forget you stuck your neck out for her. Same for those other pups."

There are things he's ready to tell Ponyboy and some he isn't. Some of them are the gestures that other people had done for him before, things that they might not have been a big deal to the people doing it but had been for him: his uncle opening the door during the pouring rain to let him into his kitchen to eat with him and read with him; his aunt digging into her purse to give her money to him just because she felt like, not knowing that it would be all he had for a week; his cousin inviting him to dinner just because he was there, not caring that Dallas wore rainsoaked shoes and hadn't had a haircut in two months; Mrs. Curtis opening the door and asking him if he wanted to come inside as a reward for bringing Ponyboy home, easily adding a plate to her already cramped table for him.

Ponyboy doesn't know that he can be that to Connie, to pups. That Connie will remember what he did for her today more than what that Sheldon kid would. That the other pups would remember what he did for her, that he would be someone they could turn to in the future. He doesn't realize what it means, what it could mean — and he needs this push from Dallas. Even if for anyone else, he wouldn't.

For Ponyboy... it's important. Particularly since his mother and father had been just that for him. Mr. Curtis had been cheerful, been the one who taught Dallas how to ride horses. Mrs. Curtis had been the one who had welcomed him into the pack. They'd always been people he could turn to, and Ponyboy becoming that for pups was probably something they'd approve of, encourage.

Instead of voicing those thoughts, instead of placing it on his shoulders, he just takes a bite of his burger, staring intently at the table for a moment, avoiding Ponyboy's face. This isn't something he'd usually do or say, and he knows, he knows—

"You ain't bullshitting me?" Ponyboy asks quietly.

Dallas looks up, at the way his eyes look big in his face, at the wariness there, of the need to make sure Dallas... really did mean what he was saying. That he was really for this, for Ponyboy. "Yeah, no bullshit. They need you, and you need to keep your nose clean. And if you don't say yes, I'm still dragging you back in, whether you like it or not." He means it, too. Every word of it.

He doesn't look happy. He doesn't really look uplifted. However, Ponyboy does look accepting, smile on his face fleeting. "Alright. Cause you said." For a moment, Dallas thinks Ponyboy will joke about it, that he's telling him to go back to school.

If he wants to, he doesn't. And Dallas notices that when they leave, Ponyboy's the one who pulls him down for a kiss, right outside the Dingo instead of him.

He made the right choice, said the right thing. Dallas relaxes, making sure to watch until Ponyboy is up the steps and in the school. Then he's off to Buck's, relieved that he'd done the right thing not for himself, but for Ponyboy.

Chapter Text

"You gonna go to the bonfire tonight?" Soda peers his head into the door as he gets ready for the morning shift.

At ten-thirty on a Saturday morning, Ponyboy really wishes he were back asleep. He didn't want to have to get up this early, to have to sit up in bed, feeling strange. He must've had a nightmare the night before: his mouth tastes like chlorine, his nostrils scent it and he spent the last few hours tussling and turning, feeling too hot beneath the covers and almost too cold with them off. He'd finally settled with them off, only dozing off for an hour or so before now.

"I dunno," Ponyboy yawns, running his hand through his hair. "Maybe. Why?"

"Well," Soda chews at his cheek, "Ivy wanted me to ask you. She wanted to talk to you, if you were gonna be there."

"Ivy? Why?" Ponyboy perks up at that, blinking bewilderedly, and then paling. "Is it about her sister?"

"Could be," Soda looks him over once or twice, mouth opening to say something, and then shaking his head. "If you're going, make sure to see her." He pauses at the door, cocking his head. "You feeling okay this morning?"

A confused look crosses Ponyboy's face. "Yeah? Why?"

Soda comes through, his DX shirt half buttoned up wrongly, his hand coming to press against Ponyboy's forehead. "You were running real hot this morning. Thought you might have a fever."

"I'm fine," Pony insists, even though Soda's hand feels really nice on his head, skin feeling a little warm. "It ain't nothing." Nowhere near as bad as he felt before the rumble.

Soda drops his hand, scratching at his cheek. He shakes his head. "Alright, since you said so. See you, kiddo!" He leaves, stomping into the hallway, going for his shoes and never realizing that his shirt buttons aren't done properly.

Steve still isn't picking up Soda for work, going on weeks now. They still haven't made up — Ponyboy watches as Soda makes his way to the curb, joining Darry who's already getting in his truck. A dog barks from across the way, the engine flares to life, then they're gone. Darry's probably working later than usual if he's leaving now, or he's going to the gym after. Which leaves the house mostly to Ponyboy.

He flops back down onto the bed, looking up at his ceiling, sighing, hand on his forehead. Whatever Soda felt there was probably just a fluke. The St. Christopher medal lands on his lips, and lazily, Ponyboy grasps it on the chain with his teeth, gnawing on it. It still feels a little unreal, to process the day before: Bob's little brother; Connie needing him; Dallas saying to stay in school, for her, for other people and himself.

If someone had told him months before that not only was the toughest hood in Tulsa was interested him, that he had encouraged him to stay in school, to not just goof off with him for a whole day, Ponyboy wouldn't have believed them.

Then again, that was an entire lifetime ago. It feels like that more than ever as he looks up at the ceiling, thinking of the way that he felt hearing those words. Seeing Dallas clearly struggling to articulate it to him, yet doing so anyway. All because he was concerned about Ponyboy. Cause he cared.

Maybe cause he even...

His neck and ears flush at that. What was he, some little kid? This wasn't exactly a crush. It was more than that, they hadn't gone out that long. It didn't make sense to get hung up on it, he thinks. It was... too early for that.

His teeth and tongue turn over the medallion in his mouth as he looks at the ceiling. Even as Ponyboy tells himself not to think about the words, he does. About the fact that he'd love to hear Dallas say them, about the fact that he thinks he feels them in his chest when he thinks about Dallas now.

And how it feels too heavy to say outloud, too soon and—

There's a knock at the door. Ponyboy sits up again to peer out the window. No greaser would actually knock, which explains why he sees Ed on the porch a hand on his hip, his leather jacket on, and his face turned away, Ponyboy unable to get a good look at his facial expression.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'!" Ponyboy stumbles out his room, down the hallway and to the door to open it for Ed. "Hey, Ed. Darry and Soda ain't home, already left for work."

"Shit, I thought I heard him," Ed sighs, rubs at his forehead, blue eyes focusing on Ponyboy. "I'll catch up with him later. Are you alright, son?"

"I'm okay," Ponyboy shrugs his shoulder, at least willing to actually consider Ed's response in his answers. He wasn't like another adult here, not when he knew his parents so closely and not when he ran the packs, kept them in order. "Was going to the bonfire tonight is all."

"Good, good," the smile that flits on his face is approving. He turns, pauses, and looks back to Ponyboy. "You read the paper yet?"

Shit. "No," the word feels precarious on his mouth as he looks at Ed. "Something happen?"

Ed adjusts the cap on his head, huffing out. "I came here to talk to Darry. Suppose you'll do fine hearing it too. Reporters are starting to reach out, they want to get to know perspectives, try and trip you up about this case coming up. Don't talk to them, try and ignore the articles where you can. I've seen Socs, people like them try to come down on people like us in more ways than one. I don't think it'll be good for you or your brothers to see all that."

Ponyboy wishes that one, just one day would go by without the reminder of the trial, of how serious this all is. Even if Ed's well meaning, even if Ponyboy appreciates it. "Thanks for looking out for us, Ed."

"I don't break promises to anyone, especially not a woman as good as your mother," Something passes on Ed's face — he doesn't know what it is, only he thinks it's something he's seen on other people's faces, in different ways. The wind rises, the sparse leaves on the wind fluttering with it. Ed's expression shifts, nostrils flaring, nose wrinkling. His eyes focus on Ponyboy sharply, then he waves. "Take care, I'll see you and your pack tonight." He goes down the steps, down to where his motorbike is parked.

Truly, Ponyboy must've been deep in his head to have not heard or seen either. Ed swings a leg over, revs up the bike real, real loud. With a nod, he takes off, Ponyboy shutting the front door.

The first thing to do was eat. That's not hard, and once he's done, he goes to the shower. Stepping inside, he peels off his jeans, his underwear, and steps under the hot spray of water. It feels good, soothing his skin as he shuts his eyes in it. It doesn't take long for his mind to wander, not to the newspaper or school or anything, but to Dallas. He thinks of Dallas in the diner, about the way he'd struggled and the way he wanted to do the right thing.

His fingers drift lower, and it's not long for Ponyboy to ride out the fantasy in his mind, of Dallas saying those three words in his ear, of what it could be like. It's easy to ride it out, at least until he orgasms.

That is odd; the aftershocks feel different, his foot slipping, having to grip onto the rail before he could fall in the shower. It feels more intense, and what's more, when Ponyboy pulls his hands away, looks at them, he realizes he's got a lot of slick there. Way, way more than usual.

The door bangs open in the living room. "Kid! You ready to go?"

"Go where?!" Ponyboy hastily wipes his hand on the towel, the spray. Dallas' response is a muffle, Ponyboy frantically getting clean, getting his towel. He sticks his head out to see an empty living room, the sound of Dallas in the kitchen. "Bonfire ain't for hours!"

"You wanna go to the movies?" Dallas calls out, Ponyboy moving down the hallway to his bedroom. "The Cincinnati Kid just came out."

"Oh, you letting him pick the movie?!" Two-Bit's voice interrupts, and Ponyboy ducks into his room to get dressed. He can hear them both bickering in the front, as he hastily gets dressed. He still feels a bit warm from the shower as he tugs on his underwear, his jeans, one of Soda's shirts and Dallas' jacket. Briefly, he checks for cigarettes, and exits his room to see Two-Bit with a beer already, some chocolate smeared on his mouth.

"Who's in that movie?"

"Fuck should I know?"

"Steve McQueen!" Two-Bit replies cheerfully, Ponyboy able to hear his footsteps on the carpet. He leans on the door, Ponyboy able to see his reflection as he begins to grease his hair up. "You really expect that bum to remember who's in movies?"

Ponyboy chuckles as he combs his hair, trying to get it just right. "Seemed to like The Great Escape well enough when we saw it."

"Dally can't tell the difference between Jayne Mansfield and Marilyn Monroe," Two-Bit quips.

"Only difference are their tits," Dallas pokes his head in, raising his eyebrows. "C'mon, you look good already. I wanna get there before everyone else." His nose wrinkles a little as Ponyboy finishes up with his hair, eyes narrowing.

"Is Johnny coming with us?" Ponyboy puts the comb down, glancing up at Dallas and Two-Bit in the mirror, one last time.

"No," Two-Bit shakes his head, Ponyboy flicking off the light. "He and my Momma are going to some fancy center to have them take a look at his legs and back. Left early this morning, might not be back til this evening. Katie went with 'em."

They all walk out of the door, clattering down the porch steps. The wind picks up, the sky blue and without many clouds at all. "Buck needed that car, so we're walking," Dallas shrugs as they make their way down the sidewalk.

"I'm fine with that," Ponyboy's used to walking most places, and on a Saturday as nice as this, it's easy to flank Dallas on his left side and Two-Bit on the right side. The breeze picks up more, feeling nicely cool against Ponyboy's skin. He feels warmer than usual, as they make their way down the pavement, to the inner part of Tulsa.

Dallas keeps his arm close to his, walking confidently with Two-Bit, saying, "What are they supposed to be doing at the hospital?"

Two-Bit kicks a rock, Ponyboy fishing into his pocket for a cigarette. "Seeing if he needs new treatment, I guess. Said he needs to get outta those crutches — Hey, look!" He points towards one of the streets ahead. The Saturday bus line was always a bit finicky, and to see it turning down their street, close to a stop? Without needing to say anything, Ponyboy darts forward, running in front of them.

Always the fastest, it's been his job since he was about twelve years old to get to a stop before the bus left. He skitters to a stop at the bench, the bus ambling down then squeaking to a stop. He grins at the driver, "Sorry, my boyfriend's got my fare." Dallas and Two-Bit bring up the rear quicker than Ponyboy thought they would, Dallas clearly having heard his previous remark.

"You?" The driver frowns at Dallas around his handlebar mustache. Sneering back, Dallas boards, paying fare for him and Ponyboy as promised. His hand touches Ponyboy's midback; the contact is new, and for some reason it makes Ponyboy react differently. That violent flush he gets in the shower, that wave of need he feels in the shower just flares in him unexpectedly.

And as soon as Dallas' hand moves away, guiding Pony to the seat, it's gone. For a moment he feels dizzy, feels like every hair on his head is up, swallowing tightly. Then he's stumbling into a seat beside Dallas, gripping the railing tight. Dallas glances over at him, a frown on his face.

Ponyboy thinks when his lip curls up to ask You okay? he wants his fangs in his throat. That he'd love it, about then.

The bus jerks forward, Ponyboy swallows, tries to get a grip on his face. "Y-Yeah. What was Two-Bit saying?"

"Hey, Mimi," Two-Bit doesn't respond just yet, winking at the blonde. They wave back, and it takes Dallas elbowing Two-Bit to respond. "Said they need to get him out of those crutches. Just don't know how we're gonna pay for a wheelchair that ain't a piece of shit or pay for anything at all. They're wanting to get ramps in the house, and other stuff to make it easier for him."

Even though Two-Bit talks, even though it's serious, Ponyboy can't focus on anything except the way Dallas' teeth look in his mouth, on the way that they look so pleasingly sharp there. Dallas has an eye on him as he bites out, "Spending all our fucking money on this when Socs should. They're the ones that tried to kill him and Ponyboy. Wouldn't have been in that church otherwise."

"Yeah," Ponyboy mumbles, nodding his head. He keeps his eyes on Dallas' mouth longer than he means, the bus bumping over a pothole enough to jostle them all. Dallas' nostrils flare up, head turning to Ponyboy sharply.

Not wanting to be found out, Ponyboy averts his eyes, making his voice stronger, "Think they could help him out at the hospital? Or get him walking more?"

Two-Bit puts a hand into his pocket, looking for cigarettes. "No siree. My mom already talked to them; it's a miracle he's walking at all. Can't ask for more."

That seems to quell the need in Ponyboy for more touch for a moment, looking back at Two-Bit, at the serious expression on his face. A stormy look crosses Dallas' face, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip in a way that makes Ponyboy impatient, needing, and he knows if he keeps looking, he's going to do something stupid.

Averting his eyes again, Ponyboy looks at his hands, squeezing tightly as the bus moves on. If Two-Bit wants to say more, he doesn't. The talking about the wheelchair, ramps... they hadn't talked about it in depth for the very reason Two-Bit had said here. They'd all been in the hospital room together.

By the time the bus pulls further into town, they're all disembarking after Mimi who gives Two-Bit a wink before walking in the direction of the Dingo. Dallas turns right, and all three of them make their way down the street, at the row of shops that Ponyboy is familiar with. It makes something in him jolt to see this part of Tulsa again. It was more into the city, and the last time he'd seen these shops, it had been this time, over a month ago. They had gone into the store, the diner to make trouble. And then...

"You wanna go to the first showing or not, kid?" Dallas barks at him, Ponyboy snapping out of his stupor. He flushes, making his way to where Dallas and Two-Bit have been waiting for him outside of the theater. Wordlessly he nods — Dallas actually dips into his pocket, paying for himself and Ponyboy for a ticket. Two-Bit pays for himself, and all three of them walk inside the theater.

It's not very busy, never was at first showings on Saturdays. Usually, that was Ponyboy's favorite time to go to the movies, to see them by himself more likely than not. To be there with Dallas on one side, Two-Bit on the other was different.

Particularly since Two-Bit easily leaned over the counter to flirt with the clerk, and once they had their back turned, piled candy into his jacket. Dallas, uninterested in sweets as always, beckons Ponyboy to come with him, walking to the right theater hall.

When they walk in, there's no one in there, Ponyboy lighting up at it. He moves, then feels a hand on the back of his shirt, grabbing him back. "Where you goin' kid?"

"To the..." the words die on his lips because Ponyboy remembers something he should've kept in mind: that Dallas liked to bring girls to the theater sometimes, and not for actually watching a movie. He should've known better, his ears going red, Dallas tugging him towards one of the rows towards the back. "Dallas, I wanna see the movie."

"I ain't doing this during the movie. We still got the cartoons," Dallas grins, throwing himself into a seat, Ponyboy following along, looking down at him. At the way Dallas' still unstyled hair looks, at the glint in his smile. "Just the cartoons, c'mon."

Ponyboy moves forward, feeling all at once like a complete novice and a reluctant, if eager participant. Making out in a moviehouse is something he never thought was for him; mostly because he'd rather watch a movie than make out with someone. He'd always thought that.

At least, until he settles himself in Dallas' lap, like he's been there a dozen times before. He knows he should think about this, about who could see, but then Ponyboy is leaning forward to kiss Dallas on the mouth, in a way that makes him inhale sharply, Dallas' scent invading his nostrils, feeling his hands settle on his hips.

It wasn't like usual, either. It's stronger than before, sharper, and for the first time outside of the shower, outside of a fantasy, Ponyboy feels himself slick up.

Chapter Text

Scents are important to everyone, particularly once they present. It's how their dynamics are determined, it's how some people know danger from home, a lover from an enemy, a stranger from a friend.

Ponyboy's read books — fiction and non — about scents, about how they affect people. About what it meant to be with someone you cared about, how a brother's scent differed from your parents, to your lovers, to your mates. He's thought about the way it has affected Johnny, who's scent glands were burned in the fire so badly he could hardly scent anything. It made him pull out more books about it, more non fiction than fictional, piling up beside his bed when he remembers, earmarked here and there.

Reading about it is one thing — confined to words that were only as good as what the author could express on the page. Experiencing it is another, and as Dallas moves away from kissing his mouth to burying his nose in his everwarm neck, Ponyboy doesn't think it does it justice. Books don't get how good it is to scent Dallas in the theater, to get Dallas all over him, to want more, to want to be covered in him. They can't accurately tell him what it's like to feel Dallas' hands all over him, to want to get his own hands up Dallas' shirt, to dig his fingernails into his skin, to get more than just his scent in him, to have his body on him, of how it makes him almost entirely someone else like this.

That arousal in him just stokes up higher and higher as Dallas' nose presses into his neck, near his scent glands. He's so slick at this point that every time he feels Dallas' nose flare, every time he feels his hands get lower on him, he rocks forward, wanting more, slicking up more in response. He feels almost dizzy with it, feeling Dallas growl against his throat, while he tries to move, wanting to bury his nose in Dallas' own neck.

A whine leaves him as he shifts their bodies, Dallas too tall to make it work without shifting more.

Dimly, he knows that there are people coming in and out of the theater. That they might get caught like this, and instead of it making Ponyboy nervous or self conscious, he feels a possessive thrill run up his spine, not able to contain himself with the thought that they'd all know: he was with Dallas.

They'd all know that he was with Dallas, here in this dark theater, scenting like him. They'd all understand the moment they came inside that they belonged to each other in the here and now. His fingers dig in deeper, and he moves until he can nuzzle Dallas' cheek, run his hand through hair, trying to scent him back, trying to get Dallas on him.

Headiness settles into him as Dallas' tongue laves against his neck, the scent glands there. A thrill of arousal starts pooling in him differently now, and Ponyboy rocks his hips again. There's zero mistake there: he's starting to get hard, and so is Dallas.

There's no real thought, Ponyboy just falling into a rhythm, like his body has known what to do without his say so. Dallas' tongue leaving wet strips on his neck that cool in the theater, Ponyboy's hands trying to work themselves up his shirt, trying to dig into Dallas' skin; their hips shifting, meeting each other more and more, the pressure starting to build, every single thought starting to just turn to one thought: that he needs this, that he needs to relieve it with Dallas, that he wants his scent, he wants to just—

A light shines suddenly on Dallas' skin, Ponyboy jerking back. "There you two are!"

Both of them look towards an all too gleeful Two-Bit and an irritated theater usher holding a flashlight. Ponyboy scowls, Dallas baring his teeth at Two-Bit as he walks over with popcorn and drinks. He clearly knew what he was doing, Ponyboy slipping out of Dallas' lap as the usher glares at them. Dallas loops a finger into his belt loop, jerking Ponyboy closer.

"Don't make me come back here," the usher warns as Two-Bit takes a seat, propping his feet up. "That goes for you too — feet down, Keith."

"You ain't my momma, this ain't her furniture," Two-Bit quips, grinning at the usher, picking up the popcorn like he means to throw it. "Get on, don't you got some kiddies to watch after?"

"Asshole," Dallas doesn't even wait for the usher to leave, kicking Two-Bit in his ankle. Ponyboy sits between them, wishing he could have those hands on him again, jeans too tight, and the last bit of wet Dallas left on his neck drying. The slick he feels makes him want to whine, Dallas hissing out, "I ain't ever do that to you!"

"Yeah, you did," Two-Bit replies cheerfully, "Almost had — hey!" It's Ponyboy who kicks him this time, not in any mood for Two-Bit to even hint at the existence of anyone else in his boyfriend's lap in this theater, not wanting to even entertain the argument that could come out. He seems to get the hint enough, passing over the soda and popcorn to them.

Ponyboy takes it, Dallas taking his own water from Two-Bit. The cartoons are starting to wrap up, Jerry running on screen in a flurry. He wants to concentrate on it, he wants to get ready for the movie to start properly and instead, Ponyboy just wants Dallas' hands on him, wants his nose buried in his neck, wants to do something about the slick still pooling in and on him.

It's hard to not think about it at all as the movie starts to unfold. About how close Dallas is, at the same time being too far away. He wants to reach over, wants to touch Dallas, wants to get back in his lap the way he was before, go further.

He tries to concentrate on the movie. In the first few minutes, as it shows the funeral, the pallbearers, the toss of coins. A few more people trickle in as the movie plays, Ponyboy reaching for popcorn Two-Bit has, for drinks. The music is entrancing, and more than that, it makes Ponyboy cut his eyes at Dallas, to see how he looks. His eyes are mostly on the screen, knee bouncing with the movie's music.

There's no helping himself, grinning at Dallas as he looks at the screen, at the enjoyment Dallas is having of it. Two-Bit glances at Ponyboy from his spot opposite Dallas, and he raises his eyebrows at Ponyboy almost daringly.

Instead of backing down, Ponyboy reaches over, for more popcorn, popping it in his mouth and leaning back, trying to at least behave, make sure he can look at the movie instead of giving into more. That doesn't quite work; not when as the music crests, he feels a hand nudge his shirt up. It takes everything in him to chew on his popcorn as if nothing was happening, feeling the cool end of the skull ring Dallas wears running up his back, his fingers following. That spark from before spreads as Dallas runs his fingers up and down Ponyboy's back, getting teasingly close to Ponyboy's waistband, the scent of slick starting to really permeate.

Whatever's happening on screen is simply irrelevant to the feeling of those fingers, the feel of nail, how it teases him. Ponyboy's emotions, his world shrinks down to this, only this, and that flush he woke up with, the one from the bus isn't truly going to go away. Not with the way he shifts back, Dallas moving his finger up, away from his waistband.

A whine leaves Ponyboy, he shifts backward again, trying not to look at Dallas' face.

The people in front of them — two rows ahead — seem to hear, the girl shifting in her seat.

Embarrassment runs through him, Ponyboy trying to reach around now.

Dallas, however, takes it as a challenge. He presses the flat of his hand on Ponyboy's back, moving to press his lips against Ponyboy's ear, breath warm, "Don't get all quiet now, Pone."

"We could—" get kicked out, yelled at, caught all almost past through his lips, and all are promptly extinguished when Dallas kisses him again. None of that matters in that moment that Dallas' lips meet his, when he kisses Dallas back.

The movie keeps playing on the silver screen, yet all Ponyboy cares about is kissing Dallas, about finding a way into his lap. He's not sure how he manages it, feeling heady and wanting, except he is, right back where he belongs. His own hands grasp Dallas' shirt, then thread themselves beneath the fabric to touch his sides, his skin warm beneath Ponyboy's fingers, his scent overwhelmingly good.

There's no aggression like it was in the rumble, no tinge of possession and need like it had been at the bonfire. Just need, want, as they kiss, as he gets bolder, feeling Dallas' tongue against his, his hand pushing Ponyboy's shirt up, nails now running against his skin in a way that's deeper, harder.

This time, when Ponyboy whines it's because Dallas drags his nails down his back in a way that just feels electric, makes him cant his hips against Dallas with want. It's louder when it leaves his throat, not tinged with embarrassment but need.

One of the other people in the theater says something that Ponyboy can't quite make out as he draws back for air, looking at the grin on Dallas' face, at the way that even in the darkness of the moviehouse, Ponyboy can catch a glimpse of his sharp teeth. It's only then that Ponyboy is aware that he's got enough slick pooling that his jeans are getting a little uncomfortable, that he wants to move, that maybe they should. "You done already?" Dallas teases him.

"No," Ponyboy runs his hands over Dallas' sides, feeling his jeans tightening for another reason, well aware that Dallas isn't even fighting his own erection. "Wanna go for more."

This time when Dallas kisses him, he can't fight down the moan in his throat. It's useless — the spark of shame he feels at being heard like this, maybe caught, is fleeting. All Ponyboy wants, hands pushing up Dallas' shirt, his hips starting to work with Dallas, is more. He wants more of Dallas' tongue in his mouth, wants more of his hands on his warm skin, wants more of their hips starting to grind up against each other. He wants, needs —

"Can you two quit it?" Dallas' fingers still on his hips, Ponyboy pulling back, turning around to look behind him. There's an adult there in the theater he hadn't seen come in, the glare from him seen briefly from the screen. "I'm trying to watch."

"So am I," Two-Bit says with laughter of his own, Dallas tugging Ponyboy back, his tongue licking a wet stripe on his neck, right where his scent is.

Any form of decency just leaves Ponyboy. How can he be decent when Dallas' tongue feels like it's always been meant to be on his neck? How can he think of being polite when Dallas rocks his hips against Ponyboy's in a way that makes him dig his fingers into his shoulders, more of that arousal sparking, more slick coming out of him.

This isn't like the shower or the previous make outs. It's something else, something more and Ponyboy feels ravenous for it, hand coming to grasp Dallas' hair, to keep him against his neck. He wants to think more clearly — he knows that he can't get into trouble, that he has to behave enough to not end up in a cop car — except his body is no longer listening to the rational side of his brain. It can't; he's running on instinct a need... a need for something more that he can't grasp onto in the same way he can bury his finger in Dallas' hair and moan for.

Of course, though, that's what gets the usher's attention. One moment, he's thinking that maybe he could move his hand to kiss Dallas better, that maybe he could get his jeans down and the next, a flashlight is in his face, the light half blinding him.

"Out, out!" The usher barks at them. Everything turns into a blur: Two-Bit throwing his popcorn, Ponyboy hastily making his way off of Dallas' lap, Dallas himself calling the usher asshole!

Then they're being pushed outside the theater, to the front door. The lights are bright, too bright, and there are people of all ages around. The half haze he's in doesn't entirely abate when Dallas grasps his hand, but he does register that they're running.

He grins, keeping up his way with Dallas and Two-Bit as they ignore the front door. The usher yells at them — Two-Bit goes back to the theater and laughing, Ponyboy goes with him. The court is forgotten, the need to lie low isn't there. He's just following behind Dallas and Two-Bit, zig zagging between the seats, whopping and hollering until they're at the back door.

"Eat shit!" Ponyboy yells out, right as Two-Bit opens the door. They all rush through the back, laughing, jostling each other as they go through the back corridor and then hit the outside, awash in sunlight. For a moment, Ponyboy feels like the afternoon before the movie theater, before Bob was stabbed. The thought crosses his mind about the kids in the field, about the way the tall grass looked, and he just runs faster, feeling like a kid again.

A kid without the worry of a court case. A kid without the worry of a murder above his head. He's just a fourteen year old kid with his boyfriend and his friend, running from a movie theater into a bright afternoon.

There's no mutual decision on where to go, he just turns his head back, looking at Two-Bit with his windswept dark red hair laughing raucously, Dallas beside him with that sharp fanged mouth of his, both of them about to catch up to Ponyboy. Ponyboy catches Dallas' gaze, at the way it sharpens, and instead of slowing down, he simply speeds up. They're a pack: fluid, resonate, all of them able to figure out what they want, where to go with a turn of the head, with a ribbon of trust and love between them.

All that training for track lets him keep more than an arm's length away from them (and in his mind's eye, he can see it, Dallas' fingers outstretched, trying to draw him in, being frustrated and wanting, the closer he gets yet the farther way Ponyboy gets) as he cuts behind the theater, hitting the gravel, then the grass behind the shops. Most of the kids in Tulsa used this to go to the shops, not wanting to use the road if they didn't have to. There's a hill there that he takes to, stumbling over a stick, forced to slow down, not wanting to tip over the edge. For a moment, Ponyboy glances downward, trying to see if there's anyone there, seeing a flash of something blue halfway—

That's enough for Dallas to catch up to him, slamming into him behind. Where Dallas seems to steady himself enough to not tip over, Ponyboy goes right over the edge in a flail of limbs, no match for Dallas' much bigger form. The patch of blue turns out to be a person — which he finds out when he trips over them, both of them hitting the bottom of the hill in a painful heap hard enough to knock the breath out of him for a moment.

Quickly, he tries to get up, apologize, hands trying to steady them, their scent familiar. "Sorry! I'm...."

His voice dies in his throat. The patch of blue had looked familiar. Now he knows why: it's Cherry Valance, her face blotchy, her bright red hair full of twigs and leaves. She's wearing the sweater that she had worn on the night at the movie house, and he's not sure if she's looking at him with disgust or anger as she gets to her feet.

Or... something else. She seems on the edge of tears as Ponyboy pulls his hand away, her lip trembling, her mouth half open. There's dirt caked on her cheek, and to his dismay, he realizes it's all over her. "Ponyboy?"

Ponyboy's mind freezes up the moment his name leaves her mouth. He thinks of the court case, of Bob's body in the moonlight with blood spilling out, of Cherry refusing to see Johnny with a sharp snap of her voice, of how she had said she could see the sunset real good on her side, of what she had promised to say, of everything that happened in that week. And, too, he thinks of her in the hallway refusing to speak to him, of loving Bob, of her initials scrawled with his on the notebook he'd given back to her, the careful way she had refused to touch his fingers.

He lets go of her of abruptly, hearing footsteps behind him. An arm wraps around his waist, Dallas' sharp teeth nipping into the shell of his ear. The way Dallas growls out his words reverberates against Ponyboy's back, "Don't you have somewhere to be, Soc?"

Not Cherry. Soc.

Ponyboy thinks of Cherry saying she could fall in love with Dallas, right in front of Bob who couldn't hear her. Thinks of the St. Christopher on his chest as he leans back on Dallas, looking at Cherry's ruddy, dirt streaked face, at the sweater she wears. "You remember the rules of the rumble, don't you?" Dallas continues, sharper than before, a warning there for her to leave. For once, Ponyboy doesn't mind it, thinks he's got every right to say it as his arm tightens around him.

"Yeah," Cherry's tongue darts out, licks at her lips. Whatever emotion she's feeling, they disappear as if they never existed off of her face like any other Soc. "I remember."

Two-Bit follows down the hill and Cherry turns her back, gathering her skirt and she walks up the hill, away from them. Her legs wobble as she makes her way up, and once she's on even ground, she walks faster and faster.

Ponyboy wonders what she thinks. What she sees. If she's even thought about him, or Dallas or Johnny. If she cares what Bob did to them, if she cares what might happen to him if the court rules against them, if she thinks about what she's going to say on the stand or not if—

And then Dallas tugs him closer, warm breath on his ear and neck, chasing away any thought of her, "You hungry, kid?"

Cherry disappears in the distance. Ponyboy turns his head to look at the half grin on Dallas' face, the fact that he doesn't look once up. "Yeah. Then the bonfire."

He allows Dallas to steer him away, Two-Bit flanking them both.

There's no reason for Cherry to cross his mind again.

Chapter Text

The dress hanging in her closet stares at her every time she opens it. She doesn't want to see it every time she goes for shoes or looks for a coat, except that she does. It's a perfect size for her, bought from one of the best stores in Tulsa, meant for a woman two or three times her age, yet found it's way on Cherry's body months ago in all it's perfectly cut sleeves, it's cinched waist, it's collar tight around her neck.

She doesn't like it. Doesn't like the fact that it wasn't made for someone so much older than her, doesn't like that it's hanging there on the wooden hanger from the department store same as she got it, that she can't remove it from the closet no matter how much she wants to, that she can't do anything except wait for weeks to turn into months to turn into years before she can throw it away, can finally have the space that used to belong to her cheerleading uniform back. Even thinking she could get rid of it in college wasn't in the picture. Not if Cherry was staying in Oklahoma — her father was already beginning to make a fuss about her going on campus now, not liking what he saw in the papers.

He'd want her home, not far away. In her kid's room, like this, forced to stare at the damn dress.

It had become a fact of life in a few weeks that the dress would always be here, waiting for her because she had to wear it to Bob's funeral. Just thinking about it makes her chest twist up still both in agony and anger. The memory of it still pins her down when she's trying not think about it: of hearing on the news that Bob was dead, of the cold terror and confusion that settled on her, her hands not dropping her breakfast plate but gripping it so tightly that it left stark white crescents in her skin. Of the fact that her parents had both looked at her from the table, eyes wide, her cousin Prudence at the table having a sharp little gasp of shock.

The concept of death wasn't new to her: her mother's brother had drowned when she was ten, was the reason she was usually in the bottom of a bottle once a month. He hardly existed in her memories, there hadn't been a funeral to attend.

He hadn't been a boy she had loved. He hadn't been the boy she'd given her virginity to, hadn't been the boy who she thought she had a life with once they graduated together. Hadn't been a boy who infuriated her and who she wanted to kiss, wanted to make better and be better for. He wasn't Bob and his death didn't cut her like a knife in her own kitchen like this, hadn't had her robotically putting down her plate, staring at the pancakes as her parents tried to say her name and when she had opened her mouth, she vomited up bile because her mind had caught the words knife wound and fountain and suspect from the television.

Bob was. Bob had been.

And in that, Cherry Valance was annihilated. She was no longer just a child anymore with a boyfriend who she was playing house with anymore. Now? Now she witnessed her mother putting down the bottle long enough to wash her hair, get dressed early, take her to the department store, her hands on Cherry's shoulders as she spoke.

The last time her mother had done anything actively it was to throw herself into those silly little housewife activities other women liked to do. The last time she'd been this engaged, Cherry had rolled her eyes, convinced that her mother was having an affair with the guy at the country club who taught her how to play tennis.

Her mother had grasped her shoulders, had said to the store clerk, She was the girlfriend of the boy who was killed. She loved him. She needs a dress for the funeral; wouldn't they be so kind to her and help? Getting a dress like that for a girl so young isn't really easy, you know?

The way her mother had said it... it's never left her mind even when Cherry has wished it would. She's stayed up late in bed thinking about it, about the way her mother had spoken so sweetly, so genteel, almost like gossip. As if Bob hadn't come to her house and eaten her shitty little tin cookies before, as if Bob hadn't walked her up to bed when she'd been drunk before, as if he was just a body now and had never been a person.

That was one of the hardest things in this: the transformation from Bob as a person to Bob as a body, Bob as a phantom husband that everyone expected to honor. She hadn't been sure of her place for the funeral, with Ponyboy and Johnny missing, where she would go, where she should be in general. Even then, she had her mind made up to help the greasers any way she could, and even though she had the dress, she hadn't a clue what she could do besides show up.

Until hours before, Bob's mother had shown up at the house, in that black veil of hers, with her hands clapsed in front of her, her eyes red rimmed, back ramrod straight. His mother had never been someone that Cherry was comfortable around: she was a tall, matronly alpha woman who was such old money that it made her uncomfortable whenever she noticed just how expensive her basic jewelry, her clothes were. Cherry had gripped the door handle tightly, the woman speaking in that half whisper tone she always did, "I'm sorry for doing this last minute, Sherri, but we wanted to have you sit with us at the funeral."

She never called her Cherry. Never liked to. Cherry had gripped the doorknob tighter, her throat closing up. There was no way she could say no, not in this life or the next. "Of course, Mrs. Sheldon. I just need— need to get dressed."

Cherry went upstairs by herself, shut the door, and tried to not cry.

The funeral in and of itself is something she has smothered in her memory. What sticks in her, night after night, is the way she had walked up to the casket with Bob's mother, her arms wrapped around her like a vice. The way Bob had looked in the casket was haunting. Never seeing a dead body before until then had stuck with her: the way his eyes had been shut, the expensive suit they'd put him in, the way his hands were folded. All the animation he'd carried with him in life — the cockiness, the anger, the passion — was gone, stripped from him entirely.

In one night he was dead because of his mistakes, because of a greaser.

(Later, classmates will whisper, as if she can't hear: I wonder if they saw the knife wounds at the funeral? Cherry can't answer no — and she had looked.)

She wishes she could remember what she said when she was made to stand, to be gawked at. The words had come yet in memory, there's nothing but the scent of formaldehyde, her salty tears, and the perfume her mother had insisted on her wearing. She can only remember the pale faces of his family and how startlingly it was to see his little brother on the front pew, caught between despair and rage.

In all of it, after the rumble, after some of the news had died down, Cherry had kept her promise to Ponyboy. She had watched him at first, well aware that he didn't notice at all. How he had come back to school flanked by greasers, how he wore Dallas Winston's jacket on him like a prize, how he seemed to get to be normal.

And her? Cherry had to be careful all the damn time. Had to avert her eyes from boys to make sure she still was a good girl mourning her boyfriend; had to stick to her friends even when Ponyboy had bumped into her and had offered her notebook back, Cherry forced to school her face into blankness with everyone watching; having to say things like Bob didn't deserve it and That greaser shouldn't have done what he did all while remembering how angry she was when he drank, of how she realized that Bob had beaten the tar out of Johnny when Ponyboy had talked to her at the concession stand, how Bob was as wild and reckless as Dallas Winston himself.

The moment she said or thought anything else was a social death sentence. A public betrayal of the boy she had wanted to take away from his parents, who she loved.

Even the one time she'd seen Ponyboy alone, she hadn't dared to say anything. Not with rumors flying around that Ponyboy and Dallas were together, a thing confirmed when she saw the medallion on Ponyboy's neck. She had stared, caught for a moment in old life and new, how she had wanted Dallas for herself. How she had thought maybe they could be something — a real bridge between greaser and soc, someone who was wild, like Bob but not quite the same.

They'd locked eyes and like a coward, she left first, eyes stinging.

Then she'd retreated more. Marcia stuck around and they did their best with Dick, with how angry he'd become afterwards. Of the boys who'd been at the fountain, there was no solace. Most had skipped the funeral except Randy. And not even he was okay: Randy never spoke with her after, never alone. He seemed jumpy, upset, always avoiding her.

She wonders if it's because he feels guilty or thinks she's going to rat on him. He never seemed a bit remorseful.

Everything seemed slow, torturous. Until that Friday when a letter had arrived with her name on it, stamped red with importance. She'd done what her mother had taught her to, carefully opening it with her golden envelope opener neatly on the edges.

On the paper were words for a summoning to court. As a witness for the Sheldons against Ponyboy and Johnny Cade.

Her head swam. She could read the words, parse them out, and she had flung it to the counter, run upstairs. All Cherry wanted to be was a normal girl again. All she wanted was Bob to be alive, Johnny Cade walking, Ponyboy her friend, and Dallas... maybe something more or less. She wanted everything to be normal. She wanted that dress to come down, and never see it again.

It's no surprise that she cried herself to sleep that night. What else would a normal girl want but that?

Waking up Saturday, she was sore. Wrung out. Her door was closed, but the closet door was open, and the last thing Cherry wanted to be right now was herself. She wanted to be like Marcia or Prudence or anyone else at all. And all she can think to do is to wash her hair, to put on something that could make her feel normal again.

The last thing she thought could be in her drawer, set in her sights was the blue button up sweater from the night at the theater. She runs her thumbs over the soft material, knowing she should throw it out maybe, that she should not wear it. And yet... she wants to go back to that Cherry from months ago.

So she worms her way out of her night clothes, pulls the sweater on as if it can transport her back to when her boyfriend had normal flaws and wasn't a monster that she had to defend. As if he were still alive, wanting to have a date with her, at the movies and not that she had to get up on the stand soon and say.... something.

There's an urge to call up Marcia or her cousin Prudence, to go out and have a normal time. Instead, Cherry looks at her reflection at her swollen cheeks, her red eyes from before critically. She washes her face up, thinking of how she and Bob had danced at her cotillion together, how he'd kept his hand on her waist instead of going lower like the other boys. She thinks of how he whispered to her that he'd be good this one time, and she had laughed, and they'd danced and danced.

No, she wants to be alone today, with her thoughts. She wants to not look at that dress, she wants to go out and be herself, away from everyone else as much as she could be. So Cherry goes out alone, takes her keys, and slips out of her house into the afternoon, to her car. She remembers what Dallas had said about the car, the way his mouth had curled up and he'd asked her out for what she knew was a date, and how it had made her angry at the time, how she'd told him to go to hell again, despite the fact that she was helping them out, be their spy.

It turns her in gut as she turns the key to the car, the engine coming to life. Was it really a date? Had she read too much into it, the thought of a greaser alpha wanting to get up the skirts of the girl his friend had killed? Or were her instincts right about him, about herself — how if she had let herself say yes, had allowed herself to have a tiny indiscretion, she would've felt better for it; or worse?

It's all she's wanted to do: be herself, be a teenage girl. Not looked at as Bob's girl, as his widow at her age. Cherry's foot presses on the gas harder as she goes down the Tulsan roads, passing by the usual Soc haunts, past her friend's houses, past the manicured grass. She wants to drive away from all of this at once, to stop thinking about it all.

By the time she reaches downtown, Cherry thinks that she can achieve it. Most of the teen set isn't around, and when she gets out of her car, wrapping her arms around her, she thinks that maybe this is it. That she can have some peace to herself, just walking from store to store. There are posters for new movies up, new dresses up for sale for the homecoming soon. The breeze lifts as she pauses in front of one of the department stores, seeing the way the dresses look. The season is apparently pushing more green dresses than anything, and Cherry thinks about going inside, trying some on. Thinking about what it would be like to wear it, turn around in the dress.

Her mind drifts as she walks past more displays. What music could be played, what she would love to dance to in a fast or slow dance. What fun it could be to go with Marcia or invite Prudence out or—

"Cherry?" An unexpected voice crashes through, and she turns her head to see Randy across the street, alone too. He's wearing the nicest clothes she's seen on him before, and at least, unlike that night, he doesn't have a drink in hand. "Cherry!"

"Hi, Randy," Cherry stiffens, slipping her mask back on, her guard up. He beckons for her to cross the street; for a moment, Cherry doesn't think that she will, that she'll turn around and run back to where she needs to go. Instead, she finds herself walking towards him, as if pulled on an invisible string, to one of the few people who she thought she could maybe talk to about Bob. One of the few people who had known him, for better or worse. His scent is noticeable to her, in the absence of anything but his aftershave. "What brings you out here?"

"I, uh," he glances around, as if he's doing something bad, "My dad and I had to meet with the lawyer today. Only time we could do it." Her heart twists uncomfortably in her chest. "He didn't want to pull me out of school, so today was it. What about you? You meet with yours yet?"

Cherry feels rattled by the sentences he's just said, by the way he's just, accepted it all. That he had to do this. "Not— not yet. My mom and I haven't talked about it." She folds her arms, cocking her head, trying to search his face for remorse, for fear, for anything she's feeling now. The memory of him at the funeral is murky, just the sense he was there and nothing else. If they talked, it had been erased from her mind. "What did your dad say about all of this?"

He lets out a scoffing noise, shaking his head. "My dad says for me to tell the truth and nobody can get hurt." There's an edge of a mocking tone to it, mixed with something Cherry hopes is real fear as he fists and unfists his hands. "He’s kind of —" Randy cuts himself off, doesn't say what all he wants to voice. "He doesn't like me being mixed up in all this." Something else crosses his face that Cherry can't pick out, can't decide if it's remorse or not. "You probably should go ahead, get one soon as you can. You know they're gonna do everything in their power to make sure Bob gets in trouble, right? They're gonna try and make us look like— like animals and those greasers like some poor victim of the system."

Her chest twists again, and Cherry wants to strike back out at him. That it was Bob who'd attacked them first. That she had sworn to tell the truth, that she had told them over and over again. Randy keeps going, "You and I know better. They're probably gonna go after you worse than me, since you were his girl." He looks down at her, eyes hard at her growing expression of despair, horror. "C'mon, Cherry. Don't tell me you didn't know."

"I'd be lying if I said that," her voice sounds weak in her throat, strained. "Bob — you both started it—"

"No, we didn't," Randy snaps back, voice raising, his face going pale. "We didn't! It was those fucking greasers, Cherry. You know it!" His chest is heaving, voice growing louder. "You really can't be thinking of sticking up for them, can you? After what they did in the theater, with what they did to Bob, you really wanna defend them? Didn't you love Bob?" Every single word hurts more and more as he says it. Her face flushes with the people looking at them, with the accusations, the questions. She did. She had. "What kind of girlfriend are you," Randy reaches out to grasp her shoulders before she can react, "if you aren't gonna go up there and defend him?"

Cherry doesn't think. She just shoves Randy back away from her, as hard as she can, turning and running from him. Her vision is blinded by tears, her heart pounding, his words running around her head. His words, everyone's expectations, everyone's needs to make her like this, tied to Bob in a way she never thought she could be or would be. If the things she had promised those boys — Dallas, Ponyboy — and what she didn't want to face if she didn't do it. Who would she be if she lied, if she stuck up for him, played the good little girlfriend, the widow of a boy with a bright future — but who would she be, too, if she sold him out on the stand, if she kept her promise to a boy who had done everything he could to try to flirt with her, a boy who had stabbed Bob so many times that the newspaper salivated over it, a boy who had gotten angry with her cause she couldn't go to his friend's hospital room? What had any of them done for her?

They weren't Bob's mother who had consoled her in her own way. They weren't Randy, who used to cheer for her at barrel races. They weren't her cousin who listened to her on the phone. None of them knew her; what loyalty to them did she have?

By the time Cherry stops running, she's crying at the bottom of a hill, where the theater is. The tears down her face are hot, wet, and she shivers and chokes as she clutches at her sides and weeps. It goes down hard on her cheeks, and her throat is raw from it all. The crying is awful, terrible and she wishes — she wants it to stop. She wants this all to stop, wants everything to stop.

She can't, though. It's Bob's fault, it's Johnny's fault, it's her fault. It's her fault for not just going with Bob when he'd first asked, her fault for not taking the drink away or saying something sooner or noticing how Bob had rotted from the inside — and she's not sure anymore that she's not rotten herself with Randy's words.

The fear in her of what would happen was true. What would happen if she said the truth, if she stood up and said Bob was a monster, it would be horrible. Who would want to talk to her anymore? Would the Sheldons care about her? Her own parents?

By the time her tears dry up, she knows she's been out of the house for much, much too long. Standing on wobbly legs, she can distantly hear yelling, whooping. Wrapping her arms around herself, she turns, starts to make her way back up the hill, hoping no one could see—

The sound of feet. A body hitting her with full force. Her knees buckle, tumbling down helplessly into the dirt and leaves. The scent that hits her is familiar, something close to a heat —

Then the person is scrambling to their feet, Cherry moving back to see Ponyboy Curtis, with Dallas Winston's jacket on him, the St. Christopher on his neck half askew. He almost reeks of Dallas, of the possessive way the greaser is and Cherry stares at him as he says, "Sorry! I'm...."

His voice falters. Cherry's does too, not knowing what to do, seeing him like this, the embodiment of every good or bad decision she could make now. Wearing the clothes, the elements of a boy she thought was so close to Bob and yet wasn't at all as he grips her, helping her to steady on her feet. And as if he'd been summoned by the thought, Dallas approaches from behind, his expression towards her full of anger, disgust in a way that Bob never would have looked before. His arm wraps possessively around Ponyboy, his much larger form almost leaning over him protectively as he nips Ponyboy's ear, his voice a threatening growl of, "Don't you have somewhere to be, Soc?"

Anger, jealousy courses through her all at once. She thinks of all the times she's told Dallas to go fuck himself, to get away from her. Thinks of how he'd given that rakish grin to him and how she'd wanted to kiss him but all he is right now is a feral animal, threatening her with, "You remember the rules of the rumble, don't you?" His arms wrap tighter around Ponyboy's small form, like a toy, a possession for him to keep without any awareness of how he looked, almost eighteen, gripping someone so much younger than him. Digging his claws right in, in a way that Cherry hates and wants all at once.

"Yeah," Cherry's tongue darts out, licks at her lips, schooling her face into a blank expression, aware she's defeated yet unwilling to cower. "I remember."

Carefully, she steps around them, goes up the hill away from them. She doesn't even lift her head up to acknowledge Two-Bit, just going back to her car as quickly as she can. Her body aches and aches, but her tears are gone.

She's got to get home, away from all this. And she's got to make a decision, all on her own.

Chapter Text

"You going to the bonfire, too?" Ponyboy asks Soda, shoving his foot into his shoes as the sun sinks below the horizon. He's been home for almost an hour now, Dallas going off to get supplies for the bonfire after lunch. He needed Buck's car, and Ponyboy wanted to shower, look as nice as possible for the first bonfire he'd be at with Dallas, as a couple. It had been a long shower for him, wanting to make sure he was great, that he looked as good as he could. There was a pinkness to his skin that seemed to not go away easily by the time Ponyboy had been done scrubbing himself. He'd done everything possible to make sure he could look good: his hair done in swirls so good it would make even Steve Randle envious (despite the fact that his roots were coming in more and more every day), the nicest shirt he could find that showed himself off well, Dallas' jacket on him proudly hanging half off his shoulders, his nicest jeans down to the seams he'd taken the time to iron out.

Soda glances at him from the living room couch, Darry already working on his own dinner in the kitchen. He's turning over Sandy's letter in his fingers — he's had it out, staring it or playing with it so often that Ponyboy can recognize it at five paces at this point. It's sad to see; Soda didn't deserve to dwell on her for the rest of his life. "I dunno. Steve might be there."

And he didn't have to dwell on Steve the rest of his life, neither. "So what?" Ponyboy huffs out, lacing up his shoes, trying to ignore the warmth of his skin, the feeling of slick pooling in him. "There're other people out there, ain't they? Why not come with me?" The deflated look Soda's had in fits and spurts lately are almost too much to deal with, and Ponyboy wants his normal, goofy brother back. Sandy, Steve, he needed to get away from his troubles with the both of them.

It seems to work, Soda cracking a half smile, getting up with a nod, and dashing to the bathroom. Darry doesn't say anything, just gives Ponyboy an approving grin. He'd noticed too.

In no time, Darry's waving as they both walk out the door together, heading out to the bonfire with sure steps. There's no need and no way he'd give a curfew on a night that was on a weekend and Ed was the one who was going to look after them, no need to be a hen. Soda's got an arm slung around him similar to the way they were when Ponyboy was initiated, Soda's scent stronger than usual in a way that seemed to calm some of what Ponyboy was feeling as they walked along, getting closer and closer to the fire. It's not often that he cares about or notices just how many alphas are around them — it's a fact of life in Tulsa, to have so many alphas around.

Tonight though, as they approach, something about all the alphas around makes Ponyboy uncomfortable. Their scents seem more pronounced than ever, almost offensive as they pass by them making his nose burn in distaste. Something about the normal, relative comfort he has around most has evaporated, leaving Ponyboy feeling annoyed, exposed, entirely without help as he goes on. Only Soda is good to keep close as they finally get to the main ring of greasers surrounding the bonfire, already crackling in the night. It's not too high up yet, the tables set up and food and other essentials on the table still being arranged the way they needed to go. Ed is at the command as well, not even looking at them as he works.

Soda looks around, half distracted. "You see Steve?"

So much for getting Soda to take his mind off of him.

Only Soda can make him turn his head around, scanning the greasers. He can see Bear and his pack coming along; Curly Shepard is talking to a huddle of mixed greasers; Mimi is nudging Ivy, who swivels her head and pins her gaze on Soda in a way that feels possessive even this far away; and at the very edge, Ponyboy spots Steve, alright. He's there with, of all people, Sylvia. She's got her arms folded, her eyes narrowed, her hair lifting with the wind as Steve talks to her, his eyebrows working together in annoyance and something like anger. Ponyboy nudges Soda, who turns to look at them, and for a moment, Ponyboy isn't sure what he's going to do or what he's thinking. Whatever it is, he doesn't seem to like them together; Ponyboy can't blame him for it at all.

Sylvia's never been someone to trust, never been someone you could leave around your boyfriend when he was in jail and sometimes even when he wasn't. Steve has never liked her; Ponyboy remembers his threat towards her over her trying to ask out Johnny while Dallas was locked up, which makes them talking all the more confusing in the end. What did they even have to talk about?

Whatever it is, Soda doesn't seem to like this development either, shaking his head, affixing a smile that Ponyboy doesn't believe reaches his eyes, "You wanna set up a place while I get some food?" Ponyboy moves his arm, nodding as Soda takes off to the table. He thinks Soda might be wiping at his eyes; and if he is, he pretends not to see it. Behind Soda's back, he glares at Steve and Sylvia for a moment. They don't seem to notice him, keeping to their own conversation.

From there, he can only look around for a place to set up. Greasers tended to stand around at the beginning of the night, but would segue into sleeping there in various ways, bring blankets and pillows or other things to keep for the night. Sometimes Ed was able to muster up a tarp or a tent, and when it was way, way too cold to be out, they had other means of keeping warm or going elsewhere for shelter. Tonight felt mild, even if the hair on his neck is up at how many alphas are there, how uncomfortable he feels with all of them around and how...

Ponyboy shivers. He feels slick starting to pool again, and he flushes with it, shifting uncomfortably, hoping no one noticed. It was confusing; he wasn't even aroused or anything. Just... flushed. In need of a place to just be warm in, wrapped around in blankets. Without his say so, his eyes drift to the table not with food, but with the overnight supplies. Ponyboy makes his way over, passing a few greasers who seem to dart their eyes to him, looking at the offerings of blankets, pillows, towels, and other things. Most people — hoods who were kids or adults — didn't have money to get anything really new to bring. Some stuff was pulled out of donation bins or brought from homes or outright stolen, and offered to anyone to use until it was claimed. Building a nest at home in the privacy of his own room was something he'd done before.

In public?

Ponyboy casts his eyes around for help; Soda's at the snack table, talking with Ivy closely, too far away to call out to. There's no way he could help Ponyboy here with what to do.

Left to his own devices, he picks through offerings, tugging out a checkered red and black blanket that's aged and soft against Ponyboy's fingers. It goes draped around his arm and next he pulls out an old blue blanket with an old stain on it that he doesn't want to think about even though it's been washed; then an older, half deflated white pillow that's still soft when Ponyboy rubs his cheek on it. Everything else, he leaves, looking for a patch of grass. The bonfire is higher now, and the smaller pits — not always used, and never ones that stayed burning the whole night — are lit, people tossing things in or gathering around them in their own groups.

Up the hill is a nice spot, Ponyboy walking towards it, putting down the stained soft blanket first, and then the red one on top. It's not exactly the best nest he's ever had, just made well enough that it's comfortable and large enough for two people. The thought of him and Dallas in it is overwhelming for a moment: Dallas grinning at him with that sharp, fangtoothed mouth of his, his hand gripping Ponyboy's hips as he kissed him, grinded into him like the theater, but better.

There's no mistake now: slick is starting to coat his thighs, and Ponyboy flushes in embarrassment. He wriggles into the nest more, throwing an arm over his eyes, trying to calm the thoughts he has, trying to make his body obey. It refuses to, caught up in the thought of Dallas' skin, of his eyes, of what it might be to have his teeth sink into his neck, to mate him. To do the one thing they shouldn't do, and all it does is making him pant with the thought, to make his body feel hotter than before, makes him want to just unzip his jeans and—

Shit. This wasn't normal. He knows it as soon as the thought crosses his mind that that is not normal. Arousal has never, ever felt like this before, and it isn't helped by the stray comments his ears pick up of who's the omega? and fuck, who's slicking around here? His cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, wishing Dallas would get here already, that they could...

Once again, his mind goes back to their bodies, to what they could do and fuck, Ponyboy doesn't know what else he can do now. It feels like he's literally about to break into a sweat, that if— if he couldn't have Dallas now, right now, he wasn't going to make it. That if he couldn't have him, if this odd feeling in him kept building, he'd cry or scream or—

Or—

Ponyboy realizes what it is now, as he turns on the makeshift nest (that feels thinner and less and less good by the second, itchy and ill created), feeling an ache in him. An ache that he has to, needs to be filled by Dallas and no one else. That nothing else would satisfy except for Dallas, whether it was his teeth or his cock inside of him.

He is having his very first heat.

The thought arrives thunderous, terrifying, and it makes him need all the more, want what he's never have, wanting to leap out of his skin, wanting to find Dallas and be given what he wants.

Parking Buck's car, and going up the hill to see the bonfire, Dallas knows that today has been a bit strange. Not for the way others would think it would be: seeing Cherry didn't do anything except reinforce the fact that he was right to have let that little broad go. The way Ponyboy hadn't noticed how she had looked at them was so like him, unable to see the jealousy on her face.

What was strange about today was Ponyboy himself. The moment he'd stepped foot into the Curtis house, Dallas had known that something was off. That Ponyboy's scent had shifted in a way that Dallas wasn't sure was what he thought it was. Not that it wasn't something he thought wasn't possible. It was basic biology: you presented, you usually had a rut or a heat not that long after. Dallas presented in jail at ten years old in New York, alone and without any knowledge about it, including the fact that ten years old wasn't a normal age for it to happen. The experience had turned him inside out, and he had his first rut weeks later, when he was in Tulsa. Nothing about it was pleasant, not when he was so young, his body hitting that state much earlier than anyone else. The only thing he'd been able to do was lock himself away until it passed.

Ponyboy, however, had presented in January — days after his parents had been buried in the ground. Dallas hadn't been there for it; he'd been in jail — not because he'd gotten sloppy but because he had wanted to get caught. There had been too much anger, too much rage in him at the time to be anywhere else except jail. The only way he had processed damn near anything about the Curtises' death had been in that jail cell, screaming himself hoarse and punching at the walls until his knuckles were scraped raw. Weeks later, he had come back to Pony scenting different, an omega. And well, Dallas had simply waited for him to have a heat, like other people did. It had been just a fact of life at that point.

And yet, he'd never had one.

January turned to February and now they were in early October. It had been talked about in whispers, Darry and Soda worrying about Ponyboy not having a heat at all. How him presenting a bit early for his age might have had something to do with it, Darry even considering a doctor before Soda reminded him of the cost to see one, dissuading him from doing so. All they could do was wait, with the fact being that Ponyboy was way, way late to having his first heat.

So having all day, Dallas had been thinking the scenting might not be real. That maybe he was just being a little crazy, thinking Ponyboy was having one, that he was finally due for it already. Even though having it now would be the worst timing, what with the shit happening right now, even if he's been thinking about it himself, how it could be if Ponyboy had one.

When he comes down the hill, spotting Ponyboy as he goes, he thinks that he's wrong again. That as he puts down beers he'd gotten, whiskey and all, that this was just going to be their first bonfire together, spent just having some fun, falling asleep. Except when the wind picks up, there's no mistaking the scent in his nose: it's Ponyboy, in a way that's ripe, raw, and instantly makes Dallas' mouth water in need, his cock jump with how intense the scent of slick is, with the clear signal of a heat.

And if he knows, there's no way the rest of the packs don't know. He turns his head, already feeling that territorial itch to pull Ponyboy away from everyone else. Bear is glancing at Ponyboy in a way that's more curious than anything; an older hood from the River Kings is looking at Ponyboy with a look on his face that makes Dallas want to haul back and punch him in the nose until it crumbles; one of the Tiber Street Tigers looks like he's close to walking over, and doing something stupid.

Dallas glares at the Tiber Street Tiger, reminding him of exactly what Dallas had done to Sal. The hood cowers as Dallas moves away from the tables, letting his nose lead his eyes to where Ponyboy was: near the top slope, his arm thrown over his eyes, panting, chest heaving, squirming in the nest he's set up. In no time, Dallas is up there, the scent of Ponyboy's slick getting stronger and stronger, until it's starting to make Dallas feel like he's going to lose his head if he can't control himself. Ponyboy's in the nest, whimpering, face flushed, sweat pooling around him. It makes his scent all the more, makes Dallas want to shove his nose into every crevice he's got and pin Ponyboy down there, fuck him until they're both satisifed.

Except that's stupid of him to do, rude, and Ponyboy's in his first heat. An overdue one where he was likely to not know what to do. The person who had to be responsible and think for them both here was Dallas, something that feels very, very big as he crouches down saying, "Pony? Ponyboy, it's me." There's an edge to his voice as he says it, trying to make sure he doesn't alarm Ponyboy.

That turns out to not be a worry: Ponyboy pulls his arm down and pins Dallas with a look that's so intense, it feels like it's physical. His face is blotchy, sweaty, and the bonfire makes him look almost supernatural with his dark roots and platinum blonde hair curling around his ears and cresting his shoulders. All that he'd done to make it look done was gone now, and he lunges forward to kiss Dallas.

For only a second does Dallas think about not letting him. The rest of him just allows Ponyboy to kiss him with every animalistic urge he has, to bask in his scent, his warm body on his, the need between them. He kisses back, groaning in Ponyboy's mouth, able to feel how hot his skin is to the touch, inhale his scent, the slick, able to feel how good his body is against his.

The risk of losing his head, of this going wrong for Ponyboy is what makes him pull away before Ponyboy's able to push him to the grass, his hands grasping Ponyboy by his biceps, pulling away, trying to shake away the need to pin Ponyboy onto the nest. As soon as he thinks about it, he knows what he has to say. "We gotta go. Now. You can't have a heat here." For a million reasons ranging from his brothers to the other packs who would watch (or try to join in) to the fact that this place just wouldn't fit basic needs for a heat at all. There wasn't anything protecting them, no easy to reach food or water for when they needed it, the nest was pathetic for a heat.

"Where?" Ponyboy is panting, brown eyes huge in his face, fingers digging into Dallas' arm, a whine in his throat. "I need you, please, please—"

"C'mere," Dallas helps him stand up, Ponyboy's legs wobbling, shuddering as he does it. People are really looking now, getting an eyeful of what Dallas suspected they wanted to be a spectacle. "We're gonna go, c'mon kid. Just look at me, no one else." It's not that hard to say as he helps Ponyboy down the slope, past greasers who are looking, whistling, catcalling. Dallas bares his teeth at them, able to see Soda looking in shock at them, Ivy beside him, her eyes just as huge in her face at what's going on. "Soda — I got him!"

If Soda wants to protest, well, he can't. He has to just watch as Dallas all but runs Ponyboy to Buck's car, helping him in as best he can. His skin is almost feverish to the touch now, Pony moaning when he hits the seat, whimpering and writhing as Dallas goes around to the front, cursing. There's not a lot of options: going to Pony's house for a heat was an utter joke of an idea; Buck's would almost be as bad as staying at the bonfire. Dallas didn't live anywhere else, and Ponyboy didn't either.

Which left just a single option as Dallas fires up the engine, glad that at least this thing was a top down, not trapped in the car with Ponyboy's intoxicating scent. They had to make a quick stop, get some supplies, and go to a heat hotel. Something that was gonna be worth a lot of money, if it was going to be anything good, and they had to get there before Ponyboy peaked too hard.

Dallas glances over at a few cars as he revs up the engine, spotting Tim Shepard's ride. "I'll be right back." He climbs out of the car, going over and forcing the door open. He knows Shepard enough that he knows the car's outfitted for bootlegging — and that Shepard was careless enough after a run to keep money in the compartments. A grin cracks his face when he forces open one, grabbing a roll of bills. He shuts it, sure that someone else was going to get hit for it, climbs back in the car, and takes off into the night.

There was just one stop to make and then the hotel. He can do that. Dallas about white knuckles the wheel as he drives them down the streets of Tulsa, Ponyboy panting, moaning in the back seat, whimpering when they hit a particular rough spot. Dallas flicks on the A/C as they go, trying to keep himself from doing anything stupid as he goes, muttering to himself.

If push comes to shove, he'll have to rob a place. He doesn't want to; but most places that are open around this time of night aren't usually decent enough. Dallas thinks he's out of luck as he passes another street until he sees one of the nicer stores, on the edge of closing. Slamming into a parking spot, he parks the car, leaps up and shoves his way into the store. It has about ten minutes to close; the salesgirl glares at him as he goes down the aisles, eyes going over to the section meant for home, for heats, grabbing an abandoned cart as he goes.

He's never had to think about making something for an omega for a heat before in his life, ever. It was rare — unfortunately — for him to have sex with omegas. Alpha girls he usually fucked didn't care that much about it during a rut and he rarely cared to do much. This was Ponyboy, though, his first time. So Dallas just pulls down what he thinks looks and feels softest from the rows and rows of blankets, the pillows, the towels. Some of the comforters and quilts come down until he's got a cart overflowing full of things.

The lights shut off warningly and Dallas takes it as a challenge, shoving the cart to the very back of the store, exiting without paying a goddamn dime. If the salesgirl sees him as he goes to the front, she doesn't say anything as he pops the trunk, shoves them in, closes it, and gets back to the front seat. Ponyboy's still in the back, his shirt drenched, the scent of slick so thick that cleaning it out doesn't seem to be a real option anymore.

Oh, well.

The tires squeal as he peels out of the parking lot, heading for the direction of the hotel. That's where they need to go, and that's where they'll begin to resolve this. Ponyboy hisses in the backseat, and Dallas turns, saying, "It's okay kid. We'll get there."

He dives the car into the darkness of the road, looking for the neon sign he needs. There's no way that he can fail Ponyboy here and now, for his first heat. What kind of person, what kind of boyfriend, what kind of alpha would he be if he failed Ponyboy? It's not like it was when Dallas had his first rut. He was ten years old, in no shape to have sex with anyone, forced to shut himself away and suffer alone for days. The first time he'd been with someone was when he was about Ponyboy's age, with a girl a year older than him. It had been awkward, feral, and by the end of it, he hadn't known what to feel. There was no one steady, no one he could depend on, no one he trusted or cared about.

Ponyboy is not that. Every moan, every pant, every whimper reminds him that as much as he wants to throw himself into this, Ponyboy deserved better than what he got. He deserved every good thing, every decent thing that Dallas could and would do for him. Even if by some wretched reason they didn't work out — a thought that makes Dallas' stomach turn — Ponyboy deserved to have a good first heat, one that wouldn't scar him or make him feel dirty or used.

He deserved a good memory, a good experience that made him happy no matter what. And Dallas was going to do any and everything to give it to him.

Foot on the gas, he keeps going until he sees the sign that he's looking for: it's drenched in a god awful pink, surrounded by yellow lights. The Love Nest. It's a hangout more for adults whose kids might be greasers or socs. It's not as pricy or selective as the other places in town and they hardly ever check ID wll while being pretty damn nice from what Dallas has heard. The kind of cars parked here bely that as well, some of them really nice, parked neatly in the parking lot.

He glides in at the very end of the row, Ponyboy still hardly able to speak, still coated in sweat and slick. He looks so red faced that Dallas is concerned, leaning over with, "Just let me get us a room, okay? I'll be right back, Pone."

"Please," Ponyboy groans out, turning his head into the seat. "Please."

Chapter Text

This was easier in his head. Dallas is frustrated as he has to look over the options before him, on the glossy menu he's been offered by the beta manning the desk saying, "You have to select a package in order to get a room. We are a heat hotel, we have to service your needs."

No one told him about this, and as much as he wants to snap at her at how much time he had, he knows he has to do this for Ponyboy more than himself. The packages are winding, some of them including amenities he's gotten himself while others present whole new ideas (toys?!) that he hasn't considered. The most basic package is too little, the highest too much, and Dallas scowls as he winds up pointing to one of the mid tier ones. "This one. Alpha and omega, men." He tapes on it insistently, glaring up at her. "Four nights."

The woman looks down at it. "King sized bed, sheet package, standard amenities, daily room service. That's all you want?"

Dallas is close to just lashing out. "Yes." He shoves over the money needed. "Can we get on with it?" At a nicer place, they'd probably ask for more information, besides his ID. This isn't as nice as it could be, though, and Dallas is grateful when she just takes down his details, affirms the room number, and hands over the necessary hotel key he needs. As soon as he has it all, he's making his way back to the car, to where Ponyboy is, heart jack hammering in his ears.

All Dallas could hope for was that he was doing this right. That Darry, Soda wouldn't be pissed for this, for doing what he could.

He doesn't need to get more than ten paces to the car for him to scent Ponyboy in the car. The slick is so thick, so heavy in the air, that Dallas stumbles, wires crossing all at once. There's a territorial urge to grab Ponyboy, to fuck him, knot him in the car where they were fighting against the more protective urge to get Ponyboy away from everyone at this moment, to take him somewhere safe, secure. That's the part that wins out as he finally gets to the car, leaning over and seeing Ponyboy soaked in sweat, his hands halfway down his jeans, slick staining his jeans and the back of the seat, undeniably eager and needing to get what he needed.

That person, that need right now was Dallas. Even though he's saying his name, even though he's drenched in slick and sweat, they both know that Ponyboy needs Dallas, and Dallas needs him. He reaches down as carefully as he can to grasp Ponyboy's arm, Ponyboy's eyes fixating on him immediately, mouth open, hair plastered on his face. "Dally?"

"C'mon, kid," Dallas says softly, pulling his hand away from his jeans, able to see how drenched in slick his fingers are. The slick is perfectly transparent, thick, and he wants to wrap his mouth around his fingers, suck it dry. Instead, Dallas picks him up, and takes him to the hotel room.

Before he presented, Ponyboy had always thought that he would be like most of the people he knew in Tulsa: an alpha. Most people he knew, from his mother to Darry to most of the gangs around, were all alphas. Generally bigger, heavier set, tough. He'd seemed to be that way to himself in the times he'd thought about what he would present as and how. He thought he'd be sixteen or seventeen, have his knot develop, go through a rut. He had never thought of himself as an omega before; how could he be when he wasn't like doe eyed omegas on television, as beautiful and perfect as Soda, with a lithe body that looked correct in all the right places? How could he when he was a tough little hood like everyone else, when he was just as protective as his brothers?

When he had woken up to slick coating his thighs, the wave of embarrassment that hit him was visceral. He had wanted to cry like a baby when he had presented wrongly, when he had his body confirm to him what he actually was. None of it was made better after, by the way he was looked at differently, treated differently, people thinking of him as weak, delicate, to be dominated or domineered. Being hunted by Socs hadn't improved it either; how many times has his mind gone back to give the dirty omega a bath! in the weeks since?

Here and now, with jeans sticking to him uncomfortable, his skin hot to the touch, brain running feverishly, Ponyboy knows that there's never been a time that more affirmed he was an omega than this: the feeling that he was empty. That there was an ache, deep within him that needed to be filled, that he couldn't fucking stand not having it, that even though his dick was hard between his legs, it was all but useless. That's not where he wanted, needed to be touched. That wasn't where he could achieve orgasm, happiness.

Something, someone needed to be inside of him. Now.

There's nothing in the car except himself, his jeans too tight, his body aflame. All he can do is slip his fingers between his thighs, feeling for his hole, until he finds it. There's a flash of thought — his brothers, his friends around a fire, bragging about their conquests, talking about what it was like to fuck someone, knot them, of Soda being the lone person who talked about what it was like as an omega, that Ponyboy had never paid much attention to — then it's wiped away by not one but two fingers breeching himself. It feels good yet when he moves his fingers, eyes rolling in his head, it's not enough.

There's a limit to how deep into himself he can go, of how much he can stretch himself, and the realization hurts him. It truly hurts emotionally, that he can't physically get any deeper, and a third finger is barely enough. He clenches, twists, whines in the car — where was Dallas? Where was he?

He's his boyfriend, the only person he'd consider — the dull sparks of his fingers in his hole are doing nothing from him, and in those nights, hearing them talk, he knows —

There's a sound of a foot on gravel. Ponyboy looks up, through the blonde hair smattered on his face to see Dallas looking down at him with his dark hair and dark eyes, neon lights thrown on top of him, the stars shining behind and god, god, god, Ponyboy wants him, wants his arms around him, his lips on his, his cock inside of him. He does not get that; Dallas is grasping his arm instead, pulling it away from his unsatisfied, still drenched hole. "Dally?" His voice is thin, a whine.

"C'mon, kid," Dallas says softly, pulling his hand away from his jeans, and Ponyboy allows it. Allows Dallas to pick him up, his much cooler, solid body needed against his smaller, burning one. He turns into it, his mouth nuzzling Dallas' neck, running his tongue up the column, panting as he does it. Ponyboy doesn't ask where they're going, doesn't question it. Just accepts that Dallas is moving him from outside, to an inside place that looks bigger than hotels he's heard of, then to an elevator. In the elevator, there are scents he hates, that make him squirm.

Dallas keeps a steady grip on him, until they're off. His voice is soothing, even if Ponyboy can't make out the words, only the meaning, the reassurance of care. Of what he knows is love. Dallas is the only person who'd have him safe, the only person he trusted to go through this with as Dallas opens the hotel room. Mercifully, the scents here are softer, neutral as Dallas sets him on the bed. It's two or three times bigger than the bed he has at home, shared with Soda, the blanket soft beneath him, soothing in a way that a plastic car seat wasn't.

"I'll be right back," the words are soft for Dallas, even though Ponyboy reaches up, trying to grasp at Dallas' hand. He misses, whining low in his throat, his jeans uncomfortable again, his shirt too hot, skin so fucking hot. The only thing Ponyboy can do is turn his head, whine into the soft comforter as Dallas goes. The door shuts, and Ponyboy grits his teeth, tries to get himself together. There's a ringing in his ears, his heart is pounding, but he tries to get himself oriented, tries to understand where he is.

Sweat slips down his face, his hands shake, and he breathes deeply, on and off. Slick is cascading down the crevice of his ass, down his thighs, and slowly, he uses his feet to push the bottoms off, his hands shaking as he pushes his jeans off. The sound of them hitting the carpet feels loud in his ears. Then he's pulling his shirt off, the cool air a nice shock against his skin. Gingerly, Ponyboy sits up in the bed, trying to take in the place.

In his life, he's never been in a hotel. He's only seen them in movies and televisions, but this has to be what he's looking at: the enormous bed, the bedset, the nice and freshly vacuumed carpet, the bathroom to the side, the closet. This isn't like a hotel in movies, though: the lamp beside the bed is distinctly red; there's a plastic menu that's slid against the mirror and Ponyboy can read the word Lovers Heat Selection! from his place on the bed; there's a television that looks fairly new but it has a similar plastic menu tucked beneath it and he's very, very sure that the bodies displayed there are not clothed.

If he weren't already so flustered, he would be more at the realization: this is a heat hotel. The things he's heard about them pop up in his head: sometimes sleazy, sometimes high class. But it was always where you took someone for sex, and if Darry knew he were here...

Ponyboy doesn't follow that thought to its conclusion, to Darry's angry face. No, he latches onto the fact that Dallas went out of his way to take him to one instead of dragging him off elsewhere or keeping him at the bonfire. That he wanted him here, that he was going to have him here, for the first time. That they were going to have sex, spend his first heat together, and it makes him feel awkward and nervous and wanting all at once. It makes his skin feel more electric than ever, longing for more against his skin that just the cool air as the door opens and Dallas walks back inside. He's got a bundle of clothing with him: blankets, towels, things perfect for a nest. His scent is so clear through it though: sharp, perfect, exactly what Ponyboy wants to sink himself into for as long as he can.

Dallas looks at him for a long moment, the door shutting behind him. Just him being there seems to give Ponyboy a sense of calm that wasn't around before, that feels less like something he had to concentrate on and more of something that he could feel. He looks taller than he's ever been, framed in the doorway as he sets down the clothing, his eyes dark and focused solely on Ponyboy.

He wants to do so many things at once: wants to kiss Dallas, wants to tell him not to leave, wants to get his jeans off and ride him the way it's been described in so many fantasies, so many books and movies. And yet, even as he wants it all, Ponyboy feels nervous as he looks at him, utterly naked, exposed like a nerve. There's no telling how long this moment of clarity will last, how long he will be able to say what he thinks he might need.

"I ain't leaving again," Dallas is the one who breaks the silence, moving to take his boots off. "We're here till it's over." He takes his boots off one by one, then his socks, putting them on the side, keeping eye contact with Ponyboy. "How —"

"Come here," Ponyboy almost whines out the words, not wanting to have to say it again, reaching out for Dallas. There's no waiting; Dallas does as he asks, coming to Ponyboy at the bed, dropping half to his knees to kiss Ponyboy. It's so much more than what Ponyboy has ever felt when kissing him; slick seeps out of him, and he whines, fingers digging into Dallas' hair, wanting him closer, closer than what they are now.

The need he has for Dallas is so different here and now that it's scary, intoxicating, and almost overwhelming in sensation as he kisses him. This isn't normal, this isn't the way Ponyboy even envisioned his first heat. He'd had some nebulous thought about what it would be, in rosy hues and a body against his and the forming thought that it would be with Dallas. It's different now when he has to pull away to breathe, voice rough, quiet, "I don't — I don't know how this is gonna happen." There's no way to hide his fear anymore, his apprehension wrestling what his body wants, what he needs and the emotions he thought he'd have here, that he doesn't. "I'm scared, Dally. I didn't — I thought it wouldn't come yet." Dallas doesn't draw away, hand coming to touch Ponyboy's hair, stroking the still mostly blonde strands. That wave of need, to have something inside of him, to have Dallas on top of him, stroking into his body is stronger than ever with him this close. "I don't know what to do."

He's standing on a precipice, with Dallas, with his body pushing him to it and all he can do in this moment is trust Dallas. All he can do is let Dallas run his nose against his cheek, feel his cool hands on his skin. "S'what I'm here for, kid. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I wasn't here to help you?" It's not said gently; Dallas isn't really gentle. No, the word Ponyboy would choose is tender, said in a way that it's clear that Dallas doesn't want to harm him, that Dallas doesn't want to do anything that could really hurt him. "We ain't have to go all the way if you ain't want to. Just you ain't gonna be near close to happy unless—"

"I know, I know," Ponyboy can't make himself say it, even if the sensation grows, the need to have Dallas inside of him at any cost, any way. "I want — we can do that."

Dallas grins at him, and his hand shifts, touching Ponyboy's flank, the touch so much that it jumpstarts the slick, Ponyboy shivering. "Think I came here overdressed, huh?" If there's more they need to talk about then and there, it doesn't happen. What matters is the way Dallas sheds his jean jacket, and then lifts his shirt over his head. He wants to keep the image forever of it, of the way his body looks as he takes his shirt off in the low neon lights from the outside of the room and the softer goldones of the room. Ponyboy sits up, wanting to reach for Dallas' jeans, only to have Dallas lean forward to kiss him so sharply that it makes him groan with it. The kiss is deep, Dallas' tongue slipping into his mouth easily, his hand dipping past Ponyboy's waist and going to his cock. It's the first time that Dallas has ever touched him there, and Ponyboy doesn't know what to make of it, of his palm wrapping around his cock in a way that is vastly different from his own. His hand is bigger, warmer, and something about it doesn't entirely work for him, whimpering as Dallas grips him.

That's not the place he wants, that's most important. He knows it, squirming more, pulling away to pant out, "Not — not there."

It's not as if he can't feel anything. He does feel something, some spark of pleasure, but it's not quite what he wants or needs. He knows it as Dallas shifts his hand, coming closer to his rim, teasing him as he spreads his fingers around him, touching his slick stained skin. Ponyboy finds himself groaning as he does it, Dallas' hand in his hair not leaving, keeping a firm grip on him. It means Ponyboy can't look away, either: not from Dallas' dark eyes, not from the way the light makes his tongue and mouth warmer, t the way he so clearly likes how wet Ponyboy is, how much he clearly enjoys it when his slicked up palm comes back to grip Ponyboy's cock.

A swear leaves Ponyboy this time, feeling more of a real current through him, Dallas stroking his cock now in a way that isn't like before. For a few moments, it feels good, more than that, but soon Ponyboy is back to squirming, swearing, shaking his head. "Not enough, Dally, it ain't—"

A look of confusion crosses Dallas' face for a moment, hand stilling. For a moment, Ponyboy thinks he'll have to say more; instead Dallas moves down, his mouth kissing Ponyboy's jaw, his neck, hand leaving his cock for his rim again. There's a stray thought, that Ponyboy's too inexperienced, that he wants to do more than kiss back and try to grip at Dallas —

Then a finger pushes inside of him, slow and Ponyboy gasps.

It's not like touching himself. It can't compare; Dallas feels entirely different, Ponyboy feeling Dallas' hand leave his hair as he pushes deeper inside of him — his hand is larger, fingers thicker, rougher in a way his fingers never have been. It's starting to hit exactly where he needs it, groaning as Dallas slides his finger in and out of him, panting, rolling his hips, trying to get more inside of him. He thinks he says something like more or please or Dally but he can't be sure, not with how the feeling builds up so much stronger than it ever had on his own. His heart is racing in his chest, Dallas' scent is thick around him, slick coming out of him so much that it feels like there's no end, and Dallas' tongue laps right where a mating mark could go—

For a singular moment, Ponyboy thinks his heart might be out of his chest, that he might not breathe again from the way Dallas laps his tongue on his skin, the way his body is pressed against his, the way that his finger seems to touch something inside of him so deep that his whole body goes singularly taut, and then he falls apart with his orgasm.

Yes. This? This was a real heat. He understands it as he orgasms so hotly that he doesn't think for a few moments, the world awash in white. It's bliss to feel it wash over him, to feel his brain fully disengage with anything at all except the bed, except for Dallas when he comes back into focus, a grin on his face, his eyes dark with the neon light from the outside washing over him. Already, he knows that Dallas pulled away, that his fingers are gone and Ponyboy can't abide emptiness now. Not that he's had a single taste.

He doesn't know how long it takes for his mind to come back to his body, how long he stops feeling Dallas nuzzling at his neck, hearing him say something that Ponyboy can't really pin point. His hearing feels muffled, his body limp, thoughts only starting to form around the idea that he is without and he shouldn't be. The cool of Dallas' ring presses against his cheek and Ponyboy looks up at Dallas, at his concerned expression, at his curled up lips, at his broad chest that has a bit of slick on it, at the fact that he's just as naked as Ponyboy.

He thinks of what Dallas has said in the dark, at those bull sessions, about being able to knot whenever he fucked, no matter if he was in a rut or not. That makes Ponyboy grin up at Dallas, finally catching his attention as another flare of arousal ignites in Ponyboy's midsection. "Dally?" The words are hardly breathed out, as he focuses on him. "You ain't a liar, are you?"

"About what?" Dallas looks confused for a second, and Ponyboy sits up on his elbows, gaze intent. That flare of need is stronger than ever, as Dallas seems to tense, aware that it's now a game, that Ponyboy wants something.

"About your knot," this time, he lunges forward to kiss Dallas as if this isn't his first time, as if he has done this before. Maybe it's instinct, maybe it's just the heat using him here, but it's what he needs as he and Dallas kiss deeper this time. He can't even groan in surprise at the taste of his own slick in Dallas' mouth — that bastard had a taste while Ponyboy hadn't been paying attention — when Dallas growls in his mouth, grasping him by the thighs.

He should be shyer. This should be a little more different than this, shouldn't it? He should have eyes lowered and nervous, but the fact is this: Ponyboy trusts Dallas in this moment, trusts him when he pulls away, mouth swollen to say, "I need your knot."

And yes, his stomach flutters with the way Dallas looks at him, like he could tear him apart with his dark eyes and fanged mouth all at once. Yes, he's a little afraid that they'll go overboard, yes, he knows that when Dallas grips his thighs tighter and his heart flipflops that he's young to be doing this, that he never thought he could be prepared so soon for this.

Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the trust. Maybe it's the fact that Dallas is the one helping Ponyboy up, looking at him, letting Ponyboy find a grip on his shoulders, knees on either side of him, slick still slipping out of Ponyboy easily. Whatever it is, Ponyboy digs his fingers in his shoulders tighter, looks down, and there's a silent agreement between them as Dallas grips his own cock — looking huge in Dallas' hand, the first time Ponyboy actually looks at it, at the head, shivering for a moment — and helps ease Ponyboy down.

It doesn't hurt him so much as it simply pulls him apart and fills him in a way he's never had before. It's the only word Ponyboy can think of as his mouth opens, as his fingers dig into Dallas' shoulder, as Dallas swears as he descends. There's no comparison really to the feeling of his fingers inside him compared to this. Ponyboy's legs shake, he whimpers and for the first and only time he wonders if it'll hurt, if he'll be afraid to go further, mind starting to shy away from the heat, the need.

"It's okay, it's okay," Dallas runs his hand along his thighs, and the effort must be a lot. His face is pinched, face red, but he isn't angry. He's half inside of Ponyboy, and he's pressing a kiss to Ponyboy's cheek. "If you ain't want it — Don't have to, kid."

"I do, I do," Ponyboy half whines, the need for more tearing at him, even if his body is for a moment tense, legs and knees shaking. He flexes on Dallas' cock, half way in and both he and Dallas groan.

"Shit, okay, okay," the way his voice hits the bottom of his register is worth it for a second, Dallas' hands gripping him tighter. "You want—"

"Slower," Ponyboy senses it's a hard ask; he's caught between a halfway point, his brain trusting Dallas, his body resisting if only for a moment. "It — I don't wanna stop. J-Just slower."

"Okay, fuck," they both squirm for a moment, Ponyboy's hips starting to ache. "Slow. Real slow." It's almost the way he's heard Dallas calm down a foal before, a thought Ponyboy doesn't know whether to laugh at or not. "C'mon. Slow." And hell, it works. Ponyboy sinks slower and slower, slick pooling on Dallas' thighs, on the bedding as he goes. It's deeper than either of their fingers, it's thicker, and the more he goes, the more the part of his brain uncaring of how young he is, and only that he's in heat, comes back faster and faster.

And then Dallas bottoms out inside of him. They both know it, can feel it at the same time, Ponyboy almost dizzy with how good it feels, with how much is inside of him. That he could even hold more felt strange; a knot? When he felt like this, ass on Dallas' thighs, his cock fully in him, Ponyboy pressed against his chest and that doesn't even last long, moving for more, to have that orgasm he wants so badly.

"Good, good, kid," Dallas huffs out, breath warm against Ponyboy's shoulder, both of them starting to move now. It's almost like a more improved dance of what they had been trying to do at the theater. Every movement seems to do something to Ponyboy: make him gasp, make him whine, make the feverish warmth of the heat spark, make his nerves sing. The only thing is that Dallas seems to be a little hesitant at first to match, like he's holding back. Ponyboy can sense it, can feel the tension, and it's him who bites at the nape of Dallas' neck, making Dallas growl back, "What? You ain't like it?"

"No," Ponyboy knows he's only got so many words left in him; even with Dallas holding back, it feels good.

Except...

"I ain't — don't get gentle with me," he huffs out, trying to use his words as clearly as he can, looking at Dallas as sharply as he can, trying to convey it. "I ain't a pup. I'm having a heat and I ain't—"

The way Dallas snaps his hips into Ponyboy is about as good as a reply as any as it cuts Ponyboy off mid sentence. That takes away anything else he's got to say; the feeling is too intense, too sharp for him to do anything else but moan, trying to keep up. That is the Dallas he wants, he needs as they move again, moving harder, faster, Dallas sinking his teeth not into the right side of his neck where a mark would go but the left. His fingers dig harshly into Ponyboy's side, the sound of skin hitting skin, of body meeting body filling the room. More than that, Dallas hits home inside of Ponyboy in a stroke so hard that it makes Ponyboy see stars, makes the heat feel all the more intense.

There's no thought but that: of Dallas biting his shoulders, of his growl against Ponyboy's skin, of Ponyboy biting him back, of his nails raking his back and sides and then he orgasms again, harder this time. Every single part of him just seems to light up all at once in a way that's stronger than before, more intense, but not enough to make him totally lose his head. Not enough to make Dallas cum, only Ponyboy as he cums on himself, on Dallas' cock again, and it's almost as if something is wrong.

"Need — not like," Ponyboy tries to articulate it, through a heavy tongue, through a half fog, "On my stomach."

It's a shot in the dark, a guess. All he knows is that Dallas is suddenly lifting him, Ponyboy suspended for a moment, only able to grip Dallas by the shoulder — then he is on his stomach, splayed on the bed, looking not at Dallas' face but the pillows still drenched with neon from the streetlights. Instinct has him up on his knees, Dallas chuckling at the sight. "Little slut wants my knot real bad, huh?" It's that same dangerous tone he's aimed at a Soc before, not Ponyboy and it makes his hole ache, makes him clench around nothing and he needs, he needs Dallas' knot then and there.

He's sure he can envision if only for a moment what Dallas sees: an omega on his hands and knees, keening for a knot, the inside of his thighs a mess of cum and slick, pink hole clenching on nothing, wanting a knot. There's no shame in it, only a need as Dallas parts his ass and pushes into him. It's different from being on his lap — it almost feels too big again, too fast but this time, the pain doesn't make Ponyboy want to say stop. It just makes him feel oddly better, the interplay of it, the way it forces him to stretch, the way the force makes him rock forward, fingers clenching the sheets, the breath almost pushed out of him.

"Fucking tight," the words are bitten off, makes Ponyboy flush, and then the weight of Dallas' chest is on his back, the comfort of his body, and then Dallas strokes forward.

There's just no thought, no real words. Just the sensation, of Ponyboy's body taking Dallas. Of the fact that he was meant to feel this, meant to feel his cock bottom out, meant to have Dallas in his ear saying, Yeah, c'mon, yes, Pone, meant to beg for more, for it to be harder, rougher. This isn't soft, it isn't gentle, and the feeling of Dallas' hand gripping his sides, of his cock hitting home in him in a way that makes it harder and harder for Ponyboy to keep up on his knees, to keep his thoughts together other than the anticipation of a knot. He can feel it with every thrust, can feel it starting to swell, and he isn't prepared when Dallas grips him so tight that he thinks he bleeds.

It's secondary to the actual feeling of it, of feeling Dallas cum inside of him. Ponyboy doesn't know what strangled noise he makes against the sheets, only that he can feel it, can feel how good it is to have Dallas cum inside of him, only to have a surge of sharp panic happen as he feels the knot press against his hole. For a moment, he feels a current of fear, to get away, that maybe — he's small, he's so fucking small, there's no way he can take it, his body wasn't going to take it—

And then his body simply does. Right when Ponyboy thinks his body is stretched to it's limit, right when he thinks that maybe he isn't really made for this, it locks inside of his slick drenched hole in a way that he's never accepted anything else in his life. That fear, the apprehension collapses immediately as Dallas continues to cum in him, hips still moving as best he can with his knot, his low voice beyond any capable human speech, hands pinning Ponyboy to the bed. Ponyboy can hardly comprehend it, how good it feels to be pulled apart like this, how much his body has needed this from that first spark at the bonfire. It's everything he's ever wanted, to have Dallas' tongue running along the spot where the mating mark would go, to have his body pressed against his, to have his knot so deep inside of him that he never wants to let go, wants to stay there for as long as Dallas wants, to be used, to be fucked—

The orgasm doesn't wash over him, it crashes into him, makes his body feel less like flesh and bone and blood and more like a singular explosion of sensation, of a kind of white hot pleasure that he's never, ever had before that makes his vision white out, sets every bit of him on fire with the realization. That this is where he belonged, where he wanted to be — not with anyone else except Dallas. No one could compare, no one could make him feel this good, ever.

Maybe that's love. To feel this good, to trust him, like this.

It's the last coherent thought he has, for a long, long while.

Chapter Text

About the last thing Dallas thought he'd ever be doing was to be in a heat hotel, his tongue teasing at Ponyboy's neck, hearing him whine in his throat as his knot fucked deeper into him, his scent washing over him. Half because he thought they wouldn't go this this fast, and half because he knew a long time ago that he could get lost in an omega.

There was something about omegas that just made him want to throw everything to the wind; he'd had a few ill advised crushes before, had known better than to do anything but go after alphas instead. It was always something his instincts — more feral, sharper than most — seemed to always get him in trouble with. He couldn't afford that kind of trouble, letting his dick lead him wherever, letting himself lose control. Avoiding omegas was like avoiding alcohol or horse that people liked. No sense in losing his head and maybe everything else.

This wasn't the same though. For one thing, he wanted Ponyboy, omega or not. Not that he could even think of him as anything else now. He wanted that kid's crooked smile and teeth, wanted his legs wrapped around him, wanted to see him look into the distance thinking.

And for second, this was Ponyboy's first heat. He'd sworn it'd be good, no matter what. Whatever Ponyboy wanted, whatever he needed came first before anything. After that, Dallas could get his own satisfaction.

Right now was him getting his. The moment his knot had popped into Ponyboy's hole, Ponyboy just hadn't been anything but a horny little omega wanting the knot. Whatever coherent thought he had about anything that wasn't his heat had clearly just left the building in a way Dallas has only seen once a time or two and heard of more. It's fucking gorgeous on Ponyboy though: the way his cheeks are still flushed red making the platinum blonde hair stand out all the more in his face; the way that he whines, pants, moans whenever Dallas moves his hips, letting the knot come only a hair close to leaving his still slick leaking rim only to be thrust harshly back in; how just tight he is around Dallas, like his body can't get enough; and his scent that is so good that Dallas hardly can leave his neck, inhaling it, needing more of it. It's a danger to get that close to the mating site, it must be driving Ponyboy crazy, the denial but Dallas isn't going.

Ponyboy wanted him for this. And he wanted him, gripping his thigh, rocking deeper into him, feeling Ponyboy's body grip him tighter, hearing how his breath catches, the whine at the bottom of his throat being coaxed out from the depths of his throat. It won't be a surprise to Dallas if he gets pushed into a rut himself with how good this feels, with how delicious Ponyboy feels and sounds as he rocks deeper into him, not letting Ponyboy simply just settle on the knot entirely the way most would let him.

It's dangerous to, he knows it, to keep going like this. He'll cum again, get spent, and they'll have to stop.

He doesn't want to just yet. He should draw it out, but right now? Right now he's just working on instinct the same as Ponyboy now, his finger grasping his thigh, keeping them on their sides, working his knot deeper into Ponyboy. Ponyboy moans, tearing at the sheets, writhing, and then there's a gush of more slick, more cum, and Dallas bites into his shoulder so hard that he draws blood. He cums too now, knot swelling up a little more — enough that there's nothing else, that Dallas' vision tunnels for a moment and he shudders.

The first thing that Ponyboy realizes is that he isn't as warm as he was hours ago. His body still feels too hot, only at a lesser degree.

The second thing he realizes as he opens his eyes is that there's something inside of him: bigger than his fingers, stretching out his rim in a way that feels both strange and... good, he thinks. There's a heavy scent of cum, of slick around and Ponyboy can't focus on it, really. Just the sensation of being on what he knows is Dal's cock and knot; he's not even sure if it should feel so big, or so satisfying to lay on the bed, breathing in, feeling Dallas' cock still hard, pulsing inside of him. He shifts from lying on his side, feeling slick and cum inside of him and he's... grateful no one knows but them right now what's going on.

What's going on is. Well. Ponyboy looks at Dallas' arm draped around him, turning as he feels the weight on his hip, the way Dallas' breath fans out against his neck and shoulder, the way the sunlight looks as he lifts his head and turns around to look around. The bed seems bigger in the sunlight, the menu left from last night seemingly sleazier, the room so opposite his one at home. He can't move around that much, stuck as he is and it hits him, exactly what's happened.

He's just lost his virginity in a heat hotel. To his boyfriend. His first boyfriend. A guy who, months ago, he wouldn't have thought of anything more than a loose packmate much less a true friend or a boyfriend. Who was here, with him, dozing off. Who had done everything he could to take him somewhere safe, for his first heat. Who Ponyboy knew he didn't feel anything simple for, maybe never had been. They were here, together, and Ponyboy?

He felt safe.

Safe, stuck on his knot. Not knowing whether or not his brothers knew where he was, if they even knew he was having a heat now. If they knew he was in a heat hotel with the toughest hood in Tulsa, nose pressed against his skin on a cool morning. The room at least feels cooler against his skin, and instead of any slingering shyness, Ponyboy feels almost at home, in the bed with Dallas. Not that there could be any cause for shyness anymore, after what happened last night.

It was hard to think about it without a spark of arousal, how Dallas had effortlessly flipped him on his stomach when he asked, how he'd driven into him so hard that Ponyboy wasn't going to be surprised if he was bruised in places. Of how his teeth felt driving into his shoulder, of how good it felt to have Dallas pressed against him, have Dallas fucking him so intensely that he simply couldn't think, couldn't do anything but respond as well as he could.

And Dallas had lived up to those stories at bull sessions; he wasn't in a rut, and his knot was lodged so deep inside of Ponyboy now he didn't think he could pull off even if he wanted.

He certainly didn't want that. Not at all. Just thinking of the possibility makes his skin itch.

What could he do, though, he didn't know. Even though he wanted to stay like this, there was a stirring second need: hunger. The last time he'd eaten was before they'd come here, lunch probably ten hours ago, if that. Ponyboy turns into the bed, groaning with it. His hole — still sensitive, still very new to all this — clenches down on what he thinks feels like a smaller knot than it was a few minutes ago. A whine leaves his throat at the thought, that Dallas' knot wasn't going to stay inside of him anymore, that it was over.

It wasn't, it was too quick. Heats lasted anywhere from three days to a week. Ponyboy squirms, clenches, but there's no mistaking it: the knot was deflating. Tears spring to his eyes; it couldn't be over so soon, it had to come back. Uselessly, he rocks his hip back, tries to work Dallas back to hardness, only to hear Dallas speak, feeling his arm tighten around his waist. "Fuck, kid— What're you doing?"

"It's gone," Ponyboy doesn't mean to sound like this, pathetic and on the edge of tears and so stupid. Every instinct he has is upset, is disturbed by it all. That he can't clench around Dallas anymore, that he's soft, and then his cock out of him. The panic, the loss is immediate, followed by the new feeling of cum and slick sliding out of him, slipping down his thights onto the bed. "Shit — Dallas, I'm—"

Dallas is pushing him away gently, moving away, and then he's sitting up, blinking blearily at Ponyboy, who's still half twisted on his side, cum and slick still spilling out of him. "What'sa matter? S'pposed to do that, been on me all night." He frowns at Ponyboy, as if he's a stupid little omega, and Ponyboy's chest gets warm with the need to cry, to apologize; then Dallas seems to catch up, shaking his head, leaning down to kiss Ponyboy. It's surprising and reassuring, Ponyboy swallowing the urge to cry, to apologize. He kisses Dallas back with everything he's got, fingers scrambling for purchase in their awkward position. "S'okay. C'mon, Pony."

"You — you sure?" Dallas moves on the bed, until one knee is up at his chest, and the other behind him. Ponyboy moves so that he's on the opposite side of the bed facing him, looking at the marks he's left in the night: scratches, bite marks, little bruises here and there. The sunlight falling on Dallas' skin reminds him of how clear it could be on Jay Mountain, with the way it illuminates the tips of Dallas' hair in a way that reminds him a bit of a halo, sun touched. It doesn't soften him, so much as sharpens him, makes his body, his presence all the more appealing, less human as Pony continues. "It's supposed to?"

Still waking up, Dallas blinks at Ponyboy, eyebrows furrowing up. "Yeah? Stays around a few hours, then it goes soft. Why?" He rolls his shoulders, shaking his hair. "Ain't you know that?"

"No," his voice quivers in a way that feels so juvenile, his chest tight, eyes burning with tears. "I thought — I thought it l-lasted — Did I do— do something wrong?" He had to, hadn't he? To have Dallas go soft like that already, to—

Dallas looks at him in confusion, then shakes his head. "No. No, kid, the knot. It only lasts a couple hours after you cum. Not the whole time." There's a look on his face like he's close to being mean with it or annoyed, and it's shaken away, Dallas reaching out to him. "It'll come back next time, it's okay, kid." Even as Dallas pulls him closer, Ponyboy feels immature and stupid and wanting all at the same time. It makes it easier to be held by Dallas, to have his hands brushing his back, soothing him with his scent, his body. "You're just feeling the heat s'all. You just want it back."

He does. He really does, body aching for it. For now though, he feels raw, upset, and buries his head into Dallas' warm chest, fingers clinging to his side. Later, Ponyboy knows he's going to feel dumb about this, about being upst about the shock of it all. For now though, he needs Dallas comforting him, needs his hand on his back, needs Dallas' presence. He trusts him more than himself right now, with the exposed, needing nerve that he is.

Dallas lets him stay there, voice rough when he says, "C'mon. You want some food? Sure you're hungry."

What can Ponyboy do except nod his head at the gesture?

Dallas kisses him on the crown of his hair, and Ponyboy relaxes.

He trusts Dallas. That hasn't changed. That won't change.

"That enough?" Dallas wrinkles his nose at Ponyboy as he bites into a piece of toast that has so much jelly on it that he's not sure that Ponyboy can actually taste the toast beneath. They're sitting on the floor, still naked yet cleaner than before, eating breakfast. It has to be around noon, without him looking at the clock on the stand. The tears on Ponyboy's face are long gone by now, even though Dallas is sure that this morning wouldn't be the first time it'd happen.

As it turned out, everything he'd heard about omegas emotional fragility during heats was absolutely right. It had been a lot to keep the remark Ain't you smart? to himself with Ponyboy so upset, scattered like that.

At least he wasn't like Tim or Curly or some other jackass. Dallas wasn't anywhere near soft; just the instant he looked distressed, he'd tried to fix it, as best he could. He still wonders if he's done right as Ponyboy finishes chewing, "Yeah, just enough I think. I still... I dunno. Like I still got my heat, but it ain't as..." he shrugs, tearing into the bread again, chewing thoughtfully.

"Strong?" Dallas uses his own toast to run it through the eggs left on the plate, eating them with gusto. He's feeling his own hunger deeper now, and he's wondering if there might be something else at the edge of it. Neither of them had a real shower, just a wipe down, enough to get the worst off of each other off as best they could as the food was being made. Which was usually what you did with a partner in a heat or rut; total clean up was at the very end, when scents were less important. Right now, even Dallas knows that if Ponyboy totally cleaned up, if the smell of soap was all he scented, he'd be offended over it, as if it didn't mean anything. Having Ponyboy still scenting like him, hair still wet, half illuminated by sunlight, he's gorgeous. "Like you gotta get it back up?"

He nods in response, licking some jelly off of his fingers, mouth sucking at the tips in a way that makes Dallas' cock jump a little. "Yeah. It ain't gone, just kinda quiet." Ponyboy puts the meal topper back on the plate, sighing, clearly satisfied. There hadn't been too much eaten, enough to get him energy for the next few hours if Dallas had to guess. "Where exactly are we? You ain't say."

"The Love Nest. Heat hotel, close to Brumly territory, I think," He stretches out his legs, foot resting against Ponyboy's shin. "I just was driving and driving til I found somewhere good for you." Us doesn't belong on that sentence; it was for Ponyboy, about him primarily. It helps with the way that Ponyboy smiles, some crumbs still on the corner of his mouth, hair bright in the sunlight. "Paid for a couple of days, you ain't gotta worry about it."

"What about my brothers? They know?"

Dallas shakes his head, and Ponyboy seems to look conflicted for a moment before he answers with, "Can just call 'em this evening, I guess."

"Not now?" Dallas raises his eyebrows at that answer Pony's given. Ponyboy's scent shifts just enough to let him know what was actually on his mind. He pretends as if he doesn't know, Ponyboy getting their plates together. "Why not?"

"Don't want him to interrupt," the plates go on the large tray, Ponyboy messing with them hastily. "Where do I put it since we're done? They already came to clean up while we cleaned up." There's a note of sadness in his voice, over the blankets. Even with their mingled scents, there was no way they'd be able to use them now, as important as it was. The new sheets — the hotel ones, only — were just as nice, and as far as Dallas saw it, just a new set to play with.

He points to the door. "Just put it outside," Ponyboy moves quick to put them back up, Dallas standing on steadier legs, watching him go. There are still bruises on his hips, his thighs that Dallas loves to see, the way it's a clear mark of himself there. Of what he and Ponyboy did together, wanted.

An idea occurs to him as Ponyboy shuts the door carefully. There's a bit of nervousness as he sits on the bed, whistling at Ponyboy to come over. Not because he's never done this, or that Ponyboy might not like it. It's something else, this little indulgence between the throes of a heat. "C'mere, you might like this."

A curious, if rather skeptical, look crosses Ponyboy's face. "Like what?" He stands between Dallas' legs, looking down at him with a half smile on his face that Dallas enjoys. Dallas reaches up, tugging at the St. Christopher until Ponyboy is leaning downward, Dallas kissing him gentler than before. Ponyboy doesn't keep it chaste, licking into Dallas' mouth greedily, fingers hooking in his hair.

It's easy to get Ponyboy pulled into his lap, his knees on either side as they kiss. There aren't any clothes to remove: just Ponyboy's fingers moving from his hair, to his neck, to his cheek, Dallas bracing Ponyboy's thighs, caressing his hips. The moment Ponyboy is fully relaxed in his lap, the moment the scent of slick hits his nostrils, Dallas growls in Ponyboy's mouth, gripping him tighter. To his surprise, Ponyboy growls back, just enough to catch him off guard and lick Dallas on the right side of his neck, right where the mating mark would go.

Two could play that game, apparently, Dallas groaning with the sensation, the need to have Ponyboy's teeth sink into his neck, claim him.

At the same time, Dallas knows he can't, not yet. Not now, not on the first heat. That demand wasn't for him to fulfill.

He should stop it, stop Ponyboy from teasing him like this, even if he'd done the same thing. And yet... He bares his neck. Allows Ponyboy to take over for a moment as he licks and nuzzles at the site. Let's the sensation work through him, his cock getting harder, mind racing with the idea of those teeth biting into the column of his neck. Of what it would be like to be inside of Ponyboy, if it happened.

His eyes flutter, losing vision of Ponyboy's bowed head, of his shoulder.

Then Dallas regains himself for a moment, and rolls them over onto the bed. There's a surprised noise from Pony, edging onto a whine, trying to writhe away. Not that it works: he still hasn't regained all the weight he's lost from Windrixville, and he's much smaller than Dallas. It doesn't take much effort to pin Ponyboy to the bed fully, by his skinny wrists, Dallas sneering, "You ain't ever been good with broncos. Don't think you can start now."

"Asshole—!" Ponyboy bucks, writhes, and then moans when Dallas' mouth finally hits home on the right side of his neck, right at the mating spot. There's no doubt he likes it, given the shiver his body has, the scent of slick growing stronger. He pants at Dallas, that heatflush starting to rise on his skin again, his still sharpening teeth flashing brightly before Dallas lunges forward. This time, he doesn't play fair, hands pinning Ponyboy sharply, his tongue laving over the mating spot.

This time, he can feel Ponyboy's pulse, can feel his whine at the back of his throat as he licks and nuzzles at the site, at where he could claim Ponyboy if he wanted, if Ponyboy begged. His blows on the skin to tease Ponyboy, feeling his legs move, hearing and feeling him whine, the hum vibrating in his throat in need, in want of something he can't have right now.

It's a dangerous bed game to play; not one that Dallas had even intended on playing, either.

Does he lift his head? Does he pull away, though?

No. He loves Ponyboy's scent here, on the column of his neck, being able to feel when he moans, when he whines and pants out his name. He loves it when he blows air on it, to cool Ponyboy down or when he moves to tug at Ponyboy's ear, just to frustrate him. At least once, Ponyboy clearly orgasms, the cum smeared between their two bodies, clearly on the edge with it not being enough.

Dallas savors every second of the tease. A tease he shouldn't encourage, maybe, but a tease Ponyboy likes all the more when Dallas pulls away to bury his nose in the other side of Ponyboy's neck, moaning out, "Fuck, you scent so good."At some point, his hands had loosened, had finally given Ponyboy some room to move. In all that time, Ponyboy hadn't thrown him off, hadn't wriggled away; he doesn't now as Dallas moves his hand down his sides, past his cum stained stomach and to his thighs. His thumb brushes over Ponyboy's still erect cock, his own hips moving, pressing his still not relieved erection against his own. It's been some sort of testament to will Dallas hadn't cum yet, a thought that makes him grin.

"Don't — don't fucking play," Ponyboy's growl peters out to a whine when Dallas trails his fingers to the inside of his thighs that's smeared in cum and slick. "Don't, Dally."

There's an urge to do it. To stretch it on and on, except Dallas can feel how Ponyboy's voice is straining, can feel how his body is warming up with another round of the heat, can tell that he's on edge.

This is still his first heat. Ponyboy can only take so much.

So he shows some mercy, moving to kiss Ponyboy on the mouth, to give him some comfort, some attention he needs. The groan from Ponyboy, the way his hands scramble to grasp at his hair makes Dallas feel even better about the choice. They both seem to get on the same page as Ponyboy moves to lick at Dallas' mouth, to lift his hips and legs, Dallas wrapping an arm around his waist, coming to meet Ponyboy halfway.

It's easier than it was than last night for him to push his cock inside of Ponyboy, and just as tight, Pony groaning as he does it. This time though, he gets to watch Ponyboy's face better than he had, less frenzied than before, less desperate. Ponyboy gets to rock his hips with some more finesse than before, even if sometimes it's clumsy, overeager.

This time, they're able to hit a smoother rhythm, Ponyboy's slicked hole stretching around Dallas in a way that feels good, cock less driving into him than meeting Ponyboy with every movement of his hips. What sticks for Dallas is the way his hair looks pressed to his cheek, the way he can see the dark brown roots glinting in the light, the way the blonde looks right next to Ponyboy's mouth, the way that he can suddenly see the way Ponyboy's shoulder scar looks now that it's morning, how it looks like a hand gripping him, and he can't help to do anything except put his mouth there, to bite down at the scar.

It's something they share, he knows. If he looked down at his left wrist, he could slot it against the burn scar on Ponyboy's shoulder, and this time, it's Dallas who moans, jacks his hips too hard, making Ponyboy groan with surprise when he does it.

Just thinking about it, feeling his tongue run on it, knowing that they'll always have that, no matter what happened, always have that intimate connection on their bodies, knowing he'd been the one to put the fire out, that they were intertwined with it—

His knot breaches Ponyboy harder than he intends, and he cums harder than he thought he would, and Ponyboy whines and writhes as he gets what he wants.

And Dallas? He's proud to give it to him. Happy too, as Ponyboy scratches at his shoulder, as he whines, as his body accepts his knot.

After that, time begins to run funny, things begin to get fuzzy, indistinct. Later, Dallas will realize that his own rut has been triggered, that he's losing his head to.

In the moment, though, there is only him and Ponyboy in a heat hotel together, the hours passing by only with each other. Most of it is spent intertwined in some way, usually Ponyboy on Dallas' knot, whether it's him chasing his own pleasure, rocking his hips, grinning, panting down at Dallas, or he's pinned beneath him, on all fours or on his back, letting Dallas do what he wants, what Ponyboy wants him to do. There's never a bite mark directly where the mating mark is: slowly, Ponyboy begins to collect them on the other side of his neck, his shoulders, his sides, the inside of his thighs when he allows Dallas to play with his hole using his fingers. Dallas gains bitemarks on his shoulders, his neck — mostly though, he gets scratches, bruises from Ponyboy's hands, hickeys on his own neck.

There are few meals, few showers. Dallas knows that Ponyboy's heat is waxing and waning, and eventually so is his rut.

He has no idea what day it is when he finally seems to regain a sense of calm, nose buried in Ponyboy's throat, his cock and knot softening as sunlight filters through the curtains. It's not the first sunlight to hit them; but Dallas thinks this might be the third morning they've had as he comes to more, yawning.

And third day...

He moves, disengaging from Ponyboy, who whines. The bed creaks as he rolls out of the bed, and to the door. He's gonna have to pay for another two, probably. Five days total. He opens the door to get the pamphlet informing him of that, and the lunch there, that he'd forgotten about.

So it wasn't morning. Afternoon, then.

Afternoon of the third day. Shit. Shit.

Calling down about the extension didn't matter in that moment, as Dallas remembers exactly how long Ponyboy has been away from home. Days, he's been gone for days without anyone knowing where he went, except with Dallas. For the first time in a long time, it makes Dallas upset, sick to his stomach as he goes for the phone.

He should know better, of all people what Darry and Soda would think of it, even if Soda had seen him. The last time Ponyboy had disappeared for days on end was when that Soc had gotten killed, when he and Johnny went missing. They had no clue where he was now, and there was no way they were going to take this lightly, in all of that.

More than likely, it's going to hurt what he's got with them. He can imagine Darry's disapproving face as he grasps the phone, dialing out. At the very least — he hopes Soda picks up the phone. He glances over at a still sleeping Ponyboy, who's rolled into the warm spot Dallas has left. For a moment, Dallas focuses on how pretty he looks in the bed, at the fact that he was nuzzling into the scent Dallas had clearly left behind, clearly was happy to be there with him. There was no doubt about that, that here, they were together, they were happy together here, and it's something that Dallas wants to wrap his fingers around, as tight as he can get.

The phone rings out. Dallas hopes, and hopes for Soda—

"Hello?" Fucking hell, it's Darry instead who drops into the line, voice rough. "Who's this?"

"It's Dallas—"

Before he can get a single other word out, Darry pounces. "Dallas?! Where in the goddamn hell are you? Where's Ponyboy?" He sounds as pissed as he had when Dallas had lied to him about not knowing where Johnny and Ponyboy were when they'd skipped town. "Do you know how long you two have been gone? Almost a week!"

"Darry, Darry! He's fine, we're at a heat hotel," Dallas can see Ponyboy shift in the bed; if he were on the edge of sleep, he isn't anymore. Probably heard Darry yelling in the receiver. "His heat came on, I couldn't just do that in the middle of the bonfire. We're—"

"In deep shit," another word can't get in edgewise, Ponyboy sitting up as Darry continues, "He missed the date with the lawyer! The hearing is in less than a week and he needed that meeting Dallas!" Dallas stiffens up, Ponyboy now watching from the bed with an alarmed, worried look on his face. "Don't you both get that? He could go to prison Dallas, if not a boy's home. You should've told one of us!"

By now, Ponyboy is scrambling from the center of the bed, to the edge where Dallas is holding the receiver. Dallas feels like a bucket of ice cold water has been dumped on his head now, with what Darry just said. With what it means, as Ponyboy takes over with, "Darry? What did he say?"

"Only one of those Socs responded to him. Wouldn't tell me who without you there," the frustration, the anger is clear, and Dallas can feel his heartbeat speed up. "Just said that we gotta get ready for the hearing, in days. And you weren't there." His voice gets thicker, a swell of deserved upset. "Soon as your heat is over — you need to be home. We gotta make plans in case something— in case it goes wrong."

In case it goes wrong.

In case Ponyboy goes to a boy's home. In case he has to go to jail, with Johnny.

Ponyboy doesn't look flush anymore. He simply looks pale as he says, "Okay, Darry. Soon as it's over."

The phone goes on the cradle and Dallas is left thinking, What now?

Chapter Text

The bathroom is awash in red, still, and Ponyboy sits on the toilet lid, trying to pretend like he can't hear Dallas pacing right outside the door. It's been like this for what feels like hours, even with the heat still there in Pony's midsection, tugging at his instincts. He can hear the hum from the lightbulbs that frame the heart shaped mirror, can feel the quiet static of the television that Dallas turned on once just to try and fill the silence.

Both of them had sat on the bed for a few minutes, having half starts and stutters. Dallas' eyes had gotten as gleamingly wet as they had during the car ride, and Ponyboy had instinctively kissed him, pulled him close. Dallas had kissed back; but when it was over, there was still the facts at hand: that the moment his heat was over, the moment they stepped out of the door of the heat hotel, the trial was happening. There was no way around it, and Ponyboy wasn't ready for it. He'd missed pivotal days, had missed what he'd needed to hear and now his options had narrowed down starkly into either staying with his brothers; being forced into a boy's home; or at the very worst, serving a prison sentence alongside Johnny who would surely get the electric chair.

As soon as the realization of it hit, Ponyboy had gone to the bathroom, thinking he'd be sick, that something might come up out of fear and disgust. Dallas had paced the door, and all Ponyboy could do was sit, thinking, letting his thoughts run around.

He hadn't been thinking of his future, hadn't dreaded things enough and now it was inevitable. He would more than likely be sent somewhere he didn't want to go, whether it was a boys home or jail. They'd never heard back from the social worker and Darry couldn't say everything on the phone.

Eugene was smart, too. He'd probably figured out that the whole thing was Ponyboy's fault — from the moment he left home, to the moment he spat at those Socs — yet without him there, he probably couldn't defend Ponyboy as well. Even if Eugene had encouraged him not to give them what they wanted... hadn't he just done that?

Regret, anger wells up in him. His heat had come at the wrong time. If it had held up longer, if he hadn't had this, things wouldn't be so bleak. It wouldn't feel as if everything suddenly wasn't crashing around him like this.

Worse, still, as Dallas' feet kick up at the carpet, is the fact that Dallas blames himself. Ponyboy knows he does without the way that he's tried to start sentences and has ended them, with the way he's been swearing and wearing out the carpet.

He doesn't know how to fix himself, he doesn't know how to force his body not to have a heat anymore. It feels almost like he's in the church again, trying not to cry while Johnny yells at him. Except it's worse; Johnny was a friend he trusted, who he ran off with. Dallas wasn't. He was more than that, more than a friend.

The thought just makes his chest warm up more and his eyes get hot with tears he should stop having.

"Pony?" Dallas has finally stopped pacing, finally turning towards the bathroom. "You okay in there, kid?"

"I'm okay," his voice is shaky, scared, as the door opens fully. Dallas still hasn't put anything more on him than a pair of jeans — something Ponyboy dislikes — hair still a dark mess, his gaze intent. Dallas almost moves like he's hurt as he comes to Ponyboy, sitting on the floor between his knees, looking at him with that upset expression on his face that Ponyboy hates more than anything, how hurt it is, how it's searching for reassurance, for...

He reaches out. Dallas doesn't pull away, allows Ponyboy's fingers to thread themselves through his hair, down to his neck. Has Dallas ever been this vulnerable before with anyone else besides him? Has he allowed someone to touch him like this before?

Even as distraught as he is, Ponyboy doubts it. Not with the way Dallas shuts his eyes after a moment, shoulders slowly dropping the more Ponyboy touches his hair, his neck, his shoulders. The only thing that permeates the silence of the bathroom is the sound of their breathing, of the pipes rattling every now and then, of the way Ponyboy touches him.

"It's not your fault," the words come out quietly, Ponyboy not letting up, "What happened with the court. It ain't; it's my heat that was the problem. Not you, Dally." Dallas tenses up again beneath him; Ponyboy allows his nails to scratch down into the ridge of skin beneath him. "It wasn't. Couldn't let me have a heat in front of everyone? Go to the lawyer with slick all over me."

"Shoulda called. Shoulda made you call," Dallas rests his cheek on Ponyboy's bare thigh, arms crossing at his own waist, as if he's trying to comfort himself with his own words. "We could've done something."

"We can't now," he tries to steel his voice, as best he can. "We just — we gotta go. When it's over." Ponyboy doesn't like that he has to say this, that Dallas grips himself tighter and his teeth sink into the soft flesh of his thigh a little more; it makes him slick up as a response, makes that feeling of heat in his body get stronger than before, almost overriding.

Dallas pulls his cheek away from his thigh, Pony moving to look at his too dark eyes, at the way his expression is almost pleading. His nostrils flare from the slick, voice thick as he speaks, "If you go in, if Johnny gets the chair — if it's cause of me..." His mouth hangs, twists. Something passes behind his eyes that Ponyboy can't name. "I ain't leaving here. I promise. Not leaving you, him, alone."

There's something in those words that makes Ponyboy feel as if it's more. As if there's something beneath it he can't grasp the total meaning of, yet he accepts. That no matter what happened, Dallas would be there. That no matter if he was going to jail or not, Dallas would be there. How, Ponyboy didn't know.

He only knows Dallas means it. That he's meant it same as anything else, if not more, and he loves him for it. Loves Dallas, on his knees, hands around his waist, eyes wet with tears he can't shed, saying he won't leave. Loves him just the same as when he was angry and snapping, the same as when he was throwing a joke, the same as when he'd woken up beside Ponyboy days ago, confused yet willing to listen to Ponyboy.

Dallas surges up. Ponyboy tips his head downward to kiss Dallas back, to shut his eyes and let his body take over for a moment. To kiss Dallas deeply, to feel Dallas pull him closer until Ponyboy nips at Dallas' lower mouth. It makes Dallas pull away, and Ponyboy says, "Let's go back to bed. Please?"

When Dallas stands up, he offers his hand to Ponyboy. Ponyboy takes it, and follows him out, turning to turn the light off. It's there that he pauses at his reflection in the mirror: at the various bruises, scratchmarks, bitemarks on his body. At the way he looks besides Dallas, at his taller broader form, and the fact that both of their necks are still red and yellow from hickies, from bites, from teasing. Even if the right side of their necks aren't as dark as the leftside.

All at once, looking at where the crook of his neck connected to his shoulder on the right, Ponyboy knows how this heat is going to end. Has to end.

It's a choice Darry would never want him to make, it's a choice even Soda might not be able to justify as Ponyboy flicks off the lights, mind racing. It isn't their choice to make, though. It never has been. It's one that would get some greasers uncomfortable, would make Socs talk about him even more.

It's his to ask though, of Dallas. A way to cement the promise Dallas made to him, to cement what they had, and the best expression Ponyboy has for Dallas as he makes his way to the bed, Dallas shedding his jeans. He's about to get into the bed when Ponyboy says, "Wait. Dally — look at me."

Dallas turns his head with some confusion, Ponyboy's skin feeling suddenly cool, his hands clammy. He has to ball up his fists, keeping his eyes on Dallas. A thousand words, ways to ask go through his head, but the simplest falls out of his mouth, "Mate me. I want — I want to be your mate." He watches Dallas intently, at the way he seems to need a moment to process what's just been said to him. As if it can't be real.

It is, though. In this moment, it is the realest thing on Earth as Dallas looks down at him, as his facial expression tries to work out what he's feeling, eyebrows working together, mouth opening to protest out, "It ain't gonna look good in front of a judge. Darry would snap my neck—"

"He's not here," Ponyboy moves closer until he's between Dallas' legs, until he's gripping his waist, nails digging into Dallas as he speaks. "You are. I am. I want to be your mate, Dally. I love you." The word has never been spoken before to Dallas, and the way he looks surprised, as if it isn't real doesn't deter Ponyboy. It only makes him more determined. "I don't wanna mate someone I don't love, someone I don't trust. I want you, Dally, just you. If — If everything bad happens when we leave, I could get through it, long as you were my mate. Long as we love each other."

There's a shiver that runs up Dallas' spine, goes through his body when Ponyboy says that. Dallas doesn't say the words back — instead, he cups the back of Ponyboy's head, fingers digging into his hair. He knows that Dallas must be thinking of a thousand things at once, must be feeling all of them as he leans forward, forehead against Ponyboy's, a hair's away from a kiss. Ponyboy wants him to say the words back, say, I love you so badly in that moment, waiting on a precipice.

To know that Dallas means it back.

Dallas' other hand reaches down, trails down the necklace, to the medallion. For a moment, Ponyboy thinks he's going to pull it off of him, say no and leave. Instead, Dallas intertwines his fingers with the chain, and the tugs he gives it is gentle, not rough at all, not meant to take it away from Ponyboy. "You're mine. You been mine since you got this." It isn't the words he wants to hear; they're still heavy in their weight, in what they mean.

It's a yes, in so many words.

Ponyboy is the one who kisses Dallas this time, who takes over. It's him who drags Dallas closer, and when Dallas groans, he knows that this is the right thing to do. The only thing to do, with someone he trusts with his life, someone he does love. Someone who feels the same as him, someone who wants to be with him too.

The heat finally sparks back up fully in him: he can feel it as Dallas licks into his mouth, as the scent of slick permeates the air again. Except it's not Dallas in control here and now; where alphas have always dominated in this, in mating, it's Ponyboy's choice, it's him at the helm as he pushes Dallas to the bed, needing to do this now, before anything else could change, before anything else could try and tear them apart from each other.

For once in the entire heat, Ponyboy can think more clearly than before. He's still new to this, new to what it's like to shove Dallas into the bed, to look at his half parted mouth, glinting with sharp fangs that he has fantasized over for months now, new to the need to have a tie that is much more than physical — he is new to it all, yes, but the path is clear as the hickies on Dallas' neck that he put there days, maybe hours ago. It had just been teasing, had been playing at being mates.

As he leans down to kiss Dallas, hand reaching for his cock, it's no longer playing. There are no more games anymore now, and there wouldn't be anymore.

Dallas has always been real to him, so real that it used to scare him. It doesn't scare him in this moment as Dallas groans hotly in his mouth, as his cock slides into him so deliciously that Ponyboy's already swearing, the reality of it all is what he needs. Dallas grounds him here, in this room, in the future. The way that he grips Ponyboy's hips so hard it hurts just makes it better, spurs Ponyboy on to look at Dallas' flushed face, at his dark eyes, at the way he so clearly is entranced by Ponyboy above him, as he is.

Ponyboy isn't sure what he sees, entirely. He knows what he sees: the desperation on Dallas' face, the glint of his fangs, the scars on Dallas from various run ins, the hair on his chest his fingers clutch as he moves his hips, his shoulders and chest displaying the bites, the scratches Ponyboy has given him in the days here, the hickies along both columns of his neck. Marks that Dallas was his, that he'd always be his. He'd already claimed him — this was just one more piece, wasn't it?

More slick gushes out of him; Dallas' hips snap up, pull Ponyboy out of his head. "C'mon, kid." There's a daring grin on his face, a challenge. "Don't stay in your head. Not now." He grips Ponyboy's hips, shifts, and when he angles his thrust up this time, Ponyboy sees stars with where he hits him. What little control he has spirals out of him, Dallas hitting home again so hard that Ponyboy loses his grip for a second, half bent over Dallas as he takes over.

He wants to take control, to push where he wants; it doesn't happen though, Ponyboy moaning as Dallas drives into him, as he makes his breath come up shorter with every stroke that hits him exactly where he needs it, where he wants it, where his body craves it. It's when he's right at the edge that Dallas slows down, when Ponyboy can finally get a better grip on himself, whining in his throat, looking down at Dallas with a glare. "Don't tease me."

"Why not?" Dallas smirks at him, his dark eyes glinting beneath the hair matted to his forehead. "You look real pretty—"

"Can't tease your mate," the way that Dallas' expression transforms at the word mate is something Ponyboy won't forget: the confidence slipping away, the vulnerable spark to his face, the surprise there that Ponyboy would use it. He doesn't waste another moment, feeling Dallas pause in his thrust. "It ain't fair, Dally. We-We gonna be mates, you gotta treat me right."

It's a joke. It isn't. Ponyboy feels the grip Dallas has on his waist go a little slack; he takes the moment to wrap his own fingers around Dallas' wrists, pulling his hands away to pin them to the bed on his own. Dallas doesn't move, doesn't even pretend to fight him, not beyond a slight staccato of his hips when Ponyboy says, "Ain't that right? I'm gonna be your mate. You gotta be nice to me."

"You ain't ever been that nice," Dallas' eyes drop to Ponyboy's neck, his neck pulsing, Ponyboy clenching around his cock enough to try and remind him of what he wants. Instead, Dallas looks back up at him, something vulnerable, needing in that moment. Then he gets a challenging look on his face, lip curling, eyebrows drawn down. "You gonna make good on that? You gonna mate me or not?"

For a moment, Ponyboy's grip loosens on Dallas' wrists, for a split second he considers if it's a bad idea. That he should stop.

But Dallas is turning in the bed, offering his neck. He's got his teeth bared in his face as he says, "I'm yours, ain't I? I been yours since the fire." He doesn't say which one — the church or the initiation bonfire — only offering the column of his neck, his hips moving up weakly, still trying to satisfy Ponyboy in the moment. "C'mon, Pone."

Only for a split second does Ponyboy consider that maybe his teeth aren't sharp enough to do this; that Dallas has sharper teeth, more suited to mating for a more developed alpha. That in movies, in books, omegas do not mark first, they are always waiting to be claimed rather than claiming.

Then again, so many omegas are more like Socs, princesses in towers, princes who've been captured, waiting for it all.

Ponyboy is not. When he leans over to inhale Dallas' neck, to take in his scent, to let it wash over him before he does the deed, he is none of them. He has never been, he never will be. He hadn't wanted to be an omega at first and now in the midst of his first heat, he's never felt more at home in his body with an alpha beneath him who wants this. Who he knows would never be vulnerable, be willing for anyone else. Who was already panting, writhing, teeth snapping in need, hips starting to move hard enough that if Pony doesn't put pressure on his wrists, he might throw him off.

His scent washes over him, the need to do this down to his bones. That Dallas Winston — for all his toughness, for all of his anger — wanted Ponyboy as a mate. His mate. Here and now.

It makes Ponyboy open his mouth wide — teeth maybe too underdeveloped, too blunt, too newly omega — and sinks his teeth into the mating spot on Dallas' neck. The sound Dallas makes beneath him is primal, more snarl than anything, even if there's a note of pleasure in it. Ponyboy doesn't care much for the way that Dallas feels when his hips buck up — there is blood spilling in his mouth, the coppery scent of blood renting the air, his senses starting to shift focus, something in him seemingly making room for Dallas, for this mating bond.

Then it's over. He can feel it, can feel the bond latch into him. The feeling is euphoric, Ponyboy panting, moaning as his grip on Dallas loosens entirely. There's no ability for him to keep up on his knees, his heart racing, his senses all going off at once: the scent of their bodies, the cum and slick, the sheets, the way Dallas' scent seems to shift, wilder than before. Ponyboy can feel his eyes getting wet, Dallas pulling out of him, his body being moved from being on top of Dallas to being pushed into his bed on his back.

His vision swims, sharpens on Dallas above him: his brown hair in a long mess, his eyes dark and focused on him, his neck newly bloody and dark with a blooming mating mark, the ring of teeth a bright red on his neck. The emptiness in Ponyboy is different now — sharper, and he whimpers. "Dal — Need you, need you." It isn't like books or movies: the way that Dallas' teeth flash as he leans down to kiss him is pearl bright, and Ponyboy slicks with need. All he wants is his fangs in him; when Dallas pulls back to nuzzle his neck, he can't help how electric how his body feels to that spot, every nerve, every want concentrated at that spot in his neck.

I love you, or I'm yours, too might've left him. Ponyboy does know this for sure: he only knows what it looked to see Dallas' brown hair at the corner of his eye, looking at the ceiling for just a moment and then a moment of sharp, excruciating pain that seems to hit every single nerve in his body at once, followed by a sensation that feels like an even stronger version of what he'd felt when he had bitten Dallas. Only this feels something close to resonance, an answer to it that overwhelms him entirely for a moment that seems suspended between the two sensations, the scent of blood overwhelming his senses, vision whiting out.

Then it feels as if something secures itself in him, deeper than he can describe, deeper than what his body could take. It's the bond, securing itself from both ends. When the pain dulls, when he can taste salty tears on his face, when the room comes back around him, Ponyboy realizes that Dallas is holding him, that they're on their sides now, Dallas' knot inside of him. Ponyboy's body spasms, coming back to consciousness, a wet, gasping sound leaving his mouth.

The floodgates open then: he cries, with relief, with happiness, with security.

He and Dallas are mates now. They're bound where they're supposed to be, to the person they need, and even if nothing is okay after this, there is each other. The bond is there, on their skin, in their bodies, in a place that can only be described as more and Ponyboy is held to Dallas' warm body, sobbing as Dallas nuzzles at his mark, at his cheek, tongue lapping at his cheeks, getting tears as they go.

It's right. It's what he needs.

This time, as the sobs taper out, he knows he says, "I love you."

Dallas swipes his tongue across Ponyboy's mating mark, and Ponyboy moans.

When he wakes up, he knows that the heat is over; that feverish feeling has gone entirely from his body. Everything doesn't feel as urgent, even if when he moves, he wishes Dallas wasn't soft anymore. Given everything they'd done last night, the utter frenzy after the mating, though, Ponyboy didn't blame him.

Soreness shoots up through his body, from all of that activity, from the days of it paired with just enough food to sustain the high energy. Ponyboy whimpers, twists in the bed and Dallas grunts, turning his head into the bed with a grumble, arm loosening just enough.

"Dally?" Ponyboy turns with a grimace, so he's facing Dallas. His eyes are closed, breathing slowly again, hair in disarray, some stubble on his face that Ponyboy reaches out to touch with his thumb. It's night now, and he can see a sliver of moonlight bisecting Dallas' neck and the sheets. It illuminates the edges of the mating mark, of the ring of teeth that still look a deep, dark red on his skin. There was no way that it could be missed, that anyone could every mistake it. In the incoming days, it would turn a deep mottled purple, and then the skin would scab over, and the it would imprint in a dark, heavy red ring on Dallas' neck. It would only fade if the bond broke.

It was going to be there until the day Dallas died, otherwise.

Ponyboy reaches over to trace it with his fingers, trying not to wake Dallas. Pride, happiness swirl in Ponyboy's chest at the sight, at the fact that he had done this. That he had been able to claim Dallas for himself, that he had been able to love him and trust him — and Dallas returned the love, the trust. He'd been the one offering first, had been the one wanting to be claimed.

No one would believe Ponyboy if he said it, that he had done it, that he had bitten first. That an omega his age, his stature, this little greaser, had bitten Dallas first, hardest, had claimed him first.

A smile dances on his lips despite the seriousness, despite the fact that he'd made the decision quick, in a desperate hour. Even making it like that, he was secure now as he nuzzles against Dallas' neck, as he pulls the blankets over them both, his body slotting against Dallas, right where he belongs.

Dallas was his mate. And because he was his mate, it was simply now fact that no matter what happened in the weeks to come, he was Dallas' and Dallas was his.

In the car, Ponyboy leans against Dallas as they drive through the dark morning, back to the neighborhood. He doesn't want the car to stop at the house; he wants to car to go over the horizon, disappear into the morning sun that's soon to rise. Except that cannot happen, won't happen. They have to face up to what's happening now.

The blankets that Dallas had stolen are in need of a wash, all of them in the back of the car. Ponyboy can hear them move as Dallas turns the radio up a little more, an Elvis song playing as they make their way down the street. Dallas keeps a hand on the wheel as Elvis croons over the radio, filling the car with his voice. The lyrics make Ponyboy's mouth quirk a little with how sweet they are: All that I want is to be near to you / To spend my life making it clear to you / You are my heart, my soul, my dream come true.

It's better than a corn pokey Hank Williams blaring at Buck's. His voice settles over Ponyboy as Dallas turns the car to the main street, Dallas' leg bouncing as they pass by the bonfire encampment. It's still early enough that some people are still sleeping there, not able to make it to school yet. Other people are getting ready, some lights already on, the streetlights still on. Ponyboy can feel nervousness circling his stomach, his hand reaching out, fingers slipping around the hand Dallas has on the gear stick.

Dallas looks at him, his expression more confident than what Ponyboy feels. "We're almost there, kid." He doesn't say it'll be okay — it'd be a lie, and Dallas doesn't lie to him. Dallas has always been real, painfully so. At this moment, all he can offer, as the car turns is the way he threads his fingers with Ponyboy's own.

They crest the hill, go forward. They pass the Cades, the Mathews — Mrs. Mathews is pulling in, and she looks back at them with an expression that makes Ponyboy's heart race with how concerned it is, yet she says nothing as she parks her car — and then they're slowing to a stop at the Curtises.

Never has the house been so intimidating as Dallas parks the car. Never has Ponyboy simultaneously wanted to throw up, run inside or run far, far away at once.

Still, when the engine is cut off, he gets out. The wind is cold enough that he's more than grateful for Dallas' jacket on his shoulders, for his comforting scent that makes Ponyboy almost dizzy with how his body is now, newly mated.

Dallas waits for him to come around, pausing to zip up the jacket with a grumble. When he's got the zipper up, Ponyboy fully barred from the cold, his hand moves to cup Ponyboy's neck, to rub his hand over Ponyboy's scent glands, over the still raw mating mark. It makes all those nerves from the night before flare up, makes Ponyboy's teeth ache something sharp, his gasp swallowed up when Dallas kisses him.

He kisses back, his own hand gripping Dallas by his shirt. They kiss long enough that when Ponyboy pulls back, Dallas' face is flushed, his nose a little red in the cold. Ponyboy sighs when Dallas rests his forehead on his, his heart racing, his hand shaking a little bit. Then Dallas says, "C'mon, kid."

He takes Ponyboy's hand, and they both go to the fence, opening it. Then they go up the steps, to the front door that Ponyboy knows is never, ever locked.

Dallas squeezes his hand.

Ponyboy opens the door and takes them over the threshold.

Chapter Text

For a moment, Ponyboy wonders if he's stepped backwards in time and not forward when he crosses the threshold of the house with Dallas. It's just like the night weeks ago, where Soda is half asleep on the couch, and Darry is in the loveseat, his head half bowed, a newspaper in hand, looking up with a look of worry and then deep, deep anger on his face.

The only difference is what he's wearing: instead of the flannel, it's the same black shirt from the rumble, only there are no wounds on his face or hands as he stands up to glare at them both. Only instead of Soda greeting him softly, he's staring at them both eyes the size of saucers, no doubt able to scent the change in them both, the dark ring on both of their necks of a telltale mating mark.

The angry wave off of Darry is palpable, even though Dallas automatically shifts in front of Ponyboy, keeping him from the direct fount of emotion Darry is clearly feeling. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," his voice is thunderous, incredulous with anger as he looks at them both, "You're about to go to a court case that is gonna decide our entire lives and not only do you run off for days for a heat, but you got mated? To a fourteen year old?"

"I wanted to," Ponyboy speaks up first, not liking how reedy and cracked his voice sounds, "I asked him, Darry."

It's so strange to know that Darry doesn't have exactly all the power over him at this moment. That the moment he had asked Dallas to mate him, things had shifted. He didn't have to follow him as Pack Alpha first anymore, Dallas superseded that position now. The thought is distant, almost unreal as Darry bristles in front of him, his face going red just like it had those nights ago. "And he should've known to tell a little kid no —"

"He ain't a little kid," Dallas snaps back, his voice edging on an angry growl now, the hairs on his neck standing up. Ponyboy feels like everything is a movie playing out in front of him with how aggressive Dallas' scent gets, with how angry he is at that moment and he doesn't want to stop him. He won't stop him as Dallas shields him further, obscuring Darry's furious face. "He made that choice, he wanted me as a mate! I ain't no fucking perv—"

Darry snarls out, "You're damn near eighteen years old, and all you do is get him into trouble! You're the reason those Socs went after him, the reason he came back half burned, the goddamn reason why he might get thrown into a boy's home or worse!" His voice climbs so much higher and louder than what his father ever had. "You sat up here and targeted him, pulled him into a heat with less than a week to get to court and you mated him! You're an irresponsible piece of sh—"

"Don't talk about him that way!" Ponyboy snaps now, moving past Dallas, glaring at Darry, unable to take it anymore. "He ain't trick me, he ain't do nothing, Darry! Why can't you get that? I was having a heat, did you want me to just die of a heatfever? Have him ignore me? Darry, I love him, I wanted it. If I'm old enough to be initiated, I'm old enough to have a mate!"

Quietly, he thinks he hears Sodapop say, "Stop it."

He's quickly drowned out by Darry's cold, furious voice. "Old enough to get thrown into jail, old enough to get shipped to another state, old enough to maybe get the chair!" Darry looks bigger than he should, and when his hand moves upward, Ponyboy thinks of that night, thinks of the sting of his face when Darry hit him, and he goes stiff even though Darry's just continuing to tick off his fingers, "Old enough to know you shouldn't be running around having a heat with him, old enough to be doing better! You're supposed to be smart, and you're letting him ruin everything you got—"

Soda tries to speak up again; it's useless because Dallas has had enough, grasping Darry by his shirt, shoving him back against the wall, half lifting him up with a snarl. Those sharp fangs that Ponyboy likes in his neck so much are flashing, his scent is spiking with aggression, and Ponyboy can't tell him to stop as he slams Darry against the wall again. "You wanna blame all this shit on me? Not the fucking Socs, not the Cades?"

His voice is getting louder, and Soda says louder, desperate again, "Stop it!"

Darry isn't listening. He's grasping Dallas by the wrist, and Dallas is getting closer to him, and one of them is going to hit the other, and it's Darry who does it, it's Darry who's hand lifts just the way it had that night, and Ponyboy feels sick, frozen as he chokes out, "Don't—"

The hit lands on Dallas' face with a resounding crack of skin meeting skin.

Dallas Winston is the toughest hood in Tulsa, and he's never, ever let someone hit him and get away with it.

For a moment, a hush falls over everyone. Ponyboy thinks the only sound he can hear is his own heartbeat, his own blood roaring in his ears, and the only scent he detects is Dallas' own, the way it shifts, the rising pheromones, the anger in him physically evident and growing moment by moment.

Unlike that night before, where Darry had yelled out a useless apology, there is none here. There's only Darry's anger spilling over, only Darry baring his teeth right as blood trickles down Dallas' lip. Those fangs Ponyboy loves so much — sharp, bone white — are shown in something that could be mistaken for a smile, but it isn't, not with how wide it is, not with how threatening it is. Not when Dallas lunges at Darry in response, Soda skittering away frantically to the other side of the room as they begin to fight.

It's not like fights that are coordinated like a dance on television shows, where every moment is fluid, easy to follow. It's harder to keep track of them as they grapple and tear at each other — Darry shoving Dallas against the wall so hard the plaster cracks, Dallas retaliating by kicking at Darry's knee so hard that he forgets where he is and smashes into the desk that topples to the floor, Ponyboy unable to tell who stomps on the beautiful lily shaped lamp that his mother loved, and crushes it into a thousand glittering green pieces.

He only snaps out of it when Soda is the one who flings himself to them, to try and break them up — there's already one hole in the wall, glass all over the floor. Soda shouldn't be doing that, Soda needed help, and Ponyboy is stumbling forward, trying to get a grip on a furious Dallas, the scent of blood renting the air. There's no coordination like there is in movies, nothing linear, only Ponyboy wrapping his arms around Dallas' torso, crying out, "Dal, stop it!" He can feel Dallas trying to pull away, can see Darry's bloodied, angry face, and still, Ponyboy tries to get him off.

On the other side of the room, Soda is finally able to move between them both, shoving Dallas back into Ponyboy, using his own body to get in front of a still enraged, teeth baring Darry. He looks enormous at this moment, all muscle and rage and Ponyboy tries not to think about what it was like to take a hit from him.

Soda is braver than him, his arms out, moving when Darry moves. If he's saying something too, Ponyboy can't make out the words. Not when Darry almost gets around him, and Dallas lunges out of Ponyboy's grip entirely, his feet crushing the green glass beneath him. He tries to get Dallas back — Soda boxes Darry back, forcing against the piano half shoved into the hallway. There's fury he's never heard in his voice, "Darry, stop it!"

"Quit protecting him!" Darry looks pissed, his hair a mess, almost looking as bad as he had at the rumble as Ponyboy grasps Dallas' shirt, trying to get a firmer hold on him. "It's all his fault!"

"Asshole!" Dallas snarls out.

"No it ain't!" Soda shouts back, louder than what he's ever done in his life. Ponyboy's grip on Dallas feels tentative, Dallas breathing hard, eyes flashing. "It ain't his fault, Darry, you can't blame him for everything!"

"Soda, move!" This time, Darry shoves Soda hard. Hard enough that Soda looks shocked at the force, with how hard it is. He's bigger than Ponyboy and instead of being struck so hard he hits the floor hard enough to be stunned, he crashes into the glass center table. The only reason he doesn't go through it is because of Dallas, who grips Soda before he can hit it, awkwardly getting Soda steady on his feet.

Darry stares. Dallas sneers out, "Real good alpha brother of you, huh, hitting your little omega brother! Real fucking protective, huh?"

Everything could get worse from here. Ponyboy knows that as he and Soda look at each other, Soda's eyes big, Ponyboy starting to shake. Saying what happened, why they had been out that night, that this wasn't—

"Soda—" Darry's voice is strangled, upset.

Soda gives Dallas a look that Ponyboy can't understand, his face shocked, ashen. "This ain't anywhere near a family or a pack anymore. I can't— You guys—"

Before anyone can move or say anything else, Soda is moving across the room, and then he's out of the door. It slams shut behind him as he runs off into the early morning, Darry still rooted to the spot, surrounded by the pieces of the lamp, his chest heaving, face red.

Looking at him like this is painful, is upsetting. Ponyboy can't look at him and not think of being hit by him, of being scared to come home. As much as Darry was good for him, as much of a point he had...

Dallas grasps Ponyboy's hand, biting out, "C'mon, Pone."

It's too fast for Ponyboy to protest, to beg, to say anything as he follows Dallas — they're on the porch, then the lawn, then in the car, the engine roaring to life — then they're flying down the road and it's only then that Ponyboy realizes that he's crying.

Because Soda was right. This wasn't a family or a pack anymore. They were fractured as badly as any ring of Socs.

Chapter Text

Running away from home has never been something that has seriously crossed his mind until his parents died. Soda has never, ever wanted to leave the safety of home, never ever wanted to have his family, his pack broken up. Before all of this, home had been a comfort, a safety, a beautiful place that even when things might've been bad, he could turn to.

He believed that after his parents died, it could still be that place. That he and his brothers could have that together.

Except when the fights started.

When Ponyboy and Darry couldn't get along for anything, when every day coming home was the lottery of good or bad. And for a long time, a real long time, it was good. Mostly good.

Right now though... it was bad. All bad.

This wasn't them yelling, playing tug of war to get him on their side. It wasn't him seeing both of their merits, this was simply destruction, a blow up that Soda hadn't seen coming for anything.

There is no Sandy to run to, and there isn't Steve either. She's in Florida and Steve is only a few houses down. Physically, at least; right now, whenever he tries to talk to Steve, whenever he tries to get past the things he'd said about Sandy, he can't. He can't get past what he called her, can't get past the anger simmering beneath his words, the pride Steve had to never apologize, to never want to change, to be so stubborn that he had allowed this to go on for weeks.

So he doesn't turn up that familiar drive, to see the boy who's been his best friend since they were three years old. That boy isn't there right now, who taught Soda what he knew about cars, who liked to go with him on double dates, who he used to think would never leave his side — he goes further into Tulsa. Runs until his lungs ache, runs until his legs feel like jello until he gets to a familiar building that he's always been invited to yet has never been inside of. The red brick is old, and the windows are boarded up.

A demolition had been scheduled, had never come. It might never come, given that the original red door had been painted green over the years, and a snake has been meticulously painted there recently. It's in the shape of a circle, it's front end biting the tail. Ponyboy had called it something once, a word too hard for Soda to say much less spell as he knocks on the door, right in the center.

He can't tell if anyone is inside. He doesn't even know what he'll do if no one will let him in, so intent he was on coming here, on getting as far away as possible from home on foot. Sweat drips down his forehead, his lungs ache, he wants water desperately as much as he wants this door to open

And so the door does; he lifts his head to look at Ivy Ueda, at her acid green nails, the dark green ribbon in her hair, her expression concerned as she looks at him and says, "Sodapop? What are you doing here?" She's illuminated by a bright light from the inside, the sounds of girls laughing and talking, mingling with a television set. Her alpha scent is comforting, as is the scent of what he assumes is take out that he desperately wants.

There's no judgment in her voice, there's no expectation of anything except an answer. So he says, "I need — I need a place for the night. Can I stay?"

The rules for the Vipers were you had to be a girl, or you had to be an omega. He qualifies as the last.

Ivy opens the door for him, and he steps inside. Not to his own home, full of memories good and bad. Not to Steve's, where they could've tried to pretend to be little kids again. Soda steps into a den of the Vipers, who's scents are calming, aren't aggressive, and Soda feels relief break over him for the first time in over a week.

The only thing Dallas knows to do is to drive to Buck's as quick as the set of wheels can take him. He's still buzzing with rage at what happened, his knuckles sore, his body almost shaking with the emotion. He wasn't stupid; he knew the moment they mated each other that Darry would be pissed off at them, that he'd want to tear his head off the instant they came back. What he hadn't counted on was how quick he lost his head or Soda being the one who took a hit.

The worst thing he hadn't anticipated, however, is Ponyboy crying in the seat beside him, in little huffy sobs that makes Dallas try to reach out to brush them away every so often. Ponyboy doesn't fight him on it, just allows Dallas to wipe at them, to try and send him some comfort as they fly down the road.

His instincts are a mess now — half of him wants to get up, go beat the tar out of Darry for laying a hand on Soda of all people, and for trying to insinuate that Dallas was some sort of pervert for being with Ponyboy, for daring to mate him. The thought of laying into him again and again makes his knuckles ache with need, causes him to set his teeth on edge lest he tear into his own cheek. The rest of him is concentrating on this, on taking his new mate somewhere good, somewhere safe. To get him somewhere so he could help him stop crying, help him get his bearings and comfort him the way a good mate was supposed to do — his teeth ache with the need to sink into Ponyboy's neck, to touch his sides, to tell him everything would be alright, that he had a mate who wasn't going to leave him.

Being a good mate was more important than wanting to beat the shit out of Darry so hard he'd be spitting teeth for a week. Being a good mate meant that as soon as he parks the car in the parking lot, he's helping Ponyboy out, lifting him out the car and getting him into Buck's, and into Dallas' room.

It means kissing him gently, telling him that he'll be okay. Going to the car and getting the blankets they'd mated on, and bringing them to Ponyboy, helping to arrange a nest. It means sitting down, wiping the tears off of Ponyboy's face, and helping him fold into the bed, keeping his voice low as he says, "Get some sleep, kid. You're okay. Just get some rest, okay?"

"Okay. Okay," Ponyboy sniffs, hands shaking. "Don't leave." His eyes are wide in his face, his cheeks flushed from crying, his hair a mess as Dallas cards his fingers through his hair.

Dallas kisses him, and nuzzles his cheek. "Let me lock the door, and I'll be back." He stands up, crosses the room and locks the door. He can see that there's blood beneath his fingernails from the fight; his face hurts enough that he knows he's got a split lip and a shiner's going to bloom.

Oh, well.

Dallas makes his way back to Ponyboy, wraps his arms around him, and buries his face in his neck, inhaling his scent. Ponyboy mattered more than Darry. Being a good mate mattered more than being a good pack mate.

And some fucking pack they were right now.

His mind drifts away from Tulsa, goes to New York City, thinking of what he'd left there. Of the family that hadn't wanted him, of the family that he had never considered returning to. One of the things that had kept him in Tulsa was this pack, this idea of it. People he could rely on, trust, care for that he could keep to, that wouldn't do to him what his parents had done.

As Ponyboy starts to drift off beside him, as Dallas replays what Darry had said to him, he remembers all the times he had thought this was better, these people, this place was so much more worth it, more secure.

For the first time in years, it doesn't feel true. It feels like he's facing the idea that a pack didn't consist of them all, and the only way to survive, to go on, was to break away. Only, this time, he had a choice in it.

And that choice was right in his arms. A choice he was prepared to make, if it all came down to it. One he'd make now without a second thought.

He wonders if Darry will force him, if the courts will, if Ponyboy will ask to run away with him if things go badly, if he can never return home.

Dallas knows his answer.

The sun is starting to peek over the horizon as Darry picks up more and more of the glass off of the carpeted floor. It's been over an hour since Dallas and Ponyboy had come through that door, since he did something he knew he wasn't supposed to do, and Soda had just fled.

Every time he thinks of Soda running, every time he thinks of the look they had all given him, Darry doesn't know what to think or feel: anger that he'd let it go that far; regret that he had repeated what he'd done to Ponyboy weeks ago; rage over the fact that Dallas had been the one to correct him, even though he was the source of all of this.

He doesn't know what to do anymore, doesn't know what's right anymore. That had been the problem the entire time, though, hadn't it? He was twenty years old, had to leave college – the thing he had worked so hard for, the thing he had worked tirelessly to achieve, to make his parents happy, to get away from gangs and greasers and Socs – to come back home and help raise his brothers. It was what he was supposed to do, it was the right thing to do.

Darry had thought that maybe, he was getting better at this, being a guardian and a big brother. That he was doing what his parents had wanted him to do, to care for his brothers in the way they could've done.

In all of that, though, as he picks up shards of the lamp his mother had adored, one of the few things she had taken with her from her old home that she rarely discussed, the silence of the house washes over him. There's no Sodapop there talking or laughing; Ponyboy isn't there reading a book in a corner or conversing with Soda or trying to argue with him; none of the gang is there to open the door and walk inside to break it. It's only Darry, picking up shards, having to throw them in the trash can all on his own.

A part of them had always wanted this: to be free of responsibility, to make his way into the world on his own, to forget the strife that existed in Tulsa. To be able to be on his own, and there had always been a bubble of resentment in him that he had been pulled back, buried beneath the grief he felt of his parents' passing. Resentment that he had tried to never let him affect how he treated his brothers, had tried to never let push his decisions.

And now, he was in a deathly silent house as the sun rises further into the sky, as he looks at the dents in the wall, at Ponyboy's backpack still on his bed, at Soda's DX shirt waiting for him on the bed.

He had failed them, had let it all come tearing out of him, and here he was at a precipice where he had to fix things, had to figure out a way to keep them together.

He just doesn't know how, anymore. Doesn't know how to keep them safe, doesn't know how to make a choice that works for them, doesn't know how to go forward, not with the way everything is right now.

And what help did he have? His pride stings at the idea of going to Mrs. Mathews – he can see her disapproving look in his head – or to Ed, who would castigate him first as a pack alpha. A pack alpha that Darry hadn't ever wanted to be, never felt right filling the shoes of yet had to – and Ed of all people would be angriest at him. At what he's hidden from him, at how this has all gone, at some fucking pack they were now.

Which was to say that they weren't one. Not at all.

And so much of that was Darry's fault. It was Dallas' fault, too – he's the one who took advantage, the one who should've known better.

Blame still lay at Darry's feet too as he cleans up the living room, not knowing what to do anymore.

Their pack was fractured and he didn't have an instruction manual on how to fix it or if it could be fixed in time to at least save Ponyboy and Johnny's life – or if it could even be done at all.

He looks outside, at the rising sun, at the street coming alive with others, and he tries so badly to try and will up an answer, a solution.

One doesn't come.

Chapter Text

A shower can't totally wash away the last few days, and Dallas can't find it in him to be as upset about it for Ponyboy as he should be as they park in front of the office building. He should; Ponyboy is about to be under a lot more scrutiny than he'd ever been in his life in a few days yet Dallas refuses to ignore how much he needs Ponyboy's newly mated scent around him.

It's one of the things keeping the day simpler as they go up the elevator, Ponyboy's hand in his. His hair isn't greased, the blonde hair with darkening roots starting to peak outward. He's still in Dallas' brown jacket, his skin still deeply red where the mating mark is. The skin is going to change colors from the bond; it'll be that angry red for at least two weeks before mottling into a darker color, the impression of Dallas' fangs embedded there.

They'd turn a few shades dark against Ponyboy's skin for the rest of his life, as long as the bond was there. If Dallas wanted to rebite it again, renew the feeling, it'd turn dark every time.

He wants to do it on the elevator, in that moment they're alone. He wants to pin Ponyboy against the wall and bite there until Ponyboy's moaning, and he can reassure him of where he stood.

He can't, however. Ponyboy has to make up for lost time, and then get to school. There had been enough days lost, and even if Dallas hadn't stepped foot in a classroom since he was kid, Ponyboy belonged there. Not at Buck's, not at the rodeos, not bumming around listlessly.

"You think he'll help?" Ponyboy asks as the elevator door opens, light from the hallway making his eyes more hazel than brown.

"He ain't much of a lawyer if he can't," there's no way to guarantee Ponyboy, except that. "Been around lawyers before, kid, and they can make a lot happen if they're worth a goddamn thing." He grips Ponyboy's hand tighter as they make their way out of the elevator and down the pristine hallway. "He talked all that shit earlier, so he better."

Ponyboy's mouth hooks upward, some hope settling into his face, a sign that Dallas said the right thing, was doing the right thing. His fingers grip Dallas' tighter as they make their way to the door of the lawyer's office. The light is on; he must've gotten there as soon as the building opened.

The knock Dallas gives is solid — his memory beckons up images of a similar door in New York, of a face looking up that knew the law just as well yet was friendlier — and loud. There isn't too long of a wait, Eugene coming to open the door with his glasses on. His scent is still undetectable; Dallas suspects suppressants as his eyes flicking over them both. "Well, good morning Ponyboy, Dallas. I wasn't expecting either of you."

"I'm sorry for missing the appointment," his voice is small as he speaks, Ponyboy keeping eye contact with the older man, "Could — could we talk now instead? It was an emergency."

Eugene looks at Dallas. "I'll need him alone, if you please. Shouldn't take more than about thirty minutes."

He doesn't want to. Instinctively he wants to bare his teeth, yank Ponyboy away and it's so hard to wrestle with it, to tame it enough to let go of Ponyboy's hand. "Thirty. He's gotta get to class."

"Understood. Come on in," Eugene beckons Ponyboy inside, and Dallas watches, trying to stop the urge to pull Ponyboy close, to bury his nose in his hair.

All he's got is the hallway now, and some change in his pocket. He walks away from the door to the vending machine to grab some food, and to maybe find some coffee. Thirty minutes is a long time in a government building and Dallas isn't going to waste it.

Not when he's got a lot to think about. As impulsive as that moment had been, as desperate as it had been, Dallas feels like he's ten years old again, riding on that train into an uncertain future — one where he truly was on his own, where every decision he made was going to affect him and only him. Where he had to survive, tantamount to anything else, where if he made one mistake, he'd end up hurt or dead.

Except it's not just him anymore. It's Ponyboy, too — his mate, who was almost four years younger than him, who wasn't a mafia kid who'd been exiled by his parents. He was a kid who'd had parents, good ones. Who was good at school, and damn near anything he wanted to try at, who had a future, who could do anything good, who had for some reason beyond Dallas, had chosen him out of everyone to be with him for the rest of his life. Who had wanted Dallas to have something no one else would, who told Dallas he loved him.

Sylvia saying it had always fallen out of her mouth cheaply. It had been a way to try and keep things together or to conceal a lie. It was a word he'd never heard from his parents, and something he'd heard once or twice from his aunt, about the only person he trusted with it.

There had never been a reason to believe it. Not until Ponyboy had said it to him in that room, above him, his hair in his face, his eyes wide, voice firm. He's never felt it be real until that moment, and Dallas would be an idiot not to see that, not to be determined to do everything to make sure he had earned every word Ponyboy said.

That includes now as he gets himself black coffee and crackers, eating them outside of the office as the sky starts to brighten more and more. Maybe it's too much for a seventeen year old hood to think about — then again, most hoods weren't like him, hadn't been on their own like this the way he had. Most of them still thought of most relationships as a fling, as something to discard.

Not Dallas. He knows that what happened in that room, as his teeth sank into Ponyboy's neck, his choice wasn't one made out of teenage whims, it wasn't one made lightly.

Ponyboy loved him, and Dallas loved him. It was real, it was true.

He didn't care if Darry didn't believe him, if he thought Dallas didn't take it seriously, if he thought he had done something wrong. To him, it was everything and he would do any and everything for Ponyboy until that bond broke or he died.

"I'll be back around lunch," Dallas' hand touches his mating mark, and desire flares up in Ponyboy again — to be back in the nest with Dallas, to have Dallas inside of him, to be covered in his scent, his body, to be safe. To be whole in a way he hadn't felt before.

His eyes well up with tears like the bawl baby he doesn't want to be, yet has been ever since they had run away from the house to Buck's. There was a lot he didn't know about mating, and he wishes he'd known before how intense things would feel now, that he'd known that he wouldn't want to do anything except crawl up inside Dallas, that he'd known that it made everything so much more brilliant than before, and scary too.

Having all of that on his shoulders with everything else wasn't helping him be brave, or strong. It was making him want to kiss Dallas, to run from everything he couldn't, and Ponyboy has to steel himself, to try and not have his voice shake as he says, "I'll see you, Dally."

When Dallas kisses him, he goes dizzy with Dallas' scent, with the warmth of his body, with how safe he feels. All he wants to do is go with him, stay with him, and when Dallas pulls away, Ponyboy wipes at his eyes before he can see.

Dallas looks at him for a long moment, his hair picking up in the wind. His hand runs over Ponyboy's mark again, and it's him who walks back to his car. Ponyboy wishes he could get in the car with him, go with him. He wishes he could just leave here, instead of having to turn around and walk inside.

He hadn't been to school in over a week, so he has to go to the front office with a note not from a doctor but his lawyer, that Eugene had hastily written up to excuse Ponyboy, to let them make up his work. Ponyboy hands it over with half heartedness; he doesn't have to look into the eyes of the secretaries there to know that they all scent what everyone else does. As soon as he gets the say so, he bolts out of the office, trying to get to his classes quietly.

It would be easier if it didn't feel as if every eye is on him no matter where he goes: teachers peering at him, Socs who whisper to each other, greasers who whistle or look at him curiously. It's as if there are needles pricking him everywhere he goes, as if everyone knows exactly what's happening, even if logically, he knows they don't.

Some things are always evident though. As he sits in his second period class, he knows that whatever phantom eyes were pricking at him before, it's worse now. There are Socs filling this class, given it's an advanced math class. A math class that he needs to pay attention to, even though their scents are overwhelming, offensive to him. None of them are of his pack (what pack? a pack that was split down the middle now?) and none of them are Dallas who he desperately wants to be surrounded by, wants his warm body pressing down onto his, wants his hand on his hip or his thigh, wants his voice growling against his ear as he fucks his knot into him.

Ponyboy squirms, not wanting to leak slick here, face flushing as he tries to concentrate on the board, his hand moving upwards, towards his neck where the mating mark is. He knows he should leave it alone, that he should concentrate on the board, on the equations there.

Everything just feels exposed, his head filling with everything Eugene had told him, with the fact that it was only a few more days until he'd be in front of a judge, hoping that he wouldn't go to a boy's home, that he wouldn't be in the chair right alongside Johnny, waiting to fry up.

His hand presses against his cheek. His teacher drones on.

The heat hotel room comes back to him. What Dallas had sounded like when Ponyboy had sank his fangs into Dallas' neck, of how Dallas had felt beneath him. What he would be like right now if he was there, if he could sink his fangs into his mating mark.

His hand drifts towards his neck, and Ponyboy grips his pencil tighter. The light overhead hums louder than it should, and unbidden, he thinks of Darry's foot crushing his mama's pretty lamp, and his hand goes clammy again —

The bell rings.

Study hall.

He's never run to the library this fast before in his life, going to the back as soon as he can, ignoring the missive of the librian there and all her usual friendliness. There's no one he wants to look at, talk to at the moment.

Only a book would do. Only that.

He's got his backpack down when he hears the sound of crutches thunking on the carpet heavily, and a whisper, "Ponyboy? You here, man?"

Relief washes through him immediately, Ponyboy's face breaking into a grin. "Johnnycake? Over here!" In the commotion, the fact that Johnny shared a study hall period with him had slipped his mind. Ponyboy is grateful when Johnny rounds the corner, his hair finally starting to grow out of that ugly Jay Mountain haircut, his face a bit red as he uses his crutches to get over to him. "You okay?"

A pang of guilt stabs him; Johnny rightfully needed a wheelchair and not crutches. They couldn't afford the wheelchair, and Johnny shakes his head. "Yeah, yeah I'm fine! Just wanted to see you — ain't seen you in over a week!" He finally gets over to Ponyboy, putting his crutches to the side and sinking to sit beside Ponyboy, his eyes huge in his face.

"Don't," Ponyboy snaps when Johnny's eyes fly to the mating mark and then up to Ponyboy's face, mouth half dropping open. "I asked Dallas! I already got it bad enough from Darry!"

The surprise on Johnny's face, the way he averts his eyes makes Ponyboy feel bad for only half a moment, and only half. Despite what Darry had done, there was nothing in him that regretted what he'd done. Not even for Johnny would he tolerate it, inasmuch Johnny didn't deserve anything harsh.

For a moment, Johnny looks like he might not say anything else, eyes on his fiddling hands with his nails bitten down to the stubs again. Then he speaks, voice soft, "Wasn't gonna be hacked off at you about that. Just — wanted to know if you were okay." He glances up through his eyelashes, "If you t-talked to the lawyer."

"Yeah. Dally took me before school," he keeps his voice down too this time, swallowing. "He said he'd move the court date so we could get ourselves together. And that — there was a list of witnesses. He's got a list of 'em, and Cherry was on it. He said it wasn't a guarantee her or any of the Socs would show up." His mouth goes dry at that, in fright. "He talked me through it all again too — the night, what happened, where we ran off to. Said that they would do anything to try and make us look bad, that we had to stick together."

He feels sick as he says it, voice failing. He thinks of Darry raising a fist again, and Johnny looks up at him, curious, not cowed. "What's the matter?"

Ponyboy opens his mouth, not knowing where to begin, feeling his mating mark pulse on his neck, feeling the urge to cry, wanting to do something, anything except turn into a bawl baby again. Especially after he'd just snapped at Johnny, of all people.

Johnny though, he knows what it's like when their eyes connect. They're not in the library anymore; they're in the church together, Johnny freaking out with the weight of a murder on his shoulders, Ponyboy terrified of the future, and before he can stop himself, he's talking like he had on Jay Mountain, mouth choking on his own fear, his own distress.

The only person who's known that Darry hit him is Johnny. It feels safe to talk about it in choked sounds, in shaking shoulders, feeling Johnny rub at his back as he talks about the heat, about coming back, about Darry's anger, about Soda fleeing. He talks past the bell, until he's hoarse, until the tears on his face begin to dry.

By the time he's done, Johnny's moved closer and the strokes on his back are soothing him. Johnny's scent is nowhere near as close as it had been before the fire, and it's never been all that soothing. It's not close to Dallas' own — still though, the presence is warranted, welcomed.

Minutes pass without another word. Johnny rubs his back, Ponyboy rubs at his face. His mating mark throbs and aches. There's no accusation from Johnny to call him a bawl baby, only a sigh as he leans against the wall.

"It ain't fair for us to be like this. Ain't good either," he says, and Ponyboy doesn't argue that. "Eugene said we had to be united for all this — and you said it yourself. You asked Dal. You... you love him, don't you?"

The way he says it makes Ponyboy remember how things were like weeks ago, when he thought the person that Dallas cared about the most was Johnny. How he'd mistaken every word and action for the wrong thing and something in Johnny's voice is hesitant, not understanding entirely.

He nods without any of that hesitation. "He loves me too. I know it. I ain't leaving him, no matter what anyone says. Darry can stay hacked off about that, I don't care."

Johnny's hand goes up to rub at his hair, just like Jay Mountain, teeth biting at his lip. His eyes focus on Ponyboy's hand, at the mostly healed over scar from the initiation. It's like Johnny reads his mind in that moment as he says, "We're a real good pack right now, huh? Everyone fighting, run away from home."

"I know," the disappointment in the situation colors Ponyboy's voice too, shoulders slumping.

He hears the shelf creak a bit when Johnny shifts against it, his mouth curled up sardonically. "Just a few weeks ago, I didn't believe in it. I thought — I thought I'd rather have my parents rather than a pack. Then everything these past few weeks... made me believe in it again. How everyone actually was coming together, looking out for each other. The Mathews making me feel real good. And now we're fighting, right before we gotta go to court." His voice takes on that upset quality it had at the lot and Ponyboy thinks of what Johnny had said then, about wanting to die. "We're supposed to be better than this, ain't we?"

"It feels like it hasn't worked since my parents died," The words scrape the bottom of his throat in pain, with the raw emotion there. "They knew how to be a pack, they had years of practice. They knew what to do, all the time. We don't have that. We're – we're just kids."

The words hang in the air for a moment, with how serious they are, with how much they hurt in that moment, the truth in them. Ponyboy's chest clenches with it; if they'd been here at all none of this would've—

"So we gotta find someone who knows," the words come out quiet, quick. Johnny seems to come into himself, eyes lighting up. "Ed, Ponyboy. We should ask him to help. Ain't that what he for?"

Ponyboy doesn't have any other better ideas. So he nods. "Ed. We should call him."

It's a shot in hell – but a shot is a shot.

Chapter Text

"Keith? Is that you?"

That is the first alarm bell that goes off in Two-Bit's head as walks into the house. Class wasn't something he had on his mind today; after that meeting with the lawyer, he'd intended to look the attic to find some court attire. He'd lucked out better than most; his father had worn the same size as Two-Bit had in shoes. He was betting that his clothes – all simply left here when his father had walked out in the middle of the night – might fit him too. A suit would make him look like a fucking monkey, but a monkey who was there to help his friends.

Having his mother say his name, his real name, however, worries him. She only called him Keith when things were dire, and the last time she'd called him that was when Dallas, Johnny, and Ponyboy had made the front paper and she'd needed to know if Johnny would die.

That had been only less worse when she'd used it when she'd gotten news the Curtises had died. It was the worst thing he'd ever come home to.

The fear that sits in his stomach is uneasy as he hollers back, "Yeah, it's me!" His boots (his father's boots, easily discarded) click on the floor as he comes to the kitchen. His mother is sitting there, her curly red hair pulled halfway up, the post work meal of biscuits in front of her, mostly eaten. As much as she complains about him being lazy, some of it's certainly from her with the way he can seer her trail of morning breakfast routine all over. He pulls the coffee pot out, grabbing a cup. "What's going on?"

His mother rubs at her arms, her eyes coming to focus on him. "I need you to go see Darry after that. I'm – I'm worried." She pushes some of her hair behind her ear. "When I drove up this morning, I saw the lights on heard some yelling. Then, while you and Johnny were getting dressed, I saw Sodapop Curtis just flying down the street. After that, Dallas almost broke the suspension on Buck's car, driving that thing like a bat outta hell."

"What? Darry go into work today?" Two-Bit doesn't bother finishing pouring himself coffee, jamming the pot back, setting down the cup. He goes to peer out of the window, and sure enough he can see Darry's truck parked right where it normally was. "Something big must've happened."

"That's what I'm scared of. They – You guys can't have this right now," his mother's voice jumps an octave in fright. Two-Bit goes to kiss her hair, rubbing her back quickly.

He grasps his jacket, grateful he hadn't taken his boots off. "I'm going now, don't worry!" With that, he pulls on his jacket, his boots making a sharp familiar click as he makes his way down the street, past the Cades (lights off, probably sleeping off another night of drinking), and down where the Curtis house was.

There are fresh skidmarks on the driveway, Two-Bit choosing to hop the fence to get inside. The door is, as expected, open. However, what he finds isn't normal: there's plaster drying on two different walls in the living room and the hallway; Mrs. Curtis' pretty green lamp is missing it's shade and bulb, not even plugged in anymore; the main glass table has been shifted to an ugly looking angle, and when he checks the trash can, he can see the green lamp in glass shards.

"Darry?" He calls out, peering into the kitchen to see no evidence of breakfast. "Darry, you in here?"

"Down here, Two-Bit!" The call comes from the other end of the house, down the hallway. Two-Bit turns, walking down it, passing the spare room, Soda and Pony's room, and reaching the very end where the door was half cracked. Darry stood in the doorway, frowning down at Two-Bit, looking like he'd just wiped his face off, half red.

Rocking to a stop a few paces away from Darry, Two-Bit looks up at him, trying to figure out what was going on. He never entered Darry's new room — it had belonged to Mrs. and Mr. Curtis, Darry forced to move in when his parents had died. Stepping into it was downright spooky to Two-Bit and he ran his eyes over Darry, over the obvious scent he was giving that was agitated. "You ain't at work cause you doing repairs in here, huh?"

"Don't do this," Darry cuts in, face irritated. "What do you want?"

"Could start with the fact that your momma's lamp is broken. Or the two holes you just patched up," the moment he says those words, Two-Bit can see Darry's face darken, scent his pheromones picking up in anger. "Or the fact that my Momma saw Soda running like the devil himself was after him."

For half a second, Two-Bit thinks that Darry will shut the door on his damn fingers. Instead, Darry's shoulders drop, and there's a look of upset conflict on his face. It's gaining that hunted quality that he'd had during the week Ponyboy and Johnny had been gone – as if he couldn't run away from anything anymore, almost like he'd given up.

It doesn't sit right with Two-Bit, frowning as Darry finally speaks up, "There was a fight. Dallas and Ponyboy came home, and we got into it."

"I wasn't born yesterday. Tell me all of it," Two-Bit steps away, giving Darry room to come out of the bedroom door, and to head to the living room. "I know there's a lot more to that."

They don't sit in the living room — they stand in the kitchen as Darry makes himself a pot of, coffee, offers it to Two-Bit. The coffee's a good thing to have when he's itching to wrap his hand around Darry's neck as he talks. Every word he says lays out a picture worse than the one before it, and by the time Darry explains how he'd started to clean everything up, refusing to go to work, well.

Two-Bit feels like he's gonna dump it on Darry's head if he goes on more. Instead, he's left swishing around the rest of it in his mouth, trying to figure out where to start, Darry's eyes on the table in front of him.

So Two-Bit starts at the place that should be started at, swallowing the coffee, leaning against the counter and saying, "You're a real fucking teddy bear, huh, Darry? Just real nice after your little brother comes home after his first heat, ain'tcha?"

Darry looks at him incredulously. "You're taking his side?"

"If my little sister went through the shit that kid went through at his age, and decided she had someone she could trust before she was about to see her friend get the chair maybe? I wouldn't yell at her and whoever she brought home," he holds up at finger, when Darry's mouth opens, "And sure as shit I wouldn't call my friend a pervert to his face when he's the one who's been looking out for her!"

The look on Darry's face is thunderstruck – Two-Bit doesn't care for it, for how it's clear as day that Darry doesn't want to take responsibility for it. "He's fourteen years old! He shouldn't be mated at that age. Normal fourteen year olds don't do that, and Dallas is damn near eighteen, an adult."

"I ain't saying me or you would do what Ponyboy would've done. What I'm saying is that Ponyboy? He ain't never and has never been a normal fourteen year old like you and me where we were just discovering skirts and girls. Your parents weren't dead at fourteen, were they?" It's not a card he relishes playing, just one that has to be dealt. "My daddy was gone by that age, and we all know I had to step in his shoes. I did what I had to do. Ponyboy, to him, he's just doing that. He can't be like we were, cause he doesn't have parents, cause he went through something we never have."

"He should –"

"And I'm saying he isn't," Two-Bit argues right back unafraid of Darry. "He lost the time to be that normal kid when he was thirteen years old, Darry. Way before Johnny killed that piece of shit in front of him." He raises his voice harder, angrier. "You ain't talking about Paul when you talk about Dallas – he's my best buddy and I should knock you right on your ass for calling him a perv when he's been doing his damndest for him. You know why I ain't gonna, though?"

Darry's hands clench. Two-Bit thinks of the things he could throw at him. "Why?"

"Cause I'm your friend, cause we're a pack. Buddy boy, we're packmates even if you've got your head shoved so far up your ass it's practically in your throat," Two-Bit frowns deeper, trying to emulate the tone his mother takes on in disappointment. "You got two whole brothers you done chased outta here cause you're more concentrated on being stubborn than you are on doing good by them. I'm your friend and packmate enough to try and set you straight today."

"Set me straight?" Darry leaps up now out of the seat, fuming. "How can you just take their side like that? How is a judge or the state gonna feel about Ponyboy being with an adult? How am I supposed to protect him or Soda like this?!"

"Not by keeping your fist clenched around him like this!" Two-Bit yells back, pushing off of the counter, his pheromones responding to the ones Darry is giving off now, the upset scent of an alpha with a good few inches and pounds on him, and one who he isn't going to pull back from. Not now. Not ever. "You keep doing this to him, to Soda, you ain't gonna have nothing Darry! Don't you get that?" A desperate tone edges on his voice, even as he moves a step forward, the click of his boot heel echoing in the kitchen, reminding him of the only fight he'd ever seen between his parents, right before his father had walked out of that door, before everything had shifted. "Would you rather have your fucking pride over having brothers? You wanna lose your whole damn family this year?"

A pin could drop from the heavens at that moment and neither would hear it over the sound of their breathing, over the way that both of them seemed amped up for a fight, to slug it out.

Darry crumples into himself instead. His eyes grow wet, his hand goes up to catch himself, and Two-Bit allows him the moment, to break down, to finally feel shame.

He doesn't reach out until Darry's hand grips his shoulder, drags him over. That's when Two-Bit wraps his arm around Darry, allows him to cry. They don't speak for minutes until Darry's crying is over, Two-Bit keeping his voice low. "Listen – I know what you gave up for them. We all were so happy to see you go to college, I hated that you had to come back. I do. But Darry, you gotta set all that aside, you gotta keep everything together or none of us stay together. Please."

The ragged upset huff that leaves Darry is as good as Two-Bit will get for now.

Two-Bit saves his own tears for another time. He waits until Darry pulls back to pat him on the shoulder. "G'on, Superman. Clean up, okay? We can finish talking when you get cleaned up."

"Thanks," Darry claps him on the back, and Two-Bit watches him shuffle down the hallway, past the half cleaned up mess. He sees Darry open and shut the door of his bedroom, and once he does it, Two-Bit drops his head into his hands, rubbing at his forehead.

All of it was exhausting to think about, to talk about. This year felt like five with all the things that had been going on non-stop from the Curtises dying down to this. There's more that he wants to say to Darry — that doing this was crazy, that he should've taken more time to consider it all, that he should know better, that just cause he had a point didn't mean that he had to say or do it in the worst way.

Some of that he couldn't ever say out loud. He wasn't Steve, who'd just shoot from the hip no matter what, without a care where people's feelings would land as long as he had a point, as long as he was right. He had always tried to say things in the right way, in the right time. And right now, he wonders if they'll make it, if Darry will choose to listen.

Then the phone shatters his thoughts, and Two-Bit lifts his head up. He ambles over to it, picking the phone up, drawling out, "Curtis residence!"

"Two-Bit? What're you doing here?" Johnny's voice spills out on the other end.

"What are you doing calling the Curtises in the middle of a school day?" Two-Bit counters, even though he's got a few bets onto why.

There's a sound of the phone shifting hands. "We're calling — we wanna talk, get Ed involved with everything." Ponyboy's as smart as ever, not even asking if Two-Bit knows what he knows. "Thought it'd be better to have Ed help us."

God that kid was smart. "Real good idea, Pony. Real good. We're not gonna get Ed involved unless we have to — what I want you kiddos to do, though, is head on over to the bonfire hill, before the bonfire. Pony, you can't miss anymore classes. So as soon as school's over, get over there."

"You think it'll be okay without Ed?" Johnny voices.

"I think so. Long as everyone gets their heads outta their asses," Two-Bit grins, even though they can't see. "Though — anyone know where the hell Soda ran off to?"

There's a silence on the other end.

Guess not.

It's been months since Soda was allowed to wake up on a normal week day after ten-thirty. He's someone who used to always wake up so far past noon that it was damn near evening when he was going to school and allowed to sleep in on the weekends. Working full time changed that; it didn't matter what he wanted to do in terms of getting up. He had to be up in time and to work in order to make sure that they could pay bills every month and to make sure that a roof could be kept up over their heads.

Being able to wake up surrounded by girls was an entirely different experience, even if when he raises his head, that total amount of girls around him was about three. Two of them he didn't even know their names, could just have been passerbys the girls allowed in. The third was Mimi, Ivy's second in command — a bit of a mystery. An omega, but Soda was never sure if Mimi was a boy, girl, or something else.

Not that it mattered right now. There was just a cocoon of softness around him at the moment, a nest occupied by other omegas who all have calmer scenets, and warm blankets, and none of the emotions that he'd been feeling over weeks now.

The fact that it had been weeks of it all — the fear over Ponyboy's well being, the feeling of anger towards Darry, the terror whenever the mail came to the house, dreading a letter that said they'd split them up — is overwhelming to Soda. Weeks of living in a total uncertainty, until he hadn't felt any choice except to run from home, to do anything and everything to get away from his brother's fighting over him, because of him.

No one had outright blamed him, no one had outright pushed it. Soda, however, understood what had happened. The fights sparking over him, the tension in the house that was never ending.

That tension isn't here, in the Viper's nest. He's here, with his thoughts, with people who aren't gonna pick at him, demand he play tug of war with them, and Soda feels relief.

Thinking about tomorrow, thinking about what was to come was hard. Being nervous isn't Soda, at all. He's never been afraid to fly, to go down a road, to kiss a girl, to kiss a guy, to tease, to flirt. He's finding lately, though, he's beginning to get scared of a lot more than he thought of: that his family might really fall apart, that he doesn't really know his brothers or his pack the way he thought he did, that all of this was much more delicate than he thought.

Darry shoving him isn't as bad as it could be. It was nowhere near as shocking or as bad as it had been to watch him hit Ponyboy so hard he fell, to have that silence, the shock before Ponyboy fled. Darry and him, they got into tussles all the time as kids. He could handle that.

What he can't handle, what makes him not want to get up and disturb anyone, to go back to the house, is that it's becoming normal. Maybe it is normal now, for his brothers to fight over him like two dogs over a bone. A normal that Soda can't stand anymore, that he can't bear.

He curls up on the bed, closer to Mimi. They yawn, and the sound of steps outside make Soda reluctant to close his eyes, to chase dreams of Sandy and her pretty blonde hair and her soft voice.

Just as well: there's a knock on the door, and when Soda peers up, it's Ivy standing above him, her clothes fresh, her hair in a ponytail with that green ribbon she looks so good in already tied there.

He feels guilty for only a second. Then he sits up, flashing her a grin. "You got all dolled up for school?"

"No," Ivy replies simply, "I'm going to work. I only go to school half of the week, dual enrollment." She looks over him with those pretty ink dark eyes of hers that Soda is starting to really love. "Did you wanna talk before I leave? Your brothers are probably gonna be looking for you today."

"I don't wanna talk about 'em," Soda admits, keeping his voice low. "What – I don't know what they want from me. Not right now." It's easier to talk to Ivy, who has no demands, who won't tug at him.

"They're you're pack. They're all you have."

"I know. That don't mean it's easy," Soda doesn't wanna raise his voice, feels awful even trying to argue against it, against someone who'd taken him in easy. "If they ask about me – just say you don't know where I am. Please?"

She tilts her head at him, reminding him of Steve for a moment. Unlike Steve, though, she doesn't argue. "Alright. It's up to you. I'll be back later. Wake up Mimi for me, will you? She's going to be late."

There's some displeasure in her voice, in the way she turns around and leaves. Soda tries not to let it bother him as he shakes Mimi's shoulder.

He just needs time. Just a little bit. Enough to consider what he had, enough to think of what to do about a pack that wasn't acting like a pack. A pack he loved more than anything, but a pack that felt like it was about to fall apart when everything was going wrong.

"Hey, kid," Dallas grins at Ponyboy in a way that's slightly crooked, all sharp fangs and bravado and if Ponyboy weren't helping Johnny down the steps, he'd have run over to him and dragged him down for a kiss. He wouldn't have cared if every soc and greaser in the county saw him do it either; his skin prickles around his mating mark, craving Dallas' teeth deep in his skin.

As it is, he helps Johnny down the last steps, saying, "Hey, Dally! You seen Steve?"

"Here? No," Dallas shrugs, looking over his sunglasses at Johnny as they fully get off the steps and come over to him. "Johnny, get in the back. Should be able to fit you okay."

There's tension in Dallas' shoulders as he reaches out to grasp Johnny's crutches, putting them in the back. Ponyboy itches, wanting to touch Dallas, wanting to bury his nose in his neck, to do anything at all to be with him. Instead, he opens the door for Johnny, and once he's in, he slams it shut. "Where're we going for lunch?"

"Jay's," Dallas climbs in the front, "Ain't itching to run into your brother. You alright, Johnny?"

Johnny and Ponyboy exchange glances. "We gotta talk about that." Johnny for once doesn't seem intimidated as Dallas frowns, throwing the car into drive. He pulls out of the parking lot of the school with the car growling, Johnny bouncing back with a squeak, Ponyboy bracing to the car.

"Talk about what? That asshole trying to act like I was fucking peeping into Ponyboy's room?" The snarl is angry, and even though Ponyboy knows that now isn't a great time to do this, that they have to smooth it over, he feels a pool of warmth in him that Dallas is angry, that he's defensive.

"Ed," Ponyboy says it before Johnny can, thinking it'd sound better from him as Dallas gets to the first red light. "We talked to each other, and Two-Bit. We think everything'll go better if we just talk to Ed about it, after school." In the rearview mirror, Ponyboy can see Johnny looking apprehensive, but determined. Just like he'd been on Jay Mountain. "Try and make the pack get along, fix things."

His voice is high, pleading. Just like Dallas' at Jay Mountain, like a sick replay where the roles have been reversed, the stakes changed.

Dallas' jaw clenches. He grips the wheel tighter, and he growls out, "You two thought this up, huh?" When Ponyboy nods, Dallas pushies his glasses up from his face, ignoring the light that turns green and the guy who honks behind him.

Something in his face has changed, Ponyboy thinks, since they've mated. There's a resolve there that he hasn't seen before, Dallas not considering Johnny at all when he looks at Ponyboy. As if he's searching for a signal, for something in Ponyboy that he can't define or understand why.

A horn honks. Dallas looks grim. "If it ain't work out — I'm not leaving you. You get me?"

Ponyboy's ears tip red, as the Mustang behind honks again and Johnny looks like a deer in the headlights in the rearview mirror. There's more in that You get me? than what he can say or do in front of Johnny.

"Yeah. I get you."

Dallas glances at Johnny, nodding. "Good." He turns, and pulls through the light right before it turns yellow, and then red.

It's Ponyboy who reaches over to slot his fingers against Dallas' knuckles as he clenches the gearshift.

Chapter Text

"I keep getting a busy signal when I dial," Two-Bit grouses as he hangs up the phone again. "Let's just hope we run into him today, and we can spread the word with other greasers." He turns to look at Darry, at his nervous face, at the way he chews at his lip.

Two-Bit wishes he could extend a little more pity to Darry at this moment. As is, though, it's almost lunch time and they've only got so much time to find Soda and maybe Steve. So he reaches down, claps a hand on Darry's shoulder. "I'll see you then, big guy. If you find Ed before I do, will you tell him to meet us there?"

"Yeah," Darry says half distractedly, staring back at the table. "I'll look out for Soda, too."

Two-Bit goes down the steps, boots clicking as he goes. He thinks of his father as he does it, moving down the road as quick as he can. If you couldn't find where someone was, you had to think smart about it. Places they could go, people they would see. Word could get around quick in Tulsa, if you were good with it.

It isn't hard to accost one of the younger greaser kids, telling him to pass on a message to surly old Tim Shepard, or to have him find Bear if he could. What was gonna be harder was finding someone before lunch who didn't have work or who wasn't going to just loiter around.

It's good luck, then, when Two-Bit sees one of the most reliable greasers turning a corner out. He whistles to get her attention, yelling out, "Ivy! Hey!"

Ivy must be running a little late given the time and it's clear she doesn't really like it when he runs up to her, trying to flag her down. "What is it? I have to go."

"You see Sodapop Curtis? About this tall, little willowy omega who's your type," Two-Bit chirps out, just to get on her nerves. "Been missing since early morning. Pack is itching to get ahold of him."

"No," the word is curt. Her car inches up. "Any reason why?"

"Had a real bad fight. We're trying to fix it — getting Ed involved, before the bonfire," Two-Bit steps with her as the car keeps going forward. "You mind telling him to come, if you see him?"

"Sure," Ivy says, raising an eyebrow at him. "I'll tell my pack too. Now let go, I'm late."

"Thanks!" Two-Bit lets go, and Ivy drives down the road.

It's early in the morning – too early in the morning, in fact – when Steve hears a shout. Hearing a shout at a dumb hour was normal in this neighborhood, as he picked out his clothes for school.

What wasn't normal was to hear barefeet hitting the pavement. Steve almost doesn't see him at the last second, head turned towards the kitchen window only at the right second enough to realize that it's Soda running. There's a wild urge to just go out there, go after him to see what the hell is going on with him.

The rest of him though is a Randle: stubborn, inflexible, and slow to forget slights.

So he just watches, curious as Soda runs down the street, and then turns his head towards the Curtis house when he hears a car squeal out of there.

Minutes later, when he's pulling out to drive to school, he does a pass by the house that isn't necessary. He can see that Darry's truck is still in the drive when he should be getting ready to go. There's an urge to walk up there, to go in and see what's going on.

Then he presses his foot on the gas and drives to school, determined to put it out of his mind. Whatever issue was going on, he didn't care right now. It wasn't his damn business, and as far as he was concerned, he was gonna keep it that way.

Even though it itched at the back of his head, even though it made his leg hop almost all morning during classes, he was going to ignore it. He'd gotten the message loud and clear about where he stood with Sodapop Curtis, and it sure as hell wasn't by his side like it had always been since they were kids.

Apparently, that didn't matter to Soda the way one girl did. One girl who had pushed her skirt up and let someone else pup her up, and ran to Florida. One girl who seemed to not even care enough to return his letters, one girl who had done nothing except hurt Soda.

That didn't matter to years of friendship, to Soda and Steve sticking up for each other, to Steve doing everything he could to help Soda.

Just nothing. All for one stupid girl.

Well, he had other fucking plans they weren't tuned to.

(And so fucking what that if they'd all been on the level, if things weren't so crazy right now, they'd like his plans?)

As soon as the bell rings for lunch, Steve shoves his books beneath his arms, trudges his way out of the back and goes to his car. He gives one sweep of a look for Johnny, and not finding him, he throws the car into drive, and makes his way out of the school gravel parking lot. He's got to go somewhere that actually wants him.

To someone.

"Steve!" She sees him first, with the straight teeth she's got, her red hair shining, and a brightness to her that Steve doesn't think he's seen in awhile. It's better than the rest of her, he can tell the moment he looks at her clothes. She's in one of those awful, expensive outfits Soc girls liked to wear, with the tops clinging but the bottom skirts pleated in a shade of pink that clashes with her hair.

The only part of his cousin that looks like the person she really was, who he really knew, was the black painted fingernails he sees as she wraps her arms around him. He has to bend down just a little to hug her back, her scent washing over him nicely, her hand coming to stroke his neck. Her hair's still in that short cut she'd adopted over a year ago, a fact that he doesn't like as he pets it. "Hey, Molly. Didn't wanna keep you real long; you ready to go?"

"Fuck yes," Two sentences in and she's swearing as bad as him. The mall is upscale enough that the saleswoman shoots her a glare. She must've been sitting here awhile in the department store, waiting for him with the bag she has. "My mom said I could only spend one night and then I had to be back."

He grasps her bag, shooting her a half scowl around his cigarette. "Yeah, after dressing you like the ugliest powderpuff. She pin you down and force you in it?"

"Fuck off, greaser," Molly sneers right back, her sharp omega teeth flashing. "You shower before you get here or you roll in some mud?"

He lets out a laugh as they walk out of the department store and into the main part of the indoor mall. It's too fancy for him; ordinarily he wouldn't be caught dead here. Molly's always been the exception though as they walk over to the cafe. More details spring out to him as they walk: the way her hips have changed, the way her scent has shifted, the cuts on her arms that show cause she's refusing to wear the jacket her mother gave her. They look like she's been scratching at herself like a cat. "Nah, though you look like you lost a fight to a wildcat."

"Usually happens when you have nightmares. You'd know if you looked in a mirror," Molly puts her hand in the silly church purse she's got that's pure white. "Where's your pack? They didn't know I was coming?"

"Pack my ass," he bites it out as they make it to the line at the cafeteria which is mostly older folks, no one young enough to know what a greaser or Soc is but just old enough to be annoyed as he swears, "Those assholes haven't told me a damn thing for weeks. All I know is something's going on and whatever it is, Soda ran off."

Molly looks at him in that way he really hates: the scrunched up nose, the sharpness in her eyes that reminds him all too much of her mother, even though she'd never want to hear it. "And you didn't go after him? At all?"

He scowls. "No. They don't wanna talk to me, that's fine with me."

"You mean you're mad Soda won't talk to you," she pulls out some money, counting it. "I wouldn't either, with the way you're acting."

"Me?" he almost snarls it out — then they're at the register. He falls silent as Molly orders, simmering at her. He orders his meal after her, and as soon as they're left to wait, he lays back in. "I didn't do shit, Mol, except tell the truth."

Rolling her eyes, his cousin takes a sip of her drink. "You know, I didn't come all this way to hear you complain like one of those dumb cheerleaders at school about her boyfriend. I came here to spend time in a place that wasn't a nuthouse."

Steve huffs. "You asked."

She nudges him with her elbow, the light making her freckles stick out more. "Can you talk like a normal cousin for five minutes before you turn into Dear Abby again? Please?"

Anyone else and Steve would get angry, annoyed. She's not though, and he relents. "Fine, fine. How was the ride?"

"Terrible," Molly replies, mouth turning into a half frown. "Mother spent most of it trying to remind me of ways that I shouldn't be embarrassing her while we're here. I had to recite everything I remembered about the contests going on, and then I had to hear a lecture from her about her stupid conference. So, you know, normal. Minus the part where she still calls me a slut!"

He winces at that, at the way her tone is chipper despite the way her face visibly looks tired when she speaks. "Didn't think she'd change."

"She'll change when you get a clean mouth, yeah," Molly sighs out, taking another pull of her drink. "I had to be on my best behavior coming here. She thinks I'm gonna walk back in the house pregnant again to ruin her perfect picture of life."

Just like it had before the summer she'd come to see them, his stomach drops to the floor at the word pregnant. To hear Molly, seventeen years old in a few months time, acknowledge the fact that she'd had a whole child in the months that they'd been apart – almost a whole year in and of itself.

Not that he was stupid; he'd vividly remembered when she'd been deposited at their doorstep alone, tears streaming down her face, already showing. She'd stayed the entire summer of 1964 until her mother had taken her back.

It had been weird — she was barely ninety pounds wet, and she was already so distended around her middle it looked like she'd shoved a basketball up her skirt. She had pulled close to him, had to be coaxed to come outside with the gang.

And they'd been more than decent with her, made her seem almost normal to be like that.

Then he'd come home to his father saying, Took that slut right back home to have that pup of hers. Steve had clenched his fist, had remembered what could happen to him if he hit his old man. And he'd let it go, had known that the next time, it would be Molly calling and not him. She'd have given birth by then, to a boy or a girl, and surely things would be alright.

The only call he'd gotten was one of her muted, quiet saying, They took the baby.

Then there hadn't been anything else. Nothing he could say could pry out more besides the fact she'd given birth and nothing more. Even when they were alone, without the possibility of her mother hearing, Steve could get nothing from her.

So this was just how it was not.

It was all a nothing space, a locked away secret he could never get the key to. Trying to pry anything out of her here wasn't gonna work, making a dig wasn't going to clarify, and on an afternoon like this, did he even want to?

For a moment he thinks of Sandy, how far along she might be with some asshole's kid.

He shoves the thought of her aside and bites out, "She got you those expensive pills. What's her worry for, aren't they a sure thing?"

"You know she's obsessed with the idea that I might do something worse than last time," Molly moves to get her food, Steve going with her. "Like I'll magically get knocked up by Jesus or something."

Steve snorts so hard that he almost inhales his cigarette instead of laughing. Molly grins back at him, and he's so thankful that she's here. One sane person he could count on. They eat in silence for a few moments until he breaks it with, "That race tonight, you got a change of clothes? I can't let you be seen looking like a tampon package."

"You've been close enough to a girl to know what a tampon is?"

He throws his fry at her.

"Hey, kid," Dallas speaks up, as Johnny makes his way into Jay's. "Hold on."

Johnny looks back, but it's Ponyboy he's talking to, who pauses halfway out of the car. The whole ride has been quiet, and Dallas's teeth are aching more than they should be.

Or, he thinks so.

Truth be told, Dallas doesn't know anything about how you're supposed to feel after mating; he just knows that if he doesn't get some alone time with Ponyboy after everything, he's going to get pissier than what he already feels, the need to have Ponyboy an itch that lives beneath his skin.

And he feels damn pissed. With the fact that everything had gone down so awfully that morning, with the fact that Darry had called him something that should be reserved for old guys who flipped up girl's skirts and peered through peepholes, with the fact that even if it could be true, he just wanted to have his damn mate, Darry or no Darry.

(That was without counting how he had done what any mate should — he'd taken Ponyboy to the lawyer, hadn't he? Got him to school on time, even, was here in the parking lot, taking him to lunch.)

Ponyboy gives Johnny a warm look – one that makes Dallas wanna glare given it should be for him – and stays in the car with Dallas. The sunlight is real bright, lighting up the ends of his still blonde hair that's gotten much closer to his old length. Maybe it is; Dallas vaguely can remember that heats could produce some sort of body changes, lend to a post heat glow.

It certainly feels real as Ponyboy looks at him, with those dark roots peeking out, that white blonde hair curling around his ears, the mating mark still a dark ring on his neck that Dallas knows he wants to press the flat of his tongue up against over and over until his fangs sink into his skin, and hold there until he can taste blood, until he can hear Ponyboy give that high whine that goes straight to his cock when he does it.

Not all the bruises, bite marks have faded since they came back. There hasn't been time to — something Dallas is proud of when he slides over in the car seat, sinking his fingers in that hair that both looked utterly strange on Ponyboy and that seemed to look just fine in the afternoon sunlight as he kisses Ponyboy rough and deep. There's no need to pretend like this is just a quick, hot and heavy make out he would've done with the likes of Sylvia.

This is different as Ponyboy kisses him back, his hands gripping Dallas' shirt, keeping him close as their tongues meet, as Ponyboy's scent seems to permeate everything. Dallas groans, pulling Ponyboy closer, half into his lap, loving how Ponyboy tastes even now. It's not a sugary sweetness that's repulsive, not so sharp that it's an alpha scent either and never that sort of dull nothing betas have. It's somewhere in the middle of both alpha and omega, and when Ponyboy pulls back, face flushed, Dallas wants more. He wants so much more as Ponyboy's tongue darts out to lick at his lips.

"We gotta – Someone's gonna —"

"Gonna what? Tell me what I can't do with my own mate?" Dallas moves his hand to grip Ponyboy's waist, fingers slotting there the same way they'd done in the heat motel. He purposely moves Ponyboy into his lap, looking at the way the sunlight turns Ponyboy's eyes hazel. "They want me to stop, they better fucking call th–"

Unexpectedly, it's Ponyboy who initiates this time, only he doesn't kiss Dallas. His teeth sink into Dallas' mating mark, hard and Dallas can't help how his fingers simply clench onto Ponyboy's waist in a vice like grip as every nerve in his body feels like they're hit all at once just like it had in the heat hotel.

It's not like an orgasm, it's deeper than that, touches something that's close to what he'd felt when they first mated. The feeling makes his throat grow dry, his head tips backwards, and he can't think around how good it feels, those sharp teeth driven so deeply into his neck, body alight with a feeling he hasn't been counting on. Not outside of the initial mating.

He hopes that it will always be like this, in a way: this feeling that something is being touched deep inside of him by his mate, that he will always grin, always hit that deep well of pleasure enough that when he breaks through, he feels dizzy, heady.

When his vision clears, his head still doesn't. Ponyboy is looking at him in the same way he feels, even though his mark is just fine – and Dallas grins, refusing to let that stand.

"Come here, kid."

Chapter Text

"Come on, I wanna beat traffic home," Steve barks at Molly after a glance at his watch. Mostly because once traffic hit, you'd never hear the end of it with how bad it could be. "Specially if you wanna get to that damn race so bad."

"Yeah, yeah. You parked at the department store, right?" Molly runs her fingers through her hair, finishing off the cookie she'd bought. "We can just go through there." She still looks uncomfortable in those fancy, Soc like clothes her mother got for her as they walk. "Maybe I can steal something that doesn't look like my grandma made it."

Steve gives a glare to an actual Soc kid as he falls into step with her as she makes her way out of the main throat of the mall. The Soc backs off, wisely, and Steve wonders for a moment what he'll say to her after all of that, after her insistence he not sound like a nag. He wants to talk more about Soda, but talking about the race doesn't feel right til they got closer to home and talking about how Molly was clearly scratching at her already red wrists....

Race it was.

"You planning on taking any bets?" He goes through the well lit, almost too bright department store, over the carpets. This was a place he'd rather steal from than actually shop at, not like he had the cash. "Or are you gonna worm your way into the driver's seat again?" His fingers twitch, wanting to lift up some of the things on display, wanting to get a need to prove himself as a greaser over and over again.

It'd be easier if Soda were here.

"The second," Molly eyes some of the earrings they have on display. "I could out drive most anyone out here. What about you? You gonna mope or are you gonna help me win? Cause if we win, I'll split the winnings!"

"Them winnings ain't gonna be much," Steve snorts.

"You could use every cent," a new voice rings out, acidic.

Steve whips around, stares. "Ivy?"

Her face doesn't look anything except sour as she considers him. Ivy the street tough who runs a gang is always in acidic green with white or black, always has her hair up in a high ponytail, and looks pretty mysterious. The Ivy who's working at this counter looks like some topsy-turvy bizarro version of herself where her hair is stylish in the Soc girl way, curled at the ends along her shoulders instead of that straight set she usually has. It's not pulled into a ponytail — it's held back with a green headband instead of her usual green ribbon that always made her distinct. The earrings she wears are clearly from the store, as is the ugly white blouse and what he's sure is a skirt.

He knows if he laughs, she'll have zero problem punching him in the face. He still says, "You trying out to replace Cherry Valance?"

Ivy looks livid as she considers him, and Steve gives a vicious smile at her as he nudges Molly. "Look at Ivy, dolled up like —"

"A good looking broad you couldn't catch with flypaper," Molly says smoothly, her voice tinged with annoyance.

Ivy's glare at Steve is much more softened at Molly. "It's good to see you too, Molly. Your cousin, not so much."

"He's not very housebroken," Molly says, Steve ready to wrap a hand around her elbow. "You coming to the race tonight? We're both going to see if we can win the pot."

"I will be. Your cousin might have other plans," those acidic green nails tap on the glass counter in a sharp way that's almost like a snap to get Steve's attention. "His pack is having a meeting tonight, with our leader. Two-Bit told me to give him that message, right from his pack alpha."

"With Ed? What the hell for –"

"I wasn't told," the way Ivy snaps is harsher, a baring of teeth. "Only that you had to show up. Now, are you going to buy anything or are you going to leave?" Her voice takes on that tone that always makes Steve thinks she's more like a Soc girl than a greaser, with the way it's clearly mocking him, as if she knows something he doesn't.

"What time?"

"At the bonfire, like usual," the sneer on her face is more subtle, sharp than Dallas'. "Don't be late — Even Soda will have to be there."

Steve hates the way that he wants to ask her more in that instant, and the only reason he stops is because Molly beats him with, "He'll be there. C'mon, Steve — I need a change."

Molly is clearly warning him, and he hates, hates, how much he wants the bonfire to come already even if it's just to get a snatch of time out of Soda.

The rest of the day, Ponyboy does what he's supposed to do. He doesn't want to think about the extra time Dallas had spent with him in the car until they popped in, cleaned up and ate lunch with Johnny. Thinking about it might get him in trouble, make him squirm in his seat if he remembers how eager Dallas was to reassert the mark. He does, however, want to think about the schoolwork in front of him, about what he has to do to keep his grades up, make sure he can scrape by with a A- this semester if nothing else. He wants to focus on being here, appearing like a good kid.

Except he can't. He can't think about getting an equation correct when he's thinking not about the meeting with Eugene at his office and instead was fixated on the bonfire that night. It was easier to focus on the bonfire than to think about the trial, about what they'd have to get suits for and avoid the newspapers.

He's thinking about what Dallas said to him, about what he'd meant when he looked at him, talked about no matter what. Ponyboy agreed with it, the implication, and hadn't thought about more. That Dallas meant he'd do anything in a way that could break the law, that could simply have them disappearing or...

For a moment, Ponyboy thinks about Jay Mountain, about the blue skies. Thinks about Dallas with him in an intact church, dressed up like a country boy, grousing the whole time.

He grins, thinking about it. As the bell rings for his last period, he hears snatches of words down a hallway, " – seen Steve Randle? At all?"

Shit. Steve didn't know.

And then Ponyboy thinks: would he even show up?

There's a real fear that he might not, one that makes Ponyboy's stomach twist.

Bigger than that is that if Steve doesn't know, how would Soda know?

His pencil taps on his paper. He thinks about their pack, about what they would have to get through. What they have to do, in order to be themselves again, in order to move forward. And what that might mean, what it would take.

He thinks too about Johnny, about him by the fire, watching the stars. What Johnny had said about the countryside, about being past all of that.

It feels as if they'll never truly get past it, as Ponyboy's eyes flit from his paper to see a Soc glaring at him from across the room.

Then the bell rings.

"Nothing on the radio is good down here," Molly grouses, flipping through station after station. The car is all but flying down the highway as Steve white knuckles it, her hair flying about as they go. "Don't you have The Kinks around here? Or The Byrds —"

"There ain't no goddamn way I'm going to that pack meeting," Steve declares, forcing the car to go faster. "Those assholes have spent weeks ignoring me and they think I should come see them now for some little kumbaya bullshit? No way."

Molly fiddles with the station again. "We really should listen to something that isn't that fucking Beatles s—"

"I'm right!" Steve's voice inches up louder. "I'm right, I had every right to call Sandy a slut, I had every right to say it when she's the one who got knocked up —"

The sound in the car jumps so quick and so high that Steve reacts on automatic, forcing the car to the side, skidding on the road. "What the hell, Molly!"

She whips her head around, her eyes blazing. "You know what you are, Steve? You're an asshole and I don't mean it in a good way!" She grips the gearshift as Steve hits the brake, forcing the car to a halt, her teeth flashing. "Do you think I was a slut when I got pregnant last summer?"

The words are stinging, and too late he realizes her eyes are wet with tears. Shit. Shit. "That – that's not the same. You weren't with someone."

"And what if I had been?" Molly bares her teeth, her omega scent turning sour, angry. "What If I had been with someone and the guy raped me? Or what if it was just an accident? Would you be calling me a slut, Steve? Would you have told my boyfriend to his face those names?"

For the first time in a long time, Steve's neck grows hot. He feels trapped with her in that moment but not the same way he feels trapped when his old man just hit him or called him a dumb punk. This is a kind of trapped that makes him feel like she's just shoved him into a small box, and one he probably deserved. "That's not the same. I know you, you're not like her. You've never been —"

"Yes I am, yes I am you jerk!" Tears are streaming down her face now. "You're so concentrated on everything else! I'm like her, I know what it's like to be pregnant like that, and have everyone call you names and hate you and I don't even have my baby."

Instantly, he knows that she shouldn't have said that, that he shouldn't have heard. Her mouth clicks shut, her hands coming to cover her mouth. He reaches out to her, to try and pull her into a hug as she cries silently.

Cars zoom past. Steve feels shame in his stomach.

Her hands come from her mouth, her voice shaking. "They just want to have a friend who they wanna keep and all you do is bitch and moan! So what if she cheated on him, you loser. She's gone, she's probably alone and afraid. And," she rubs at her eyes, her make up running on her face, "You didn't have to rub it in when you could've sucked it up, comforted him and maybe actually dated him. Instead you're just treated her like everyone treats me – god, fuck you Steve!"

Furious, Molly gathers her bag, scrambling out of the car. Stunned, Steve cries out, "Where are you going? We gotta get to Tulsa!" He doesn't want her out on the road like that, covered in tears, shivering, upset.

"I'm going alone! Maybe I'll see you tonight!" She sticks her thumb out, refusing to look at him as she walks down the road. He throws the car into drive, curses when he can't get off the side of the road. "I don't wanna be seen with you."

"Molly —" the tires turn, and he gets out of the grass and dirt. There's no way to swing back, and by the time he manages to even approach the exit, a car has slowed down already. Molly throws him the finger, and then climbs into the car on her own before he can stop her.

They blow right past him in seconds, and Steve is left, banging his hand furiously on the wheel, angry.

The one person he had left on his side. Gone.

He bangs the wheel until his hand hurts, and then he's forced to drive to Tulsa by himself. Molly would do fine as a hitchhiker, and yet...

His teeth grind down. Molly wasn't the same as Sandy. She wasn't.

Soda shouldn't be his problem, wasn't his problem. Except there wasn't any denying the fact that after that fight, things had been worse not better. He'd been ignoring him at work, had been talking to Ivy more, had been not telling him anything at all.

Of everyone, Soda is the one he cared about most. It'd gotten him in trouble more than once – like the time he'd deliberately tricked Ponyboy into a closet for a whole day when Pony was three and Mrs. Curtis had prevented him from seeing Soda for a week. Or when he'd deliberately ask Evie out just to see if it made Soda jealous and she'd slapped him when it was clear he wasn't actually interested in dating her. Or when he'd said what he said.

He was right. Sandy was a slut, a whore, a sloppy, secondhand fuck.

Unwillingly, though, he thinks of Molly's mother and her cold face. Of the phone calls Molly had given where she had begged to get away from her as her belly grew. Of how he'd hear her sobbing herself to sleep at times, well aware of the stares. Of how hollow her voice sounded on the phone when her mother had refused to tell her what kind of baby she had, and how she howled for them in the night.

Being wrong wasn't in the cards for him. Wasn't ever. He couldn't be wrong, only...

Only he finds himself parking at the DX as schools are letting out the last of people, as the sun is starting to move towards evening. He finds himself asking around for Soda, and when he's told Soda hadn't even come in for work...

Steve Randle finally concedes.

He's wrong. He's been wrong.

Chapter Text

The sun is sinking in a way that turns the sky a beautiful blend of pink, orange and yellow as they make their way to the bonfire. Ponyboy wishes that it was going to just be this, him in the passenger side next to Dallas, the wind in his hair, his cigarette tasting good in the back of his throat, Dallas' scent in his nostrils.

It could be better, to be fair.

In his perfect version of this day, Johnny wasn't in the backseat gnawing anxiously at his fingers. In his perfect version, it would be him and Dallas flying out to the bonfire at top speed together. Dallas would be grinning hugely, his teeth sharp, his hair fluttering in the wind. They'd stop to get food together, teasing the waitress and making trouble.

When they would get to the bonfire, they'd go to their own corner together — a thought that makes Ponyboy's pulse quicken, makes a feeling of needy heat course through him — a place to stakeout like all other couples. They'd make it their own, Ponyboy making a nest, Dallas sprawling in with him. They'd kiss and kiss, and once the dark came, they'd do what any couple would do at the bonfire: they wouldn't just kiss, not at all. Dallas would growl in his ear while his hips stroked upward, and Ponyboy would moan and everyone would know Dallas had claim on him, even if his mating mark didn't do that.

It's a good, tantalizing dream that isn't going to happen just yet. It can't — not with Ed waiting for them, with the whole pack there.

With Darry there, too.

Ponyboy hates thinking about it, about his brother there after everything this morning. Having to think about what he'd say or do, thinking about how he could defend himself, and thinking about what Dallas had told him: that no matter what, Dallas would choose him, be with him.

The idea is scary, tantalizing at the same time. Being like outlaws on their own, the open road between them and everyone else, doing whatever they wanted to, getting away from the law.

Even though that would mean leaving their pack, their family. Would mean never seeing Soda again, abandoning Johnny to an uncertain fate.

That's the only thing that steals the color out of that thought, pulls Ponyboy back into the car, into Tulsa, into his nervousness as Dallas finally banks a curb and parks near the bonfire hill. Ponyboy hops out, and he helps Johnny with his crutches.

Together, they walk up the hill, and Ponyboy scents the other greasers mingling along as they go up, seeing them gathering like normal. People are bringing beers, food, blankets and more. Slowly, he finds himself relaxing as some greasers clap his back ("Congratulations on the mating, kid!") or waving to him, or Ponyboy is waving back.

He leans closer to Dallas, who just slings his arm over Ponyboy's shoulder proudly, his hand coming to run along his neck, scenting him in front of everyone.

Johnny greets a few other greasers, and once they get to their main spot, he's the one who breaks the silence unusually, "Should we just wait for everyone else? Or Ed?"

"Wait for everyone else, I reckon," Ponyboy answers, looking around the gathering of the packs, wishing they could be normal, wanting a taste of that normal life and not this anxious, nervous feeling in his chest.

Dallas casts him a glance — Ponyboy can feel his thumb on his shoulder, rubbing circles against his skin, and he can't help himself following up with, "We can go get some food real quick. C'mon, Dally."

Picking on it too, Dallas nods. "Won't take too long, Johnnycake. You want the chicken?"

Once Johnny nods, Dallas steers Ponyboy away from Johnny and to the line to the main tables where the food is. It's a long one, just on the edge where one they're there, Dallas can swoop his head down and kiss Ponyboy deeply, the way Ponyboy has been wanting to. Ponyboy moans in his mouth, fingers bunching in Dallas' shirt and he happily sinks into the kiss.

Of all times that he wishes he had a beer, Two-Bit really, really wishes he had one as he and Darry make their way up the grass to the main bonfire. Darry is stiffer than usual; Two-Bit has known for a long time that Darry's never been all that comfortable as de facto leader, as Pack Alpha. Being that right now was probably extremely nerve wracking.

Unfortunately for Darry, Two-Bit wasn't feeling all that sorry for him. This was a mess he created, and it was a mess he'd have to clean up himself. That was the whole point of this — once it was all over, though, Two-Bit was getting ripped.

"There's Johnny," Two-Bit waves to the greaser, who waves back, sitting in their normal spot. "I saw Dal's car, so he and Pony are probably here. Means we only got two to wait on, Soda and Steve."

"They'll probably come together," the way Darry says those words isn't particularly convincing. Darry's not blind to what's been going on between them, and Two-Bit decides not to disavow him of the notion as they finally catch up to Johnny. It wouldn't do no good right now.

Instead, he reaches over to mess with Johnny's still growing out hair, grinning when Johnny scowls good naturedly. "See you came over with the heatbirds. Everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," Johnny pushes his hand away with a half grin. It doesn't totally cover up the nervousness on his face, nor does it totally soothe either of them. Just makes everything more tense when Johnny looks at Darry and then to Dallas and Ponyboy who Two-Bit is sure ain't too far away. Their scents are mingling more and more, the sign of mating really taking a more firm hold on them.

And Two-Bit would know — he's had to take Biology about three times now.

Darry's form goes ramrod straight, catching their scent too beside him. For all his regret, his remorse before — it's instantly buried beneath the pride on his face when he turns his head to look at them. Two-Bit still thinks he has a point about their ages, yet that point doesn't hold a candle to what he knows has happened in these past few weeks. It doesn't matter looking at the way Dallas has a protective arm around Ponyboy, at the obvious care that Dallas shows as they make their way over to them — and it sure as hell doesn't mean shit to him at how Ponyboy looks happier around Dallas than he has.

Of all things, Two-Bit wonders at times how much Darry pays attention to Ponyboy. Working takes up so much of his life, trying to keep their lives afloat. The Curtises dying changed everything, and that sadness that seemed to slowly get buried beneath a huge smile on Soda's face had totally lingered with Ponyboy. The kid couldn't even bring up his parents in a conversation and right now, he looks more relaxed with Dallas than he has in awhile.

Even if some of that dries up when they come closer. Dallas pointedly keeps Ponyboy out of arms reach for Darry, and he's the first one to speak, "Two! You actually came on time."

"Wasn't gonna miss this appointment," Two-Bit flashes a half grin, wishing so badly he had a beer as Darry and Ponyboy pointedly ignore each other. "All we're missing is Soda."

"What about Steve?" Darry stubbornly reasserts himself in the conversation, frowning. "He's got a say."

The look Dallas shoots towards Darry is cool, deadly, mean. Two-Bit pipes up before Dallas blows it already, "I got Ivy to deliver the message. He may be up his own ass right now like you Darry, but he'll show. You know he's a good man when he's needed."

God, you could cut the tension with a knife with the way that Darry's hackles go up, with the way Ponyboy clearly is trying to figure out what to do or say. Johnny looks like he might start shaking when Two-Bit is proven right: he scents Steve, turns his head to the hill. Steve is there alright, with a scowl on his face, walking in step with a much more composed (thank god for that!) Ed.

Ed looks over them all, gently nudging Steve forward. His scent is mostly the same, save for one little bit that Two-Bit recognizes from a summer ago. Now's not the time to get distracted about it — though, if that little redhead shows up tonight, there's no way in hell he won't talk to her. Blondes? Forget them if it was Molly.

That would have to wait, though, Steve jerking his head towards them. "Darry. What's all this supposed to be about?" His eyes dart over to Johnny who's struggling to get up — and to Steve's credit, he goes over there to help Johnny up, giving him his crutches. That's not without a confused, suspicious glance at the two heatbirds hanging out on the side, though.

Ed looks at them all, his expression serious and intent, face easing into a frown. "We're missing someone. Where's Sodapop?" Two-Bit expects someone, anyone to say anything. He looks around; Darry doesn't know, Johnny doesn't — Dallas and Ponyboy shake their heads and Steve is scowling intently. "Now — this is important, boys. We can't do any of what we need if the whole pack isn't here."

The silence that stretches over them, only interrupted by the sound of Johnny's crutches, is thick. Ed's expression grows more troubled. "None of you know where he is? At all?"

"No, sir," the halting way Darry says those two words feels so fucking damning at that moment. It shows how fractured they are right now, and Two-Bit hates it. Furthermore he doesn't like how Darry is clearly hesitating to step up here, to do what needs to be done.

So Two-Bit does it, fixing a smile on his face he knows doesn't reach his eyes. "We'll find him, Ed. Just give us an hour, alright, and we'll have him here. Promise."

Ed runs a critical eye over them all. "An hour. Then the bonfire starts, with or without you, understand? I wanna hear a yessir."

Everyone except Dallas, predictably, says Yessir.

Once Ed walks towards the other packs, Two-Bit turns and looks at them, at the way they're all clearly lopsided and struggling with what's going on. Dallas looks ready to peel off himself, Johnny unsure, and Darry seemingly still grappling with how bad it was.

And Steve...

Best to ignore the conflicting look on Steve's face.

Two-Bit clears his throat. "Alright, we gotta go on a manhunt. We're gonna divide it up — and not like the way you're thinking. C'mon, heatbirds, break it up. Ponyboy, you're with me we'll see if Soda's with any packs here. Dallas, you go with Johnny, you got the car see if he's further out in town. Darry and Steve, you try Soda's usual haunts." For as much as he can be a lazy ass most of the time, Two-Bit puts as much energy, as much authority in his voice as possible. Darry's in no shape to do it now, and if he was, he'd probably be doing something stupid.

Any one of them could protest about now, walk away. Ponyboy looks at Dallas though, and they have some silent, movie like, mate to mate conversation that leaves Ponyboy pulling away from Dallas reluctantly. Dallas shrugs off his jacket, barking out, "C'mon, Johnnycake. We'll be back in an hour, Soda or no Soda."

He hands Ponyboy his jacket, who takes a wide berth around a clearly hurt Darry who only nods jerkily. "An hour. Soda or not."

"We're really taking orders from the rodeo clown tonight?" Steve huffs out. Dallas ignores him and Johnny pulls away, using his crutches to get to Dally.

When no one pushes back on it, Steve sulks over to Darry's side.

This was gonna be a tall order to fix. But it was gonna be fixed, come hell or high water.

Chapter Text

This park has been Soda's favorite place ever since he was about three years old. He used to come here with his Mama and his Daddy all the time to get on the swings with Darry, to be pushed up to the stars, to the moon, to the sun hanging in the sky. He loved those days with them, able to ask to go higher and higher, to leap out and be caught in his father's arms or his mother would refuse and kiss his cheeks instead, too afraid to let him fly.

Right now, he sits in the swing, feeling miserable, feeling lost. There was no way he could ever go back to those days, of being able to fly and be caught, swung around by his Daddy, safe and thinking that the world would be safe forever.

He's seventeen years old and everything's going wrong, somehow. His parents have been dead almost a year. His older brother's got a mean streak in him that Soda hadn't ever seen before. His youngest brother is stubborn and seemingly caught up in someone that Soda wouldn't have ever picked for him. And his best friend wasn't his best friend right now at all, who had turned into such a selfish asshole that he couldn't own up to his own mistakes.

Soda doesn't know what to do with himself, doesn't know what to do or say beyond stay here, his feet dragging on the bottom grass, looking at the moon, feeling sorry for himself, feeling upset that the one person he'd been able to turn to was gone now.

Just thinking about her name makes his chest hurt. Sandy always had a smile that made you feel like the sun had just come out, that always was perfect with that pink lipstick she liked even if Soda thought she was ten times as pretty when it was framed in red.

He wonders if she's happy, in Florida. It would be easy, wouldn't it, to hate her the way that Steve says. It would be so, so good if he could just be like him, be angry.

It's worse, in a way to be sad about it. To be sad that it felt like that whole week turn d everything from bad to worse and there might not be any fixing it, that there wasn't a way Soda could think to fix everything.

Even worse, Soda knows that if Steve Randle would get his head out of his ass, everything would get so much more bearable, understandable. That if the kid who scrunched up his nose when they met as kids and then refused to leave even when Soda was dumb, even when they got in trouble together — if that boy came back, Soda could get through any fight.

His feet drag on the grass. The swing creaks.

Soda doesn't get up.

"Congratulations!" Bear claps his hand on Ponyboy's shoulder, his grin on his face huge and welcoming. "Got initiated and got mated in the same month, you lucky dog!"

Two-Bit had made only a minor miscalculation on his part when he'd divided everyone up: Ponyboy still was relatively unknown to the pack scene, which meant some people were still trying to congratulate him for finally being one of them. And those who weren't welcoming him to the scene, still had comments at the very least about him being newly mated.

He watches as the other Brumly Boys come over to congratulate Ponyboy in a similar fashion: clasping him on the shoulder, shaking his hand, offering him food or one of them pulling out a safety pin, threading it through his shirt and adding bills to it. That little tradition was newer than most, introduced in the past five years — Two-Bit thinks that Brumly Boy is from Atlanta or thereabouts where it was more common.

Everyone here still understood what it meant, as the boys pin more money to it, all of them proud or at least respectful. Two-Bit turns to the leader of the Brumly Boys, a hood by the name of Slick Martinez who's about Darry's age with dark hair and a face full of stubble. He's pulling a twenty out of his pocket when Two-Bit taps him on the shoulder, "Hey, Slick, you got a moment?"

"Sure," Slick focuses his dark eyes on him, the scar over his eye, half a lightning bolt into his eyebrow. "What's going on? You and your pack got here pretty early with Ed."

It's light, not nearly the same as when Slick is pushing against the River Kings. Two-Bit lets out a contemplative hum. "We're looking for one of our own — Sodapop Curtis, omega, works at the DX. He's been MIA for a day or two."

"Tch, no," Slick shakes his head. "I would've seen him if he come near us. Bear would've said something, too." Slick looks halfway sympathetic. "Hope you find him. We'll keep an eye out, though."

Two-Bit sighs. "Yeah, I thought not. Your boys all doing okay? I know Socs are starting to get real twitchy again, even though we had the rumble."

The smirk that Slick gives him is dangerous, shows exactly why he's still leader of the Brumly Boys. "Oh, those candy-asses are keeping well away from us. They know we've got heaters and they don't."

Grimly, Two-Bit gets it. "Just keep away from the fuzz, Martinez." Slick nods, moving to Ponyboy, their conversation quick. Ponyboy's ears are pink from all the attention, and Slick adding the twenty bucks makes Ponyboy go even pinker. Two-Bit wonders if he said something about Ponyboy being an omega — Slick hadn't just gotten that name for the grease in his hair.

Scanning his eyes over the rest of the packs, Two-Bit doesn't know if they'll be that successful. Even if they weren't, at least Ponyboy got to have this.

Once Ponyboy is away from them — with more than a few bills — Two-Bit beckons him over, pointing out the loose bit of greasers who weren't pack affiliated further out. "C'mon, we can talk to them next. I'll take the lead, you're just fresh enough where they might be assholes to you."

Ponyboy shrugs his shoulders, his fingers fumbling with Dallas' brown jacket. The burn mark on it perfectly offsets some of the scars that are hidden by the sleeves, but not the bit of scars that peek out on Ponyboy's neck. "I'll be okay, I think." The wind picks up and he shivers. "I..." He glances over at the Brumly Boys.

"C'mon, what is it?" Two-Bit keeps his pace steady, not too brisk, to give Ponyboy room to talk. "You ain't gotta treat me like an agony aunt or nothing, but you don't have to pretend like this ain't serious." He kicks at a pebble, huffing. "Everything has been real serious lately, I ain't gonna pretend otherwise."

The bonfire pops, climbs up. Laughter breaks out somewhere, and Ponyboy's voice is quiet when he continues, "I'm just scared. About – about what might happen. Not just with the pack, but with the trial. If we might not make it." Two-Bit can tell he's holding back on that thought, that something is making him not go a little farther.

What that is, he won't tug at. Instead he keeps his voice gentle, "We will. We're just in a tough spot right now, is all. Everyone goes through 'em. What matters is —"

"It's my fault, though," his voice pitches up an octave, eyes meeting Two-Bit's own, big with worry. "It is, Two-Bit. I – I made 'em madder, that night. Instead of running the way Johnny wanted. We could've made it, they were drunk and stumbling but I – I spit at him, I didn't use my head the way Darry said I should."

Two-Bit reaches over and clasps the back of Ponyboy's neck, his voice firm. "No. You did whatever you could, you hear me? They was gonna hurt you no matter what you did and you trying to get away, do anything you could? That's on them, not you." He tightens his grip. "You didn't make any of this happen, you aren't gonna make this pack live or die. Real packs can get through tough shit, Ed's always said it. None of us wanna be alone here, none of us want to abandon each other. We just – we just gotta remember how we all care about each other, after all we been through."

Some of that, he's heard from his Mama or Mrs. Curtis, some of it from television and Ed. Some of it, it's straight from his own heart. Every word is true, though, and Two-Bit pushes on, knowing he normally isn't so serious. "My Daddy ran off cause he was a coward and I always decided I wasn't gonna be. I'm a lazy bum, but I ain't a useless one, and I ain't one who'd give up on any of you. Ever."

The look on Ponyboy's face seems like it's close to tears. Two-Bit allows him to wipe at his face, allows him to nod, without pushing for more.

He can do that, if nothing else, wrapping his arm around Ponyboy's shoulders, steering him towards the other hoods.

He can only hope that lesson really will bear out tonight.

The radio is on low as the car growls in the night, going down the main road of the northside, and Johnny wishes the volume was actually turned up. Not necessarily out of fear — there was no way that Dallas would ever hurt him.

Still, it was hard not to feel nervous with Dallas clenching his teeth around his cigarette that hard, his finger tapping on the wheel, eyes scanning the streets, clearly agitated. If Johnny could still scent worth a damn, he'd probably be shifting nervously.

As is, though, this is one of the few times that he's grateful he isn't able to scent much anymore. Dallas would be more than agitated, enough to make Johnny shift uncomfortably in the passenger's seat, as he looks around, trying to look for any clue, any hint that soda was around. He's not finding any: sometimes there was a bum on the road a time or two, or a cat in an alley looking spooked and not much else.

He looks at Dallas occasionally with curiosity as they turn around a corner, Dallas grunting out, "You see anyone, anything? I ain't picking up shit?"

For all of Dallas' anger, for all his annoyance, he still looks the way Johnny envisioned those boys in Gone with the Wind: determined, focused, and all around the sort of greaser that Johnny had always wished to be and had no hope of being, especially now.

Only, something about him isn't exactly the same, ever since they'd gotten out of the hospital, ever since Dallas had gone to the bonfire alone and left with Ponyboy. Johnny isn't sure that they knew he'd seen them running off together, feet hitting the pavement at a frenetic pace, laughing. He doesn't think they know how much he does and doesn't know about them, and he knows that's not entirely his business.

He's also pack, and of everyone, he has looked up to Dallas Winston the most, never forgetting when Dallas had whipped someone in the face instead of just taking an insult, never forgetting how he had decided to get blamed for something Johnny had done, never forgetting how Dallas had been the one to hide them, give them that money and gun to get out of town.

Even if the thought of the gun makes him sick now, even the thought of having to kill someone again makes his stomach burn with battery acid and his hands shake, remembering the surprised sigh that Bob had let out — it wasn't like the movies where they choked and gagged, and it wasn't like television where they went down with one sharp stab. It had taken so much more than one to get Bob to let go, to get him to fall to the ground, bleeding all of that awful blood out.

Dallas had been there from the get go, had never been that evil greaser that Cherry and Marcia had believed him to be. Dallas was a good guy, had always been that. Maybe not perfect, but a good guy nonetheless.

Which made how he and Ponyboy had come together all that more confusing to Johnny.

He reaches for a cigarette, jamming one into his mouth as Dallas pulls to a stop at a red light. Johnny looks at him, at the way he frowns, and at the perfect mark at the junction of his neck and shoulder where the mating mark rested.

Bull sessions weren't really something Johnny enjoyed — that didn't mean he was a coward who sat on the edges and didn't listen in on them though. Ponyboy listened to them as well as him, how they all used to brag about broads, about omegas, about any kind of lay they got. How Dallas used to brag about visiting places outside of Tulsa teeming full of omegas and taking his fill of slick, about how he never intended to mate anyone at all, that it was for suckers.

That weighs heavy in his head with the way Ponyboy had frowned at him in Jay Mountain when he'd talked about Dallas being gallant, with the letter he had the nurse pen before the surgery.

He hopes Dallas never sees that letter, as much as it haunts him. If he'd never survived that surgery – the one the doctors had said was experimental, that could've killed him anyway. Johnny doesn't want to think about how terrified he was, lying on his stomach, thinking he'd die anyway, how he'd been wishing to die for so long only to have it possibly looking at him in the face.

What he'd said to Ponyboy about sixteen years not being long enough was true. Would always be true even though he survived.

His fingers run through his hair and he asks, "Hey, Dally? Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Dallas grunts out, eyes scanning the road still. "S'going on?"

There’s still lots of good in the world. Tell Dally.

Unsent, the sentence lingers in his mind. The fact that he wanted Ponyboy to show Dallas good things, show him that not everything was so cold and hard, that things could change. Had hoped Ponyboy could change him.

Saying things like that outloud, wasn't how to go about it. So he takes a different tact. "I never took you for the mating type," he shifts in the passenger seat, the light turning green. "How come you picked Ponyboy for it?"

Surprisingly, Dallas rolls his eyes, emanating a half growl. "Why not him? He didn't talk to you about it?"

"Not much," that's really an understatement, one that Johnny won't press on. "All I know is that after the bonfire, you and him sorta happened. Ponyboy was real shy about it, and I remember how things were before. You and Cherry, and Sylvia." He looks closely at Dallas, voice curious.

"I like the kid," the side street goes by quicker than anticipated, as they turn into a line of cars going down one of the main streets. It's not likely Soda's here – it doesn't keep them from looking anyway. "He's smart, he always was good looking, like Soda."

Johnny shifts in the seat, feeling like they were at the Dairy Queen again, Dallas starting to tap his finger on the wheel more in agitation. "It's just – you never dated anyone in the pack before. Never that young before." He's fumbling over his words a little as Dallas turns to give him a sharper look. It's hard to figure out what he means, what he wants to say. How the letter he'd written, he'd wanted them to come together a bit, that his best friend and the guy he admired both had something for each other.

And how that still didn't seem to explain the leap between them, how they'd gone from Dallas protecting Pony at Buck's to that half crescent on their skin. So Johnny tries again. "You never seemed close before all of this s'all, and it's kinda – I mean it's fast. You and Sylvia were —"

"Sylvia liked to two time on me," the pushback is expected on that, and god is Johnny grateful he doesn't know about when Sylvia tried to approach him. "I wasn't gonna mate her even if she got pupped up." Dallas frowns deeper.

"I – It's just different than what I thought you two would want, I guess," choosing his words carefully seems important here, lest he piss off Dallas. Which isn't what he's trying to do as they inch forward. "Ponyboy never talked about anyone before the bonfire. Thought he was gonna be a late bloomer, and you and him aren't exactly into the same things. You used to complain like Darry about him being in the clouds, not paying attention." His eyebrows go up. "I remember you used to have to pull him in cause he got too into the clouds. You aren't into it now, are you?"

What he said seems to have been careful enough, Dallas shrugging. "I don't give a good goddamn about watching the sunset or colors." He says it bluntly, every single word meant, expected. It makes what he says all the more confusing for Johnny. "Doesn't mean that I have to care to be happy he's into them."

Frustration surprisingly builds in Johnny's chest. He isn't sure where it's coming from, exactly. Dating hasn't been in the cards for him much, even though he's thought about it. He's had his own notions about what that could all be about, and he's struggling with it, hearing Dallas talk so bluntly, knowing how Ponyboy is.

That's without the gulf of Sylvia, who always got in trouble, who always seemed cruel and Ponyboy — fourteen years old, the kid that he got mixed up in all of this, who could be up for worse. A kid that he still felt protective over, still remembered running from the car, into that church all by himself. Him, mixing up with Dallas who he seemed to be a bit wary of before all this, but now was pressed against Dallas' side often.

Something he thought he wanted, could envision them being friends. Not this, not exactly.

He sits up in the car, raising his voice a little. "I don't mean just that. I mean – Ponyboy's so different from the rest of us, man. When we were gone, he used to worry about his grades, about missing school. He's the only one of us who doesn't really belong." If Ponyboy could hear him, it would be a betrayal of sorts. It doesn't make him wrong, though. "You never wanted any of that before, s'all I'm saying. And Ponyboy does and I just – I don't understand why or how."

"You think I didn't know that when I mated him?" Dallas lays on the horn, and the car in front of them honks back. "Or when we were at the bonfire? Jesus, Johnny, you're sounding like Darry!" The scowl on his face is deep. "You're, what, scared I'm gonna fuck him up? Think I'm gonna do some shit to hurt him or I ain't gonna be around enough?" That isn't it exactly. Johnny doesn't have the precise words for what's frustrating him, can't exactly put it all down. Even stranger in all this... he thinks he sees Dallas' eyes are getting brighter. "After everything that happened, you think I'd just leave him out to hang? You didn't see him go into that fire, too?"

That is surprising enough that it makes Johnny's jaw snap shut, hard.

It doesn't stop Dallas.

"It don't have to make sense to you, but hell, Johnny," Dallas doesn't move forward the way he's supposed to, the light from the signs outside turning the tips of his hair a neon pink, "Soon as the kid threw up on my shoes, I knew I fucked up. I had to look out for him, cause I hadn't the way I was supposed to. After that, I don't know. Everything with him – it wasn't, didn't feel like pack." He clenches the wheel so hard his hand turns white. "It's different. Sylvia, she never wanted, never needs what he does. I never thought I could want it, 'cept I do now. That's all that matters to me, to him. We want it with each other, and you should know better. You were up in that church with him, weren't you? You know he's not just some regular kid anymore."

Johnny knows that Dallas isn't adding that it's partly his fault that Ponyboy isn't a normal kid anymore, either. He was the one who hadn't convinced Ponyboy to run, he was the one who hadn't been more forceful when they had run, should've told Ponyboy to stay.

He had changed. Seemingly, he was also changing Dallas, too.

That was what Johnny had wanted. He wanted Ponyboy to help change Dallas, to show him that there was something better out there.

Somehow... somehow it was happening. Dallas was seeing that there was good in this world that Johnny had wanted him to see and Ponyboy was doing it.

Even if it still makes him hesitate, even if he doesn't understand it, Johnny knows when to fold them, when to just accept it. "No, he ain't." He sinks back into the seat, clear defeat. "He probably hasn't been a kid since his parents died."

Dallas lets the car rev, go forward. His hands loosen on the wheel, and he breathes hard through his nose. Silence blankets the car for a minute, and Dallas has the last word. "I wasn't even the one to ask to mate. He asked me. He bit me first."

That lands in Johnny like a stone, the shock rippling through him.

It's enough that he doesn't say anything else about Ponyboy as they finally slip out of traffic, and back into more greaser territory.

What could he say to that?

Nothing, that's what.

Saying he and Steve didn't generally get along was an understatement. Darry has had Steve's number since they were children and Steve had locked Ponyboy in a closet for an afternoon just to stay around Soda without interruption.

It doesn't make it all that great for them to walk across Tulsa together, looking for Soda, the both of them wary around each other. Steve doesn't seem to know much about what's been going on, yet he's here anyway, walking to the DX. "He probably isn't gonna be here if he hasn't been at work."

"So what's the point of going anyway?" Darry grouses as he follows Steve along, jaw clenching. "We ought to go somewhere he would actually be then going on a goose chase."

"We're going cause sometimes they might know something we don't, or they'd at least tell us if he's been," Steve snaps back. "Someone over there could know something, so why not try?"

Darry scowls. "If you'd have been here the past few weeks, we could've asked you."

Starting a fight seems all he's good at lately, and Steve is on better when he snaps back, "I'd have been around if he'd get over that fucking broad already. You and I both know that any notion of being a daddy to some pup she welped with someone else would be a disaster. None of you got money enough for yourselves on a good day, so I don't know why the hell he got pissed at me for saying as much."

"I'm not gonna defend her. Out of all of us, Soda's the one who deserves to be cheated on the least," Darry pauses at a stoplight, jamming his thumb into the button for the signal. "I just – You got the tact of a bull in a china shop."

"Me?" Steve barks out, offended and Darry thinks that Two-Bit put them together solely to give him a goddamn headache on top of everything else. "You're the one who lost his shit at Ponyboy in the first place, and got us all into this mess!"

Anger, shame washes over Darry at those words and he whips around, raising his voice. "You have any idea how hard it is to have to raise two brothers?! Any idea how worried I was about him that night, huh? Every day, I have to hound him, have to tell him to remember things I knew already at that age! He was out until two in the morning, Steve! Even if your Daddy don't give a rat's ass about you, don't mean I don't care about Ponyboy or Soda!"

"Yeah, yeah, cause you're the world's best brother!" Oh, Steve Randle is the one cruisin' for a bruisin' with the way he shouts right back. "All you ever do is fight with them, day in and day out! That kid's fucking weird, we all know that! You never give a rat's ass about just letting it go, and you always, always drag Soda into your bullshit! You know how many times he's talked to me about how much he wants to take off when you fight? How many times he's told me how bad he feels cause you're always laying into that kid? You ever think about how he feels, getting tugged between the two of you?!"

The blood that is roaring in Darry's ears suddenly feels suffocating, his hands shake. "Soda – he really feels that – like we're trying to make him —"

Darry tries to choke out more, only Steve suddenly swears out, "Shit. Shit. I know where he is."

Before Darry can figure out what he means, Steve is turning and running back, not towards the bonfire, but towards an entirely different direction. "Tell everyone to get to the park!"

Darry looks confused. "The park? Why? Steve!"

Steve is however, moving faster than Darry has ever seen him run. He's got no choice — he's gotta find everyone else, get them to the park.

Chapter Text

For the first time in his life, Soda really considers that maybe drinking something would help. It's never been something he's liked — Two-Bit always drank too much to the point that Soda's always been worried about having to roll him on his side to keep him from choking; Steve's Dad always drank right before he did something shitty enough that Steve would be walking in the door needing a place for the night; and hell, Johnny's Momma could pack alcohol like no one's business and it only made her meaner and meaner.

His Daddy hadn't wanted that for him, had always told him that all alcohol did was make you more of who you were.

And who is he, really? He's a big brother, a little brother – a high school dropout happy working at a gas station, with no bigger dreams than that. He doesn't have parents anymore, doesn't have a pack that can agree on anything, a best friend who's determined to spit poison, a girlfriend miles and miles away with a baby that probably isn't his.

Maybe alcohol could show him who he was right now. Or maybe his Daddy was wrong, and it could turn him into someone he isn't or it could do something else entirely: give him a momentary out.

Right now, Soda considers an escape. An escape from being pulled in both directions, an escape from every thought about Sandy he couldn't help but continue to hold, an escape from the thought that maybe in a month or so, he'd have to see his little brother and one of his friends sentenced to the electric chair for something some mean kid had done all because he was rich.

His breath blows out him in a cold cloud as his feet drag on the ground, the swing creaking. Tears prick at his eyes — he feels like such a bawl baby right now, knowing that he shouldn't be here, that he should be going home, trying to work things out.

It'd be easier if he didn't think of his Mama's lamp hitting the floor, if he could get the image of Darry and Dallas fighting out of his mind.

Dallas wasn't who he'd have ever picked for Ponyboy. Darry has a point about him being too old, about him being dangerous. Soda also knows Ponyboy better than anyone, knows that soft heart he's got, knows that if anyone could love Dallas Winston, maybe it could be him.

It all still feels too big, too much to deal with for a seventeen year old kid. Too much for him to actually do anything concrete, and god, all he wants to do is turn around and talk to Sandy. Hear her quote some scripture her Daddy had told her, and follow it up with how everything was gonna work out, be better. She probably could pick up his hand and get him to cheer up with one look, and she wasn't —

A scent hits his nose, and there's the sound of feet on the pavement. "Soda!"

Soda pulls his eyes from the grass to see Steve standing there at the edge of the park, panting, hair out of those swirls he was always so proud of being able to do, face red. He must've ran a country mile out here, and for a moment, Soda's heart soars. That's his best friend there, standing at the edge, eyebrows in that angry V he could always make when he was angry, his snaggle tooth visible even from here.

Then he remembers what he had to say about Sandy and Soda pulls himself from the swing, intent on running.

"Don't you dare!" Steve barks out, and Soda still tries anyway. He gets a few feet, and then he's knocked down to the ground harder than he expects. It knocks the wind out of him, and he tries to wrestle away, swing his arm to fight Steve off, his scent sharp, musky, tinged with car oil.

That old elementary school feeling works his way into him, when they used to play fight together, Steve always out to prove himself and Soda always happy to play — and never back down. He and Steve wrestle on the park grass, limbs tangling up, snapping at each other, and for once Soda loses: his wrists wind up pinned down, Steve's knee jabbing into his thigh, his eyes determined as he looks down at Soda, his face streaked with dirt.

"I ain't trying to hurt you, dammit!"

"I don't wanna talk to you!" Soda retorts, trying to punch at Steve. "Didn't I make it clear? I don't wanna hear how mad you are about her!"

"This – isn't," Soda bucks his hips up, and Steve forces his weight onto him, pinning Soda down harder, "about her! I didn't come here cause of her, okay! I came here cause you're my best friend and I can't stand this shit anymore!" There's real emotion in his voice, real vulnerability in his voice that's enough to make Soda stay pinned, breath heaving forced to look up at Steve's worried, upset face. "Just let me talk to you for five minutes!"

"Five?" Soda can feel the tears again. "We haven't talked in days and you –"

"Dammit Soda, I just didn't want to see you hurting!" Steve doesn't let up, finger nails digging into his wrists. "We've known each other all our lives. I know you loved that girl, I do. I think she's – She hurt you. What am I supposed to do, just let that go? Just ignore the way you trusted her and she backstabbed you?"

"I'm not asking you to ignore it," the way his voice trembles, the way his face heats up means Soda is seconds from shedding tears. "All I'm asking is for you not to be harsh on her. I'm just asking you to let me be sad about her, Steve. That's all I want. That's all – I can't be sad about nothing else, don't you get it?" His vision blurs, the tears taking over his vision. "I can't be sad about Darry cause he's working himself to the bone. I can't be sad about my parents, cause if I get sad, I won't ever move again. And I can't — I can't be sad over Ponyboy cause it ain't gonna help him if he gets the chair. So I just – you're my best friend, why can't you just let – let me –"

He thinks of all the times as children that they sat together after his mother had gone and Steve had needed someone to talk to. How they started letting Steve in through the door when his father had kicked him out. All the times Steve had come to him for support, even with his cousin Molly.

Soda isn't the score keeping type. Right here and now as tears seep down his cheeks though, he says, "Why can't you just be my best friend again, Steve? The way we used to be? What changed?"

He doesn't expect Steve's eyes to go bright, doesn't expect him to loosen his grip on his wrists, or for him to move away. Soda grasps his hands over his mouth as he lets out a choked sob, and when it tears through the air, he feels himself pulled up. He averts his eyes, letting himself sob into his hands — he can't, however, escape Steve wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," the words are gruff, trying to paper over the clear waterworks that Steve is trying to fight. "I've been – I've been an asshole. I should just shut up and be – be your friend. The way I haven't been. I'm sorry, Sodapop." The words land heavily and Soda turns his head, to finally bury it in Steve's neck. His scent washes over him, and Soda clings to him as he finally, finally hears what he's been hoping someone could tell him for months now, "You can – you can be sad about it, all of it with me. I'm not gonna be an asshole anymore."

Truthfully, Soda doubts some of that. Steve doesn't have the ability to not be one at times.

What matters is that for once in his life, Steve is apologizing in a way that Soda knows he means.

That matters more than anything to him.

He doesn't know how long he spends there, holding onto Steve, Steve holding onto him. It has to be a few minutes, not hours though, not when scents prick his nose, not when the sound of feet on the pavement alert Soda.

He looks up to see the pack coming towards him – Johnny hobbling on crutches with Two-Bit supporting him, Darry in a half jog, Ponyboy on the opposite side, Dallas flanking him, hair a mess.

Soda feels the tears well back up as they all come towards him, Ponyboy breaking into a run before anyone else. Just like his little brother, wanting to be held, wanting to see Soda.

Even now, Soda breaks away from Steve, thinking about him. He opens his arms, and pulls Ponyboy close to him, running his hands through his still mostly blonde hair, burying his nose against him, squeezing tightly. Ponyboy's scent washes over him and it's changed — something about it has turned, mingled with Dallas' sharper one.

Soda pulls back as everyone comes to them, Darry's hands rubbing against his jean pocket the way it had done at the hospital. He still has lingering bruises and cuts from the days before, and when Soda looks at him, he clears his throat to say, "You got something to say, Darry?"

They all do, technically.

He, Darry, and Ponyboy — and the whole pack. Soda looks around at them all, voice getting a little stronger. "Don't say you don't, Darry. We ain't — we ain't been acting like a real pack for weeks. Months, maybe." Ponyboy pulls away, coming to sit beside him. "We need to fix it. We can't keep fighting each other, we can't keep ripping each other apart. Don't we get it bad enough from the Socs? Ain't you scared of losing what we got?"

It's more than what he's dared to say in months, more than what he's allowed himself to really feel in front of them — Darry's face, pinched with shame, Ponyboy's frozen, flushing with something Soda thinks is similar. It isn't just them he's talking to though, as he fiddles with his shirt. "I hate taking sides — cause I can see both of you. Darry's right about you being real young for all of this, and that you don't always pay attention when you need to. Ponyboy also got every right to pick who he wants, too. He works hard, he's not always gonna be as serious as you, Darry."

The both of them look apologetic. It's not enough for Soda though, looking at Dallas' hard look, at Johnny's wide eyes. "We can't be like Tim Shepard's gang. They don't have a – a dead guy they gotta reckon with. We do."

Something on Dallas' face looks strange. It's one of those looks that always comes before something that Dallas says about New York that Soda dreads sometimes — his eyebrows working together, his mouth curled in a half sneer. He's the one who raises his voice first, firm, "I don't wanna argue with nobody anymore. Ponyboy chose me, I chose him. Only permission I wanted was from Ponyboy. Everything else, I don't plan on running out on anyone. I don't want the kids getting killed more than anyone else." He half scowls, jerking his head in acknowledgement of Darry. "That's all."

Darry glances at Dallas, at Soda, and at Ponyboy. Everyone else is looking at him too, waiting for him as the pack alpha. Soda knows that the ball is in his park, and weakly he says, "I just don't want my kid brother – It's not what our parents would want. That judge could come down on Ponyboy for this."

"If he does, that's what the lawyer is for," Two-Bit pushes back, "It's outta our hands and Pony can't un-mate Dallas, can you?"

"No," Ponyboy looks at Darry, his little omega teeth glinting. "I don't want to, neither."

Soda can see that Darry wants to push again, wants to try to protest. Not that he can anymore, it's clear. Not when Johnny pipes up, "Eugene's good. He'll get us through this." For even him to speak up, little Johnny, makes Soda smile just a little bit.

That's all it takes for Darry to cave, running his hand through his hair. "Alright, little buddy. We're not gonna fight anymore. We'll be a pack, a real one." The smile he gives is weaky, shaky. It's not exactly a total vote of confidence for them all, Darry sinking to the grass, shoulders dropping. "No matter how this pans out, no one's abandoning anyone, no one's running off again." He looks down at his palm, at the mark they all have on their palms. Soda can see he's struggling not to cry, not to look weak in front of them all.

Soda wishes he felt like he could. When Darry lifts his head up to look around at them all though, his voice is stronger. "Promise me that. We're all gonna talk to each other, stick with each other, through all of this, no matter what."

They don't all say the word Promise in unison — Steve says it too shortly, Two-Bit too enthusiastically, Johnny too quietly. They all do say it though, and for the first time in a month, Soda believes it.

Chapter Text

Ed takes a seat next to Darry, when it's close to midnight. He's holding a beer, and when he looks over to Darry, he can see his father reflected in his face — only with his mother's facial expressions, those lines of utter seriousness etched into his face in the same way that Jennifer always had been.

It's remarkable how one could look like their ancestors, and couldn't at the same time. Darrel Curtis never would've allowed this look to be on his face for more than a second, had always lit up with cheer.

Then again, Darrel never, to his knowledge, had to carry so much on his shoulders at such a young age.

Ed is very, very sure that he wouldn't have wanted this for his old son, ever. "So," Ed drawls out, "I'm supposin' that you and your pack don't need that meeting with me now, do you?"

As expected, Darry shakes his head. "Nossir, we don't. I think — I think we'll be alright, at the moment."

Ed looks around at everyone gathered at the bonfire, at the way they've separated for the night. It's a warm enough night for everyone. "Good thing you all got it taken care of early. Most others... they'd take most of the night. Seems like your pack got it's head on straight cause of you."

Slowly, Darry shakes his head. "I don't think it's necessarily 'cause of me. I think — I think it's in spite of me, Ed."

Ponyboy has a couple of things he wants to say — that he's happy that the pack is back together again, that he's still worried about what all of this will bring, that he wants to know how Dallas feels about this, wants to know why Dallas and Johnny seemed off with each other — only it all flies right out of his head when Dallas grasps his cheeks and pulls him in for a kiss that feels bruising and possessive and suddenly he remembers what bonfires can be about.

The flash of memory washes over him: bodies half swallowed up by the dark, hands grasping at shirts, jeans shoved down, the mixing of scents with the smoke, the sound of gasps that he knew he shouldn't be hearing even in passing. How he'd known better than to be there and he'd moved away, and all of those questions are drowned out by the taste of Dallas' lips, by the feeling of his tongue against his, by the way Ponyboy's hands seem to flutter for a moment as they try to figure out where to touch Dallas, landing right at his jeans.

He wanted to be a normal kid, didn't he, for a little while? Wanted to be someone who didn't have to think about trials or dead bodies or the future?

Darry had accepted that they were mated, and Ponyboy moans when Dallas' sharp teeth nick at the side of his mouth as he pulls away. He looks at the way Dallas' eyes look, some of the light catching at the edge of his dark eyes, showing that sliver of brown.

He could talk. He could ruin this moment with the reminder of what was coming.

Or, he could give into his wish, just for now.

He grasps Dallas' hand and leads him away, deeper into the shadows, able to scent his own slick as he goes.

"And how do you figure that?" Ed takes a swig of his beer, watching as Dallas and Ponyboy disappear into the shadows together, away from prying eyes. "You did what you couldn't, ain't you?"

Darry's nail peels at his beer label. "I was the one who drove him out of the house in the first place, Ed. I did – What I did was something my Daddy would've hated me for." His shoulders slope down.

Ed watches as Steve and Soda drift together, closer to the bonfire itself. A red headed girl, petite, runs up to Steve, and a few feet away, Two-Bit takes notice of her. Immediately, he's loping behind Soda and Steve, the girl looking between them both. "Something you fixed though, didn't you? Something you can come back from?"

Darry's nail peels and peels at the label. "That? I don't know. I think — I think so. I also don't think I was wrong about everything, either." He frowns deeper as Ed watches Two-Bit make eyes at the redheaded girl, as Steve sneers but Soda sticks to his side. "Dallas shouldn't have mated Ponyboy — he's a kid, initiation or not. Fourteen's too young to give his life over to him like that." He grips the bottle tighter. "It's just real clear I can't do nothing about it anymore. Not with so much worse coming up now."

Laughter streaks across Ed's hearing. He watches as Two-Bit wraps his arm around the red headed girl, she looks up and smirks at him. Steve turns around, catching Johnny's eye and he seems to guide them all to where Johnny's seated with his own beer.

"What I did is why we're in this spot," Darry runs his hand through his hair. "Ed I – I just don't know what to do anymore. I don't know if I'm doing a damn thing right, cause when I push —"

"Did you think your parents had a manual? Do you think anyone does?" Ed cuts through his words, keeping his tone light as he can. "No one does, Darry. I thought you understood that this January." He turns his head to look at Darry square in the face. "You got a lot of pride about you, Darry and this is the time in life where you need to let it go. Truly let it go, and you need to forgive yourself, even for a while, of what you've done. Cause if you keep digging in holes, if you keep circling back, you're going to lose sight of things." Ed waves to the packs before them, waves to the people that have stayed, that wanted to stay. "You aren't ever gonna be perfect, we both know that. And the decisions you've made so far — even those your father wouldn't like or love — aren't easy, and they aren't something you can't fix. So think about fixing them, not about going back and not doing them at all."

Darry's lip quivers. He takes a swig of his beer.

Ed allows him the silence, allows the night to unravel before them a little more. Watches as Two-Bit flirts with Steve's cousin, as Steve talks to Johnny, and to Soda. He looks at the other packs mingle, and when more silence has passed, he speaks again. "You've got more on your plate than what anyone deserves. You've also got a pack who was willing to work with you and not snipe at each other. You need to rely on them, like a real pack." He turns to look at Darry's form, at how young he is at twenty. "Packs aren't just something I preach about, son. They're something I believe in. You never were a greaser, not really. We both know that." Darry doesn't protest it. "You always wanted to be more, look over the other side of the fence. That isn't for you, hasn't been in a long time. The only way you're going to be able to get through any of this is to be a greaser, to really lead this pack — but not alone. No pack is ever led alone."

He has an urge to go on. Darry, though, is smart. He seems to get it as he nods more resolutely this time with a soft, "Yessir. I will."

Ed decides to simply let them both go quiet, for a long moment. He can see that they've got a good few hours ahead, so he switches the subject. "It'd be best if they didn't sleep over tonight. You've got a busy weekend; midnight might be best to get everyone in."

"Yessir," this time it's firmer, more steady of a response. Ed smiles. Darry smiles back.

Chapter Text

A hand is on Ponyboy's shoulder, shaking him. He doesn't want to answer it; he's so fucking safe here, wherever this warm place is. It's comforting, the scent around him feels so good, the arms around him are strong and nice, and there's a mix of the outside that comes with it. Sleep still tugs at him, even though the more aware he gets, the more it falls away.

He wriggles closer, and Soda's laughter washes over his ears. "Guess you don't wanna get up, honey?"

"Mno," Ponyboy whines, rubbing his nose against someone's neck. Someone being Dallas, given the grunt that leaves him as Ponyboy cleaves closer.

Dallas shifts, his voice scraping near the bottom of his register. "I got him, Soda. We'll be by the house in the morning for breakfast."

"I'll tell Darry. G'night, Pony, Dally," Soda says.

Ponyboy lifts his head up from Dallas' neck, finally looking at his brother. He feels happy to see Soda there, smiling the way he used to. The pack was back together, normal again. He feels very pleased in that moment that he and Dallas hadn't done too much, and that Dallas had snagged some blankets before they'd claimed a spot. Ponyboy hadn't been thinking about it; not with how eager he was.

He's sure he looks like a tousled mess, smiling up at Soda. "See you in the morning. Tell Darry and everyone else I said good night."

He watches as Soda takes off towards the main bonfire, back to the ring of warm fire light. He and Dallas stay there, right at the edge of it all, in a half nest that Dallas constructed, both of them pressed close together, warm body against warm body. Ponyboy moves a little, yawning — he's not sure when he fell asleep or for how long, only it's noticeably colder as he moves around. There are greasers farther out, some of them together, some not. Some are like Soda and the rest, heading back to other places for the night though most will be staying here, those who didn't have a good place at all or who preferred to be there with whoever they were going steady with or just cause.

He wasn't sure what category that placed him and Dallas into — just that they were comfortable here together, beneath the starlight, in this semi nest together, the past week or so's events finally behind them.

If he thinks about it too hard, it will overwhelm him because now that they were a pack, now that they were back where they needed to be, there was something else looming, something that could change their lives forever.

Tonight, Ponyboy doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to have to consider that yet. What he wants, what he concentrates on is the way Dallas looks as he moves just enough to prop himself up on one arm, the way his hair is curling at the end when he squints down at him, asking, "You want something to drink? There's still some stuff left."

"Drink, some food yeah," Ponyboy yawns again, rubbing at his eyes. "Just a little bit. And a weed."

"What am I, a waitress?" Dallas nudges him as he fully gets up. He's just in his jeans and shirt, his shoes off. Even though he grouses, he steps out of the nest, padding across the grass. Ponyboy watches him go, enjoying the way his body cuts through the darkness, at the sureness in his steps and how much Ponyboy wants to hook his fingers in his shirt and yank it away.

No book could have every conveyed to him how different he'd feel after mating. Even through a day as difficult as this one, he had just wanted Dallas, wanted to touch him, wanted to be near him, wanted to have him any way that he could. To not be so close to him had made Ponyboy uncomfortable, made him unsteady.

Even now, with Dallas in his eye line, even with Dallas just a few steps away, Ponyboy wanted him back, wanted to drive his fingers into his side, wanted to kiss him, wanted to have Dallas knotting him again, as soon as he could.

When Dallas comes back, he offers a canteen of water to Ponyboy and a chocolate bar, sitting in on the edge of the nest. He crosses his legs, nose flaring, eyebrows raising. "After you eat, kid."

"How'd you know?" Ponyboy takes the canteen, and the water is deliciously cold as he pulls from it.

"You ain't the first person I've been with," is Dallas' answer. It's not a good one — a spark of jealousy flares in Ponyboy's gut as he continues. "Just know it."

Frowning, Ponyboy tears open his chocolate bar, "Didn't mate 'em though." Dallas chuckles, and the sight of his sharp fangs soothes down that bit of jealousy. The chocolate is okay enough, Ponyboy taking a few bites. "Are you gonna come with us, tomorrow?"

"To do what?"

"Well — I gotta talk to Darry and Soda, really," Ponyboy sucks at his teeth. "I gotta – we need suits for the trial come Tuesday. The one I wore last time, I don't fit it no more." He knows he could use better grammar — and doesn't care to, knowing what the rest of this week, month will be. A thought that sours the chocolate in his mouth and has him put it down. "We gotta go get one that fits. I think – Darry can wear one of Dad's old ones. Soda probably can wear the other one, though."

In his chest, he can feel anxiety well up, can feel some of those fears start to snap at him, racing to devour him, to take away all the good of the night.

Dallas reaches out, grasps his chin, and before Ponyboy can say what?, he's tugging Ponyboy forward roughly – then he's kissing him, rough, scent overpowering for a moment. It's enough to pull Ponyboy out of his thoughts, to get him to concentrate on Dallas' mouth, on the way he can taste a little bit of beer on Dallas' tongue, on putting the chocolate bar down and enjoying how sharply Dallas' fingers dig into his cheek.

He kisses him back, inhales his scent, fingers reaching out for Dallas' shirt the way he'd been wanting to. The mating mark on his neck seems to pulse, and Ponyboy's pushing the candybar away from him, starting to feel dizzy, trying to keep up with Dallas.

It's Dallas who breaks away first, who says, "Tomorrow, kid. We don't have to do anything about that til tomorrow." Against Ponyboy's mouth, his breath is warm, inviting.

So Ponyboy takes him up on the invitation, kissing Dallas this time, pulling him closer, down into the nest with him. Allows himself to just be a regular kid, just the average teenager having time with his mate at the bonfire like so many others, moaning as Dallas' tongue slips into his mouth, as his nose half bumps into his, his fingers moving to undo Dallas' jean buttons, the scent of slick starting to permeate the air.

Underneath the stars, it's just them. It's just Dallas laughing in his ear when Ponyboy yanks his boxers down too fast, it's just Ponyboy wriggling when Dallas tries to get his jeans off just as quickly. There is no past or future: simply the present as Ponyboy, feeling heady and happy, kicking his jeans off, pulling his shirt off with Dallas' aid.

Then Dallas' teeth sink into his neck, his fingers move between Ponyboy's thighs, and then there is just their bodies, melding together as best they can, colored by pleasure.

He will never, ever forget what it feels like to wrap his arms around Dallas, to look at the moonlight above them as Dallas strokes inside of him, as he wraps his legs around his waist. He will never forget how beautiful it looks like when the moon illuminates the tips of Dallas' hair, or how his vision blurs together when his orgasm overtakes him, the world narrowed down to just them.

"Glad you got here early," Darry's being diplomatic as he can, something Ponyboy appreciates as he steps inside of the house. It's cleaned up, as best he could even if the lamp not being there makes his heart hurt. Darry's cleaned up, and in the kitchen, Ponyboy can see Soda there. "We gotta go downtown for shopping. Mrs. Mathews told me about the lawyer saying we need new suits. Think you two could eat and get showered in the next hour so we can drive and meet her together?"

"Yeah," Dallas nudges Ponyboy towards the hallway, "Go on, kid. You first; I can run to Buck's and get back here in time. All my shit's there."

Darry nods haltingly, and Ponyboy spares Dallas one more glance — at his tousled hair, at the mating mark that's dark again, at the hickeys and scratches Ponyboy had left on him — then he goes down the hallway. At least Mrs. Mathews had already talked to him, which was a good sign, made sense. She was the one who was going to help with Johnny so it was gonna be her money.

That old anger at his parents flares up. Even now, the Cades weren't doing a goddamn thing to help him, making him rely on someone else. He thinks he can hear Darry and Dallas speak a little more in muffled tones as he pulls clothes out of his drawers. Whatever it is light enough: soon Dallas' boots are hitting the pavement, Ponyboy able to see him through the window, walking down the street, turning to Buck's.

Ponyboy steps out of his room, going to the spare closet with towels, noting how little they have. Shit, someone needed to do laundry. "How many pancakes you want, honey?" Soda calls out, the smell of food growing sharper.

"Four! Gimme scrambled eggs – don't color any!" Hastily, Ponyboy moves to the bathroom and Soda laughs.

His shower is quick, Ponyboy not bothering to do much with his hair. The blonde is becoming unsettling to look at, remembering the trial. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, and once his clothes are on, he's stumbling into the kitchen where the food is surprisingly normal looking for food Soda's cooked. Without chocolate cake to boot, causing Ponyboy to pout.

"We're a little short on food coloring and cake," Darry sets down the milk and syrup. "We need it for the other stuff right now." He sounds regretful, and a part of Pony is sad that that they can't have a regular Saturday morning to themselves, the way they used to with colored food and the cake.

Still... he needs the suit. So he just nods, smearing butter on the stack of pancakes that Soda's made. "I figure when Dallas gets back, he can make himself something real quick if he ain't have anything at Buck's," Soda sits down himself, cutting into his own pancakes.

Even though there's no colored food, even though there's not any chocolate cake to split, it feels as if some things are back to normal enough as Darry flips through the newspaper, as Soda eats messily beside him, as Ponyboy bites into slightly undercooked pancakes. It's as close to a typical day as they'll get for awhile, he thinks, and that's enough for him to quell anything else.

"You didn't use up all the hot water I hope," Soda nudges him and Ponyboy grins. "I gotta shower next and Darry's last."

"Nah, you two should be okay. Is Steve coming with us?"

"No, he's covering for me today while we're out," the way Soda replies is light. Not necessarily happy, just light, and still a good sign. "He'll meet us at the bonfire with Molly."

"I thought I saw her last night," Darry mutters, flipping over the newspaper, then glancing at the clock. "C'mon, kid brother, need you to eat a little faster if we're gonna get there on time."

"Yeah, yeah," that's all it takes for Soda to eat a little faster, lifting his eyebrows at Ponyboy. "I think Two-Bit might be trying to ask her out by the eyes he was making at her."

Never one to pay attention to this sort of thing, Ponyboy's eyebrows shoot up. "You think she'd actually take him up on it? She ain't really Two's type. Never seen him look at anyone who ain't a blonde."

"Everyone's going out of their usual type lately," there's the sound of a fork on the plate, and Ponyboy feels his ears burn red at that. Soda smiles at him, then grabs his mostly cleared plate. "I'm heading to the shower, see you guys in a couple of minutes."

"Don't forget your pants this time!" Darry calls out and Ponyboy laughs.

It wasn't perfect. Yet, it was at least getting there, going into being normal again.

Chapter Text

Darry looks between Dallas and Ponyboy with a look of resigned annoyance. The thing about having only one truck and Buck being unwilling to lend out his car one more time to Dallas was that they all couldn't fit in it. Ponyboy couldn't squeeze into the cab nicely with his brothers and Dallas, which left one solution.

"Just thrown down a blanket so you two don't get dirty, and don't do nothing that's gonna get you charged for public indecency," Darry gestures to the truck bed, and Ponyboy cracks a grin. Wisely, he doesn't mention that after last night, he thinks he's alright for now.

Dallas is clearly thinking the same thing given the smirk on his face, and Ponyboy elbows him before going into the back of the house. He grabs one of the older comforters, hearing Darry start the truck up. The engine growls, and Soda yells out, "Grab some pillows, too!"

"Okay!" Ponyboy pulls out two pillows, and then gets Dallas' brown jacket, the pockets stuffed with the cash the other packs had given him the night before. He throws it on, walks outside with everything in hand.

It doesn't take long for the truck bed, which was already decently clean, to have the blankets down, then the pillows. Dallas hauls him up, and once they're settled, he knocks on the window. Darry glances up at them through the rearview mirror, expression stern, then the truck takes off.

The road isn't too bad and Ponyboy leans against Dallas, wishing he'd brought a book. The sky is clear, the sun already out and Dallas shifts, pulling Ponyboy closer. "You okay, kid?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he looks at the passing trees, houses, all of Tulsa, reaching his hand into his jacket, looking for cigarettes. "You ain't cold or anything?" As they move past, his mind drifts for a moment, a memory swimming up.

"Ain't my first rodeo riding in the back of a truck like this," Dallas unrolls his sleeve, the pack of Kools there. "You sure you're okay?" He offers the pack to Ponyboy as Darry slows to a stop at a light. "You got that look on your face, where you ain't at home."

"How can I not be here?" Taking a cigarette, Ponyboy sticks it in his mouth, watching Dallas do the same. His hair's been freshly washed, as has the rest of him. That haircut he's been needing for weeks a now is looking more evident that ever, his hair starting to curl as he makes a come here motion with his finger. Obligingly, Ponyboy leans over, catching Dallas' scent, the wildness in it that he's come to associate with comfort. Dallas grasps the chain, drawing Ponyboy closer to him, their noses almost touching.

Heat envelops Ponyboy's ears and neck at the closeness, at how casually Dallas does it as if he always has this. His heart unexpectedly catches in his throat as Dallas strikes a match on the medallion, the heat close to their skin.

Have his eyes always looked this brown? Ponyboy thinks to himself as he moves the match to their two cigarettes that are touching, inches of distance between them. They've always been a dark brown to him, and with the matchlight, they seem more intense than ever.

Carefully, Dallas lights up both of their cigarettes, the truck starting up again, gliding forward as Ponyboy takes his first inhale.

If he had a pencil and paper, he'd draw what it had looked like, to see Dallas' eyebrows come together, to see the way he had looked when he'd lit their cigarettes, the way his mouth – suddenly so pink – had scrunched up in a half snarl on his face, and the way he looks at Ponyboy now, half critical, half curious. "C'mon, kid. What's going on in your head?"

Reminded, Ponyboy leans back with his cigarette, taking another steady inhale knowing he'd never keep the image in his head of what he'd just seen if he started. Still...

God. Weeks ago and he'd never trust himself to say this to Dallas Winston. A flash of what he'd said on Jay Mountain, about how he didn't think he could tell anyone what he'd felt, comes back to him.

Only now it occurs to Ponyboy that he'd never mentioned Dallas at all.

Now? Now he looks at Dallas' curious face sadly, knowing he wouldn't make fun of him or tease him. "I was just thinking that the last time I was sitting in a truck like this, it was when Mama and Daddy were still alive. We had been coming back from a hunting trip — Mama had come cause she had bet Daddy she'd shoot more quail than him. She didn't, I did." Ponyboy sniffs, remembering her smile, of how golden she'd been. "I hate hunting, but Mama and Daddy, we were okay. There hadn't been any room in the front, just like this. So Daddy suggested we all go in the back, and him and Mama in the front." Ponyboy closes his eyes, remembering how his father had nudged his mother, the way she had bit her lip. It was so obvious now, that he'd suggested it for time to themselves, maybe get to necking when they weren't paying attention.

Dallas doesn't move from his spot in the truck bed so Ponyboy continues. "So, we all climbed in the back. It was such a sunny day, and we caught so much game. Darry was all excited cause he'd just finished his college classes early to come hunt with us over Thanksgiving. He was telling us how – how much fun he'd been having." There's a tremble to his voice as he continues. "Soda was talking about how much he'd been looking forward to getting Sandy something for Christmas and I was the one who suggested he get her a pretty headband. She wore that headband —"

"All the time. I remember," Dallas taps his hair. "It had that flower pattern on it."

"Yeah," Ponyboy takes another drag from his cigarette, hands trembling. Unexpectedly, Dallas reaches over for his free hand, grasping it. The gesture is so simple, so unlike the Dallas he thought he knew. Tears surge in his eyes, and Ponyboy sniffs. "It was such a good trip. I remember Momma asked you to come, but you got put in the cooler."

Dallas shrugs, rubbing a thumb on Ponyboy's fingers. "I remember. Thought about that a lot; never wanted to do much huntin', I ain't that good with a gun. But your Mama was sure disappointed about it. Would've gone if I'd known 'cause your Mama was the real thing."

Ponyboy leans against him, and Dallas wraps an arm around his shoulders. "I miss her. I miss her so much, Dally."

"I'm sorry, kid," Dallas squeezes him tighter. "I miss her, too." He's never expressed that before, never said it directly and it lends all the more weight to what he says.

They don't talk for the rest of the ride.

When Darry parks the truck, Dallas is the first to leap out, Ponyboy coming with him. It's a little colder, Dallas adjusting his jean jacket as he waits for Soda to walk around. "Where are we meeting them?"

Ponyboy looks around, slightly taken aback. It's the Southland Shopping Center, one of the newest places in Tulsa. It had been opened that spring, and it was surely going to be pricy to shop here. Something that Darry clearly would know and his stomach does a funny flop knowing that they'll have to pay a lot for it.

His hands get clammy again. "Clarke's Good Clothes," Darry answers, beckoning them to the store at the end. The name Clarke's is emblazoned, letter by letter, on poles on top of the store, black on bright yellow. He squints up at the sign as Ponyboy feels dread sweep through him. "C'mon, I wanna get done before noon."

It feels better to stick close to Dallas as they walk towards it. If the cost has occured to Dallas, he doesn't say anything or do anything differently, just walking in his long lope towards it, Soda sticking closer to Darry. The last time Ponyboy had gotten brand new clothes, he'd been with his Pops. They'd been at a thrift store, looking to get something for the winter, Ponyboy pleased when he'd found a flannel shirt that he could grow into.

That flannel shirt was now too small for him, yet he remembers how his Pops had beamed at him when he'd stuck his arms through the sleeves.

Right now, Darry opens the door, and they all file in one at a time. Like most department stores, Ponyboy has to adjust to the scent of perfumes and the way the air circulates differently. Behind him, Dallas is swearing a blue streak, his eyes watering in response to it all.

"You okay, Dal?" Darry asks as the steps in last, looking around.

"Fucking hate these lights and scents," Dallas' eyes look red and Ponyboy throws him a supportive look. The lights are indeed bright, like they are in high school hallways, those fluorescents that turn everything brighter than what they needed to be. The department store is overflowing with things: clothes on racks with percentages for sales, mannequins every few feet modeling the clothes in a stilted manner that's almost creepy, mirrors in sections, salesgirls behind counters.

Ponyboy turns his head, trying to look away from the amount before him, hoping to see Kathleen. There are only a few people inside, most of them older people who clearly aren't used to see a group of teenagers coming in who clearly were a lot poorer than they were. "You know where they're supposed to be?"

Soda looks at the tags on a rather expensive looking skirt in front of him, his eyebrows raised. "Jesus, I couldn't buy this if I saved up for —"

"The men's section," Firmly, Darry pushes Soda away from the skirt. Ponyboy follows them, still close to Dallas who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than there as he wipes at his nose. It's easier to focus on his reddening face than to think about how much this was costing Darry. If Bob hadn't been there, if he'd gone straight home...

They make their way through the main floor, until they finally turn towards the back where the sign for Mens flashes. Ponyboy looks around, and catches the faint scent Johnny has now, towards the back. Dallas must scent him too, turning with him, heading towards what Ponyboy could see were the fitting rooms.

"Oh, boys! Over here!" Kathleen is the one who spots them first, waving towards them. She's got her coat on, her hair half pinned back.

What makes Ponyboy freeze in his tracks for a second is the wheelchair beside her where he can see clothes draped on the back. It's got bright blue bars on it, with light gray handles and a thin looking navy blue back and seat that can barely be seen beneath the clothes folded on there. The wheels are spoked, and there are foot pedals in the front that look shinier than what Ponyboy expects.

There's no way its new; no one in their neighborhood could afford that, Kathleen most of all. He swallows thickly and Kathleen smiles softly at him. "We got a donation. Don't worry about it; Two-Bit's inside helping Johnny try on suits. I already have some suits here," she reaches over, pulling some clothes from the back of the chair, handing them over to Ponyboy. "You and Johnny are about the same size,and I already picked the clearance rack clean. We'll try there first and then keep going."

His hands shake as he reaches out to take the bundle of clothing from her. Dallas looks like he wants to say something and instead nudges Ponyboy towards the fitting rooms and Ponyboy hurries into the room before Darry and Soda can catch up and say anything.

The shirts are easiest to put on, with the buttons small between his fingers, all of them white or off white or a pale blue. It's the slacks and the actual suit jacket that make Ponyboy feel awful when he walks out of the fitting room. His reflection doesn't seem to be himself: it's some other boy staring at him in the mirror with huge eyes, long hair that was colored wrong, in a suit that he knew his family couldn't afford and had to wear anyway.

He stares at his reflection, trying to piece himself together, trying to see it as himself, as he reaches up to adjust his tie.

"Don't look right to me neither," Johnny says, and Ponyboy looks in the mirror where Johnny's in the wheelchair, rolling it towards him. He's in his normal clothes now, his legs half bent in the chair, in his jean jacket. It's buttoned up at the wrists, probably to cover his burn scars. "Every time I put one, on just felt like nothing was fittin' the way it was supposed to."

Before all this, he and Johnny didn't always have to talk. Some conversations could be done in silence between the two of them.

Right now, as they stare at their reflections, it feels like one of those moments again. The way that neither of them look like who they were weeks ago: Ponyboy's hair only longer because of his first heat, Johnny's hair still mostly shorn short, the burn scars they're both covering, the way that Johnny needs help to get around anywhere, the sheer fact that they were here at all.

Ponyboy knows he doesn't have to say I know. It's right there, reflected in their terrified faces of what the future is going to bring next. He raises his hand to his face, voice quiet, "We look like them, too. That ain't helping."

Having a vivid imagination at this moment is the worst thing: it isn't hard for Ponyboy to envision himself in the courtroom, wearing Bob Sheldon's bloodstained Madras shirt, to think of himself with those rings, in front of a judge with the clothes he's wearing.

Beside him, Johnny pulls his eyes away from their reflections, breaking Ponyboy's train of thought. "We got to. They ain't gonna listen to us if we don't." His pulse picks up, right near the neck burn he has, one of the few not easily concealed. "Eugene told us that."

The words It's unfair wants to bubble up. They don't, though, plain on their faces. Ponyboy pushes the sleeves up on his arms, looking at the pink of his raised burn scars. "Bet they don't have to worry about their parent's paychecks going towards a suit." He balls his hand up in a fist, looking at Johnny now, now the mirror. "You holding up okay, Johnnycake?"

Plainly, the way Johnny gives a scared laugh says no. "Keep hoping I wake up and I'm still in the lot with you." He reaches up, bites at his nail. All of them look real bitten down now. "I at least got this. Makes everything a lot easier." A beat passes between them and he looks back up at Ponyboy. "Probably should go see your brothers and Mrs. Mathews. So we can get outta here."

If Johnny wants to say more, it never comes out. He just retreats, the sound of the wheelchair filling the silence.

Ponyboy thinks about Bob's body again, crumpled beneath the streetlight, and follows him out.

In the end, Darry unloads three suits with him when they get back to the house. Ponyboy can't stand to look at them as he takes them inside, feeling almost glued down to the back of the truck beside Dallas. All of the suits were marked down and still, when Darry had gone up to pay for them, he seemed a little unsteady.

Ponyboy wants to stay in the truck, pressed up against Dallas for awhile longer. Wants to curl into him and grasp his side and not have to get up. He also doesn't want to be in there at all, remembering the last time he'd been in it, the last time that he and his parents had done anything fun together.

It's when Dallas moves an arm from around him that he finally finds himself stumbling out after him, distantly hearing Darry say something, his feet just moving on automatic out of the slightly chilly outside and inside of his house.

He doesn't know what he's doing, really, except going to his room, because his room is there, because he doesn't have anywhere else to go. Because his bed is safe, his bed is going to be just warm enough and —

"And your bed shouldn't have you wearing shoes in it," the rough gravel of Dallas' voice cuts through and Ponyboy realizes with a startling realization he's been talking. For how long, though, Dallas won't tell as he shuts the door behind him. He walks over, nudging Ponyboy onto the bed. "C'mon, I'll do it."

"You don't have to," Ponyboy sits down anyway, the words a half mumble.

If he hears, Dallas doesn't say anything about that, unlacing Ponyboy's shoes, and tugging them off along with his socks. "Darry's going grocery shopping, I already gave him some money. Just get some rest."

"You don't have to do this," Ponyboy repeats himself, voice quavering. "I'm not — I'm fine."

"You're my mate," The second shoe is tugged off, his socks come off soon after. "I'm not about to just leave you here. So go on, make a nest kid, and go to sleep." The way Dallas says it is more bite than softness in it and somehow, that edge makes Ponyboy's eyes burn with tears he knows he shouldn't shed.

"You gonna stay with me?" His voice does quiver this time.

"You want me to?" Dallas looks up, still on his knees, eyes dark, mouth in a half twist. "You do, I am."

"Please?" Ponyboy reaches out for him, and it feels so, so good when he presses a kiss to Dallas' mouth.

Dallas is his mate, he knows that. He's safe, he trusts him and before he knows it, he's dragging Dallas into bed with him. Not to fuck him, not for that. Just to kiss him, just to feel Dallas' bigger arms wrap around him, for the comfort of it.

"Bite my mark, Dally?" Is the last thing he says.

Dallas doesn't need to say yes. He has his hand in Ponyboy's hair in no time, and the way his teeth sink into Ponyboy's neck, into his mark, is exactly what he needs.

"Honey?" A hand shakes his shoulder. "Wake up, now. It's time to eat."

Ponyboy turns his head into the warmth of Dallas' shoulder. "Nn. Later, Soda." He inhales Dallas' feral, earthy scent. "Too early."

Soda huffs, and nudges some more. "Come eat. It's gonna get cold. Mrs. Mathews even made mac n cheese for you."

Beneath him, Dallas grunts moves upwards. "Kid, c'mon. I'm hungry."

The cotton webs of sleep are thick in his head. He knows he's dreamed about something; what it was, it's not sticking in the face of the pleasant feeling emanating from his mating mark. Before, he hadn't felt like himself when he'd come through that door. Right now, as Dallas grasps him up, tries to get him awake, he feels almost like he had in the heat hotel with Dallas — comfortable, half ready to crawl right inside of Dallas if he could, to sleep, to be safe.

He yawns, rubbing at his eyes. "You don't wanna stay a few more minutes?"

"So Darry can kick my head in?" Dallas cocks an eyebrow at him, as if he's any better with the grin on his face or the way that his mating mark is dark as anything on his neck. They'd both had their fair share, even though nothing else physically happened. "C'mon, I'm starving."

Yawning again, Ponyboy shuffles after him, grateful they'd only taken their shirts off. He tugs his back on, opening the door. That wakes him up, the smell of actual, real food. He ventures down the hallway and finds the house surprisingly full: Ed is putting down a steak on Darry's plate as Kathleen puts down a bowl of fluffy, buttery mashed potatoes. There's enough food plied on the table that Ponyboy's surprised it it's groaning and moaning from the weight of it: green beans and neckbones, collard greens, a basket of fried chicken, the mac n cheese that Soda had mentioned, smothered porkchops, and even cornbread to his delight.

Instead of asking how they could all afford it, Ponyboy just goes to the kitchen to get a plate. The pack is scattered around everywhere — Steve in the kitchen getting a beer and nodding at him, Molly laughing with Two-Bit in a corner holding her own plate, Soda sitting in front of the television with Johnny beside him the both of them laughing at something on screen.

He comes back with a plate for himself and Dallas, handing the bigger one to Dallas. Dallas nudges him forward first, coming behind Darry still topping off his plate with food.

"Thanks, Ed," Ponyboy smiles at the older man, reaching for some of the fried chicken.

"It's no problem," Ed smiles back. "Just no beer, you understand?"

"I'll give you a sip," Dallas counters, scooping up a copious amount of green beans on his plate. "Ain't gonna be his first time." He nods to Kathleen. "Thanks, Mrs. Mathews."

It takes awhile before their plates are loaded up heavily, full. Ponyboy takes a seat on the couch next to Soda, Darry in his loveseat. All around him, he can see the pack eating together, talking, all of them determined to be here.

Dallas sits next to him last, and Ponyboy hooks his ankle in Dallas' own. He bites into the food, and as everyone talks, as they all eat together, he has to remind himself that this might be the beginning of the end. They all know it, and still they'd all come for him and Johnny.

He eats quietly, and hopes that it won't be. That it can't be. Not when they're all finally where they need to be with each other. Not when he can feel a sense of love, unity here that he hadn't dreamt of months ago.

Chapter Text

The October day doesn't dawn like it would be in a movie: dreary, overcast, full of every indication of doom, of some kind of significance that things might not work out. Instead, it comes with bright sunlight that infiltrates every part of a too quiet house as they all, in one way or another, get ready for the day ahead.

It's unnatural — usually, there was some kind of noise going on in the house, some sort of speech, the television on, something, anything. Instead, it's filled with just movements: the scrape of a shoe on the carpet, the sound of water hitting the bathtub, bacon sizzling in the pan, doors opening and closing. There's the occasional Excuse me or Hold on, yet nothing else. No real greetings, no real conversations.

Just preparing — almost like the way they'd been before the funeral, trying to figure out how the world was now that their parents were dead and they had to just prepare.

Only this is worse as Ponyboy climbs into the front of the truck and Soda gets on the other side of him. The suit Ponyboy wears is different: new, with the jacket ironed stiff, the shirt beneath a pale blue, his tie a dark blue. Darry's in their Dad's suit again, moving stiffly as he gets the car into drive.

Behind them, the headlights from Dallas' car flashes, and then he's following them.

Ponyboy is grateful he ate nothing that morning as they drive along, further and further into Tulsa. There are other cars that join them: Steve's falls in line, and then Mrs. Mathews' own car takes the lead as they go to the courthouse. It feels like a funeral procession, and Ponyboy remembers what the hearse had looked like in that cold day, how stiff he'd felt.

He feels stiff again, all over, and when he looks over to the parking lot as they turn into it, he doesn't know what to feel to be greeted by the sight of cars already packed in the spaces available: greaser cars. Beat up ones, souped up ones, even the motorbike that Ed drives is there, with him standing against it, his arms folded, watching solemnly. Almost every car is packed to the gills too, with some greasers whooping, yelling out their pack names in greeting. More than a few of them are dressed up to the nines in their respective gear, too — The River Kings all decked out in their yellow jackets, Tim Shepard's gang in their best jackets, and even the Vipers are in full force in green.

"Jesus," Darry mutters under his breath, easing the truck into a parking space, "I don't know what the judge is gonna think about this."

"If they got the right to be here, then so do we," the grim tone in Soda's voice is striking, and Ponyboy cranes his neck to look on the opposite side. Sure enough, he can see Socs there too — most of them with their parents, only a handful alone. Their cars are similarly packed, full of people and almost universally a sea of black clothing.

That makes Darry glare.

Ponyboy doesn't know how to breathe as they climb out of the truck. Some of the adults on the Soc side glare at him or turn their noses up. He tries to pick out faces he knows, yet can't stand to look at them long — the sea of faces are just too much to bear, too much to deal with so he turns back to the greasers in front of him. Their faces are grim in a different way than the Socs were, like they had been before the rumble, every inch of pride and ferocity on their faces not because they wanted to have it, not because they always felt it in good ways, but because it was all any of them had. Right now, they were all focused on Ponyboy, on his brothers — as a show of support, a way to help.

His cheeks grow hot at the realization, as other greasers nod and wave at him or say You get 'em, Curtis. The only way he can swallow it down is when others look towards Johnny, similar cries going up, other words of encouragement. Turning towards Johnny is easier in a way, looking at him in the wheelchair, his face pale, eyes huge in his face as he takes in the people around them.

Two-Bit looks the oddest in a suit, Ponyboy thinks, and then it hits him: it's one of his father's suits. It's a little big on him, yet Ponyboy recognizes the cufflinks he's wearing, the color of the suit.

"C'mon," Mrs. Mathews' voice breaks over them, and she's wearing her hair half up, her cheeks very pink, hands in a pair of leather gloves that Ponyboy's never seen before. Darry touches his shoulder, and Ponyboy keeps himself rooted to the spot, looking for Dallas.

He finds him, coming up last with Steve and Molly, both. He doesn't look all that happy to be here, his eyebrows coming together in a half angry V, his mouth twisted up angrily. Ponyboy wants to drag him close, wants to kiss him, have Dallas sink his fangs into his mating mark until the blood runs down his neck, take his hand and run away, do something, anything with him for comfort.

Darry steers him away, out of the parking lot and to the steps. The sounds of the greasers outside become muffled as they step into the courthouse, and to the side hallway. The hallway is lengthy, and at one end, waiting for them is Eugene. He's had a fresh haircut, his glasses hanging off of his nose as he looks at his papers. A police man gets his attention with a whistle, and Eugene looks up, smiles tightly at them. "Right on time, right on time."

He brushes off his suit — the pocket has a bit of a flare with a handkerchief the color of a bright yellow — to get off non-existent dust, walking briskly to them with his suitcase. Ponyboy fidgets, keeping his mouth shut. Eugene shakes Darry's hand and then Mrs. Mathews, gesturing to the bench in the hallway. "It'll be about seven, ten minutes. If you need the time, take it to touch yourselves up."

Ponyboy nods, his voice cracking, "Where's the bathroom?"

"Back where you came, on your right," Eugene answers.

Darry shoots Ponyboy a questioning look. Ponyboy avoids his eyes; he doesn't want to tell him that he wants to rinse his mouth out again, stop tasting bologna there as if he were back on Jay Mountain right now. "Thanks. Won't take me that long."

He wrenches away from Darry's protective grasp, moving back down the hallway, to the bathroom. Of all the times for his senses to be too strong, it's now, remembering those sandwiches, the fear —

"Pony! Ponyboy, hold on, hold on," to his surprise, Molly is half running towards him, her red hair bouncing. She's in a red shirt and jean capris, and a pair of black workboots that he's never seen a girl around his age wear, ever.

"Molly? What are you doing here?"

Molly nudges him towards the men's room and Ponyboy looks around before allowing her in. She locks the door behind them, saying, "You can't go in there with a mating mark like that. Steve pointed it out last night, we gotta cover you up."

A red flush creeps up his neck. "Shit, I – how?"

The lock clicks and Molly snorts. "Don't you know anything about girls?" She turns around, and gestures to the sink. "Lean over there. You're lucky I haven't gotten any taller than I was in sixth grade otherwise you'd be kneeling." Her feet click on the tiles, apparently unperturbed by the strong, overly clean scent in the bathroom — it must've been cleaned like crazy the night before with how nice it is — or the fact that she was in a men's room. "Just undo enough buttons so you can slide your shoulder down so I can see all of it."

Hastily, he does it, wishing he'd have gotten the water first, the taste of too warm bologna strong. In a bid to ignore it and to fill up the silence, Ponyboy talks first as Molly opens her bag of makeup. "I didn't know you'd be staying for this. I thought your Mom was upset at you over the last time you were here. That summer."

"My mother thinks that Steve's dad needs a woman around the house right now," the words are dryly spoken, the sound of her fingers rummaging around in her bag echoing, "So she sent me here instead of being forced to see my face around while my school's closed."

"Why'd they close it?" Goosebumps breaks out on his flesh as he waits. Finally, Molly straightens up, with some kind of brush and make up in her hand. Instead of answering, she gently tilts his head away to face the mirror, from where she needs his neck.

The brush is swirled around in her make up, he thinks, and then she goes at his neck. "Protests. The girls didn't wanna go anymore, and one of them wound up burning down the gym." Molly gives an enigmatic smirk as she goes about covering up his mating mark. Her voice is soothing, even though it's slightly rough in that Molly way of hers. "So I got stuck at home. Seeing as me and my Mother hate each other, though... She was eager to let me come visit."

The feeling of the brush on his neck is soothing, the bristles soft on his skin. Make up isn't something he's an expert at, and as her strokes get a little faster, he wonders if the time will be okay. "Why don't you get along? Is it... was it the baby?"

"She hated me before I had a baby," Molly snaps close one make up pad, and pulls something else. "Don't move, I'm almost done." She puts something else on his neck, Ponyboy keeping his eye on the reflection they have, her red hair, her furrowed brows. "I'm pretty sure if it wasn't a mortal sin to kill a kid, she'd have done it." A shiver goes down Ponyboy's spine. Quietly, Molly says, "Sorry. I forgot."

"It's... I'll be okay," Ponyboy says, and Molly finishes. She buttons him back up, gently putting his shirt back in place. He looks at her, at the big green eyes she has, at the freckles on her pale skin. "We'll be okay."

He doesn't know if he means that. What he does know is that when Molly hugs him, it's tight. She may be Steve's cousin, but she sure didn't act like him. Not when it counted.

When she lets go of him, he thinks he can see some tears in her eyes. "Go, they're probably waiting on you."

Ponyboy wipes his nose, says a quiet thanks and goes back outside to the hallway. It's just in the nick of time, as a man in a suit is outside the courtroom door, looking them over. Darry puts his hand on Ponyboy's shoulder, and with a wave, they're escorted into the courtroom, Johnny first.

Surprisingly, it's more spacious than the one on television — almost about the size of the one Ponyboy had seen in To Kill a Mockingbird a year or so before. Only this was in color not black and white: walls that were a beige surrounding a set of brown benches, a slate gray carpet, imposing mahogany podiums. He's made to sit on a bench with his brothers, Mrs. Mathews, and Two-Bit with Johnny on the very end, shifting uncomfortably in his wheelchair. Ponyboy tries to put down the fright inside of him at how everything is.

It's not improved; they're made to keep standing as the other side files in: an imposing man with a handlebar mustache and a bright red suit; a man with a pinched face that certainly had to be Bob's father with the way they resemble each other and the utter venom that turned his face from handsome to ugly at the drop of a dime; a tall woman with strawberry blonde hair who was dressed in all black with pursed lips who had to be his mother with her hand in her husband's own; Randy who followed in a dark grey-blue suit and a mutli-colored tie of red and yellow, eyes avoiding their own; David who was in a mustard yellow sweater that looked awful; and last was Cherry Valance, her head down, her fist balled up around something in her hand, wearing a black dress, her face pinched and drawn.

She looks at Ponyboy for only a moment, and then looks straight ahead.

Ponyboy looks straight ahead too, until the judge enters the room. She's a tall woman — even from here, Ponyboy knows she's an alpha with her ramrod straight spine, her sharp hawkish look and the way she's announced as Judge Penelope Cross.

They're all commanded to sit, and they all do so. Ponyboy puts his hands on the tops of his thighs, his skin pricking, feeling the urge to scratch at his burn scars or to touch his covered up mating mark that wa starting to sting. Everything feels as if it's in a hyperreal dream as the judge fixes a pair of gold rim glasses on and speaks.

"Thank you all for joining me today in the matter before us today. While I wish none of us were here regarding this case, we are," the judge's voice is surprisingly melodic, carrying even with the mic positioned in front of her. "As this is a case concerning juveniles of a sensitive matter, however, we have to adjust for the circumstances at hand. The first priority, as the one presiding over this case, is that we do not severely interrupt your education. To wit, we will conduct our court room sessions from 7.30AM sharp until noon, with a fifteen minute buffer for the afternoon only until this matter is resolved." She looks at both sets of teens sternly. "I anticipate this will take two to three weeks, with this accommodation."

Great, Ponyboy thinks.

"I am also limiting the audience for this case," Penelope continues, her voice clear. "I will only be opening the doors to the press and a limit of five people from either side. If I find that this is too disruptive, this will become a closed session again. Additionally, all parties are barred from conversing with any media until this matter is settled. If I find you violating that rule, you will be fined for contempt of court and sentenced for up to ten days in jail. Do I make myself clear?"

A murmur of Yes ma'am and Yes, your Honor fills the courtroom.

Ponyboy looks at her face, and he breathes in deeply. Thinks about how much this will change his life, and as the judge smiles, he can only hope this will turn out in their favor.

Chapter Text

The judge says some other things before they start — about how they should dress, about showing up properly, about other things. Ponyboy's head buzzes with it all, wishing he could have some water, or a mint as the minutes draw out.

His bond tingles in the back of his head, and he wishes he could grip Dallas' hand, could make himself stop feeling fearful. Even looking at the other people there feels too much for him in this moment, his eyes fixed on the judge's sharp nose, at the glasses she wears that glints in the light until she finally declares that proceedings could actually begin.

As he expects, Eugene isn't the one who speaks first. His words from their meeting about how this trial would go run around in Ponyboy's head — it doesn't feel fair that even here, the Socs command everything first, come before they do. He clenches his thighs beneath the bench, watching the man with a handlebar mustache and red suit stand up first with a pensive look on his face that Ponyboy doesn't trust.

The man is cowboy like, only in the most superficial way with the bluster he has. The gait he has is confident, and Ponyboy doesn't trust him for anything. There's a huge belt on his waist with a buckle that shines, and he's clearly an alpha. And the shoes he have click with spurs on the bottom that he shouldn't even be wearing in court, yet had anyway.

Behind him, Two-Bit shifts in his seat, apparently not all that able to sit still either as the man says, "It's a pleasure to be in your court, your Honor. I am Norman Shaw, and my case will show that Robert Sheldon Jr., a young alpha boy who had everything to live for, everything going for him, was not only killed by the defendants, but was in fact the victim of a malicious, deliberate act born of barbarism and delinquency that we have seen growing within the teenage-set for some time." His voice has a turn to it that's more Hank Williams hokey to it that Ponyboy loathes with how thick it is. It's almost preacher like in the way he speaks, like one of those at a Pentecost. "This act is not, as they will say, one born out of defense from a helpless beta and omega — it is one that was clearly premeditated and unprovoked. It was an act that took away the life of a boy bursting with promise, all due to their own teen-age whims."

If Ponyboy could throw up on the spot, he would. He knows beside him that Johnny is probably thinking the same thing, with how pale he is, his fingers digging into the leg of his pants, arm pressing against the side of the wheelchair. That grip is so tight that Ponyboy can see him beginning to white knuckle it as Shaw continues on.

He can't make himself listen to his words as he gesticulates before him, his hands waving, his mustache quivering and jumping as he speaks. This lawyer really thinks he is some kind of cowboy the way his head tilts back, and the way his words drip out of his mouth. It's simpler for a moment to take in the details of Norm Shaw rather than whole phrases ("Mr. Adderson and Mr. Ducan's story will not line up with the one the defense will tell. They are not the kind of boys who would pick a fight to pick a fight —") as speaks: the fact that he's got a faded mating mark on his neck that pulses every so often, the way he adjusts his tie in the middle of his talk with thick fingers, the way he can move with surprising grace.

It's only when he sits down, tucking his jacket at his sides, that Ponyboy takes in the silence in the courtroom around him. It feels unnatural, the only sounds made are a soft cough from the back, the sound of a heater that's keeping them all cozy enough and the shuffling of papers.

He doesn't know how long it's been since he spoke, since they all had come in here. The clock is too far for him to read, and he didn't wear a watch. Ponyboy just knows that the first man is done.

Eugene stands up, in his own meticulously pressed suit, his glasses tucked in one pocket, his fingers tapping the table as he readies himself, approaching the bench. Ponyboy doesn't know what to expect from him either, glancing at Johnny, not trusting himself to look at his brothers.

Where Norm had gestured in front of him, Eugene doesn't do so. He puts his hands behind his back, and the smile on his face isn't necessarily welcoming — something about it feels confident, in a way that feels like a real bravado and charm to it.

"Your Honor, I am Eugene Hall, and today I have the esteemed pleasure of being the defense for Mr. Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade," Eugene's voice is warm, and Ponyboy feels his ears grow hot, as eyes swivel to look at him in the courtroom. He tries to muster up the greaser pride he knows he's supposed to feel, the defiance, straightening up in his seat. If he's able to do it, Ponyboy doesn't know. "I understand that to your eyes, they may seem like two boys who are rather small, quiet, perhaps even omega-like. Boys who you perhaps would not look at twice if they were not here in these suits, with their hair combed in this manner. It isn't their normal style, you see."

Eugene turns, winks at them, and then turns back to the judge, rocking on his heels. "The facts in this case do not dispute the idea that they were not the same as the plaintiffs that night. They are very different in the way their lives are lived, in what they value, in their dynamics, in their families. It is, indeed, a fact that a boy was killed that night. It is a fact that this conflict arose from a teenage fight that we as adults, perhaps, don't quite understand. It is a fact that their dynamics and their respective spots on the pecking order were a factor." His voice climbs almost melodically, yet with a steel behind it that Ponyboy admires. "That is where things diverge; while the plaintiffs do agree on a fight and a death, the facts disagree with them on the manner of that night. It is a fact — a fact I will prove — that there was no premeditation in the death of Bob Sheldon. There was no deliberate act carried out by my clients that night, aside from the need to defend themselves, to live to see another hour."

If the judge agrees or disagrees, Ponyboy can't tell. He's holding his breath as Eugene continues, pacing in front of the judge. Eugene is younger than Norm, and something about it rubs off on his words as he continues, "No matter how we adults feel about the dispute between children, we can agree that every man, no matter who he is, no matter what side of the tracks he comes from, no matter what dynamic he is, no matter what clothes are on his back or aren't — he is entitled to defend his life, and the life of others. No more, no less." Eugene's words are heavy, straight to the point and he gives a nod. "Thank you."

He comes back around to the bench. Ponyboy gives a wan smile to him and Johnny's chair creaks as he leans to give him an affirmative look himself. That confidence doesn't leave his face, and Ponyboy knows they're going to need that confidence.

The judge looks at her watch. "As today is the first day, I understand that we're all having nerves. I am going to dismiss everyone early today — and will see you tomorrow. Be early, all parties, do not be on time. Do I make myself clear?"

Ponyboy murmurs out, Yes, ma'am and others say Yes, your Honor. He looks towards Johnny for the first time in a while, to see how his face still looks pale, distraught. Johnny doesn't look like himself with the way his hair's been combed into a Soccy way and Ponyboy knows that he only looks like anything resembling himself because of Molly. His eyes lock onto Ponyboy's — big, desperate, afraid — an all too familiar feeling at the moment. As they stand up, he moves behind to grip Johnny's wheelchair for him. They're made to wait as the Socs leave first, in a file. None of them look at them, and once they're through the doors, Eugene holds his hand out, counting his fingers until he gets to ten, and then he nods.

They move behind him, Eugene whispering to them, "You never file out right after the other party. They're going to linger, so I always give it about ten Mississippi's before we leave. I'll walk you to the front, and your families can get you there."

They walk through the doors in time for Ponyboy to see Cherry there, at the very back. He lets go of Johnny's wheelchair, allowing him to go to the corridor.

It's so fast that he wonders if Cherry sees him when she turns her head to look at him briefly with an unreadable expression. All that black she's wearing makes her look pale for once, not like a bright cheerleader who's boyfriend had something to him that she had liked, that she had defended.

They each hold their gaze for a moment — then she's out the door in a hurry. Ponyboy doesn't know what he feels as he watches her go — whether he wanted her to acknowledge Johnny in front of her, whether he could ask if she was going to keep her word, if she still thought about Dallas — he does know he feels when not a few seconds later that Dallas comes through the doors, his scent tinted with concern.

It's like a bubble burst in his chest, releasing all the tension there, washing over him in a calming, needing wave with such a force that Ponyboy is sure that the source is their mating bond. He breathes easier when Dallas comes into his vision and it's as if the world was filling in details now that he had the ability to pay attention — he hadn't realized earlier that Dallas was dressed in the same sleeveless black shirt from the night it had all happened, his brown sheepskin jacket draped over his shoulders, his boots clicking on the floor.

He doesn't get to them first, Darry and Soda emerging from the courtroom with Mrs. Mathews beside them. Eugene stands up to talk to them first, Dallas included.

Ponyboy takes the time to rub at his cheek, looking at Johnny as they talk. If there was any time to talk to just Johnny, this was it. "How — how do you think this is gonna go?"

"I don't know," Johnny's hands slap at his thighs the way they'd been in the church that first night, thinking about having a weed and trying to figure out what to do next, where to go from there. That was about as bad as things had gotten for them, and here they were, deeper in the mire. "I don't think we're gonna know."

His eyes shut, just like they had at the park, after Bob had been killed. This time, though, he's not shaking, drawing in a breath to be calm. Ponyboy isn't drenched, he's dry and it's him drawing in a breath to steady himself instead.

Even if they don't have a bond between them like Dallas and Ponyboy do, Ponyboy can feel a little twinge in the back of his head. That old connection they had before where they knew what the other was thinking and it's loud and clear that neither of them know how to anticipate anything else now.

All they can do is sit there for a moment, breathing, trying to come to terms with everything, until Darry and Soda make their way over. Darry claps his hand a little too hard on Ponyboy's shoulder, his face pinched and mouth in a grimace of a smile. "You did good in there."

Soda looks white as a sheet, his hand trembling, looking so timid. "We gotta — I gotta get to the DX." He licks at his lips, voice gentle. "If you want me — I can be late, I can take you to lunch and school if you want."

Any other time, Ponyboy would've chosen to go with Soda. At the moment, a feeling of trepidation feels him at this brother's faces, at how pinched and worried they are. It's his fault they're like this. "No, it's okay. Dallas can take us to school,"Ponyboy's eyes pull away from his brother's faces, unable to keep looking at them in this state, dropping towards the floor. "We'll be okay."

Soda reaches over, scenting Ponyboy carefully. His fingers sink into his neck, and Ponyboy relaxes a little as he does it, even though the back of his head twinges, wanting Dallas, wanting to be comforted by his mate, by something deeper. "I'll see you later, honey."

When Ponyboy looks up, he can see how worried Soda's face is. He looks away, not wanting to look at him too hard, swallowing his apology. "I'll see you guys later."

They both say their goodbyes to Johnny, and when Dallas and Two-Bit approach, Ponyboy stands up, wanting to be anywhere else, even for a little while. He sighs, and to his surprise, Eugene clears his throat, loosening his tie. "If you don't mind, I do have a good amount of time today. How about we do lunch on me today? It's your first time in court, and I know that isn't an easy thing for anyone." He glances at Dallas, already poised to grab Ponyboy, and back at them. "We can meet up at the place I have in mind in about ten minutes."

"Sure," Johnny speaks this time, and slowly, they all murmur in agreement.

Eugene gives the name of the restaurant, and Ponyboy finally is able to fall beside Dallas. Johnny takes the other side, Two-Bit in front of them.

All the way out, Two-Bit doesn't say anything, not until they're out in the mild weather. There's almost no one left in the parking lot aside from Ed, already on his motorbike, watching Eugene drive off on the road in an old Ford and Mrs. Mathews in her car. Ed nods at them, Two-Bit and Johnny making their way to their car.

Ponyboy walks with Dallas back to the car he'd borrowed from Buck. The convertible top is up, Ponyboy sitting in the passenger side, loosening his tie. He's not sure what he's going to say to Dallas when he gets in the car, doesn't know how —

— which is good, really when the first thing Dallas does is reach over and palm at the make up on Ponyboy's neck where the mating mark is. He's clearly trying to smear it off, his scent thick in the enclosed space as he drags Ponyboy in for a bruising kiss that they both need. It swallows up every word, every thought he has for the moment, the bond between them suddenly electric, felt in every bit of Ponyboy's body for a moment with the need they have for each other.

All Ponyboy can do for a few minutes is sink into the feeling, into the taste of Dallas' mouth, his tongue, the feeling of his hair in Ponyboy's fingers.

He's safe here, held by Dallas, kissing in front of the courthouse if only for a moment.

Chapter Text

The luncheonette that they pull into is on the corner of one of the main streets in Tulsa, the sign showing an ice cream cone, with the word Cosmo's emblazoned in pink. Ponyboy keeps up with Dallas as they walk inside — he's been here only a handful of times, given it was brand new.

Johnny's out of his wheelchair, sitting in the booth on his own, opposite Eugene. He seems steady enough beside him, his suit jacket off and the few buttons on his shirt unbuttoned. Two-Bit is already in his normal shirt, whistling to get their attention.

"Golly, you sure got into some jeans quick," Two-Bit sounds like himself with that tease, his eyebrows both cocking one after the other. "I didn't know Dally was bringing you cute clothes. I'd have gotten Johnny something nicer."

"It ain't cute," Ponyboy grumbles, glad that Two-Bit isn't brazen enough to comment on the obvious way his mark is on his neck at the moment — a darkening ring from where Dallas had bit into it the moment he'd gotten Ponyboy out of his shirt from court. He and Dallas take opposite sides of the booth, grabbing for a menu.

Despite feeling as if the entire world had changed that morning, everything still felt oddly normal in this moment as they all order when the waitress comes over: double cheese burgers for almost everyone, just customized with ingredients they all wanted in one way or another. The suits they're all half in or out of are the only indications that the world has shifted, and Ponyboy doesn't mind it as they eat.

Other people trickle in slowly, Eugene leaning back as their drinks are delivered. "I'm going to try and make sure we convene here or another food establishment after every session unless otherwise; I have enough money to spare, and I know this isn't an easy thing to go through, particularly at your ages. This is going to be the simplest day in court you'll have for at least a month — I can guarantee the road ahead won't be easy." Eugene keeps his tone plain as he speaks. Ponyboy exchanges a furtive glance with Johnny. "They will say things to rattle you, to make you upset, to confuse you. It'll be a battle on every front and you're going to need this time."

Ponyboy doesn't know how he gets himself to answer, "Thanks, sir. We - We appreciate it. We do."

The expression on Eugene's face is serious as always, just with a little more warmth. "You're welcome. Like I said as well, no trouble for anyone. The smallest thing and it could be all of your futures." He sighs. "This case was extraordinarily fast; any other case would have meandered for months through the system, not brought up almost a month or two later, in front of a judge. This is unusual, and punishing. You're going to have to pretend as if nothing you hear or see bothers you, and you're going to have to get skin thick as an elephant for a little while." He does smile then, even if it's a smile that's a little sharp. "But I have a feeling you're up for a fight."

Dallas' leg kicks against Ponyboy's. Ponyboy doesn't say plainly what he's thinking: What do you know?

Instead, he just reaches over and grasps Dallas' hand beneath the table and allows Two-Bit to switch the conversation over.

For all that Eugene said, it doesn't feel as easy to grasp when Ponyboy is standing outside of the school walls, looking up at the classrooms that await him. For once in his life, he wishes that Dallas would come inside with him, be a normal guy, be some comfort.

"I'm heading out to Buck's so I can run some shit, make some money just in case," Dallas' teeth are biting at the fake driver's license he has, eyes dark. "I'll be back late tonight, don't wait up for me. If your suit ain't clean and pressed, I'll do it before you wake up."

We sound like we're playing house, is stuck in the back of Ponyboy's throat. If that's a good thing or bad thing or something else he doesn't know. He just wishes that he could actually have fun with that and not have clammy, sweating hands clasping his books as he nods. Or have his cheeks and eyes heat up on the edge of a cry or something like a big baby. The twinge in his bond doesn't help at all, muttering out, "Darry wouldn't let me anyway. You promise you'll be there when I wake up?" Ponyboy inches closer to the car door, able to hear Johnny's crutches on the ground as he and Two-Bit get their things. His eyes flick up to Dallas' neck, the mating mark a dark crescent, and he wants to shove his teeth into Dallas' neck, wants to drive his teeth into that pale flesh over and over again until he can scent cum.

Not have to almost stop himself from reaching out, from climbing in the car and doing something Eugene and Darry would be pissed at him for. Dallas looks over his neck too, and he nods. "I'll be there. Promise." His eyes focus on Ponyboy's own, fingers grasping onto the ID card harder, teeth flashing. "Now go on, kid. Before we both get in trouble."

He twists the ID in his mouth. Ponyboy surges forward anyway, kissing him as sweetly as he can, inhaling his scent as he does so — and rubbing his hand on Dallas' neck, to scent him as well as he could.

Even in brief, the kiss seems to settle him, that tough against Dallas' warm neck seems to be a tether to the rest of the world. It's solid, something he can rely on and Ponyboy has to pull away just in time for Dallas to surge forward, trying to follow, teeth flashing. His eyes are near to slits, mouth pulled into a partial growl, and Ponyboy pulls right out of his reach enough that Dallas is grasping at air. His heart is going a mile a minute in his ear, his body feeling just a little electric beneath his finger tips, head halfway into buzzy happiness with the nearness, with the taste.

Dallas' eyes flash, his hair a mess and falling half in his eyes. Ponyboy pants, tasting the Kool Dallas had been smoking earlier, turns, and then follows Johnny and Two-Bit up the ramp and into the school. "See you, Dallas!"

The engine revs, the car peels out. He's going to pay for that later, and that's easier to concentrate on for a moment despite the way Two-Bit whistles. "You and Dallas acting real bond-drunk at the moment."

Johnny and Ponyboy both say, "What's that?" At the same time.

"Ain't you two listen in biology?" Two-Bit asks, opening the door. "You don't know nothing about bonds, huh?"

Two-Bit keeps talking, either ignoring or totally ignorant of the people in the hallway during the lunch crush who are looking at them, who are whispering at the sight of them. It seems as if the hallways is divided up with greasers on one side and Socs on the other, all of them either moving or pausing to look at them, to stare and speculate. Even the kids who normally didn't take part in the divide between them stop to look at them, a hush falling over everyone, the doors slamming closed with a deafening bam.

Johnny goes stiff beside him too, his hand gripping the crutches tightly, half shrinking besides Ponyboy. Greasers look at them, Socs look at them, even some of the teachers look at them, with their faces curious, wanting more information. They all want to know something, they all want to hear what they have to say, they all want something out of Ponyboy that he knows he can't do.

It doesn't last more than a minute, given the bell and the afternoon classes. It feels like an hour though, people's eyes are curious, picking at them — and then the world keeps going, and Ponyboy is following Two-Bit to the main office. The main secretary has that curious, bird like curiosity on her face as she gives them slips, asking them how much they'd need. Once they give her the information, she tears off the first, and tells them to just get to their classes.

Ponyboy is the one who's left alone, forced to go to his Honors English class by himself. There's no time to talk to Johnny or Two-Bit, his palms shaking as he makes his way to the classroom. Dallas' jacket feels as comforting on him as it had when he'd been sleeping on the train next to Johnny, heavy and necessary on his shoulders.

The class, of all days, is packed as apparently no one wanted to play hooky on a day like today. All fifteen eyes swivel to him as he walks inside, able to about taste the curiosity coloring their scents. Even his teacher can't hide it, standing up from the desk, hand half outstretched.

Ponyboy keeps his head up, squaring his shoulders. The slip is handed to his teacher, his shoes squeaking on his floor as he walks away, all the way to the very back of the classroom at his desk.

There's a drawing on there already, a crude one of his face with two X's for eyes and the words DEAD GREASER MEAT written around it.

It's insulting to him, only that it's lazy. Ponyboy drops his books on it, and keeps his eyes on the board the entire period. He doesn't act as if he's being watched, he doesn't act as if his classmates whispering around him bothers him. He pretends that he's Dallas, on the eve of a rumble, coiled up tight. There's no way that he's going to be threatened by them, not in class for something he likes.

He may be an omega, he may be a greaser. He still had his pride, and he still had his courage.

This was a cold bluff. No sweat.

It's easier to do in a classroom, knowing you were smarter than the other Socs, able to sink into the story they were reading today, and having a pop quiz on. In defiance, Ponyboy makes sure to finish first, dodging a stuck out leg to put his paper up at the desk first.

His teacher flashes him a warm look, flipping over the quiz. One scan of it, and his red pen is out, giving a 100 on the top of the page and circling it. "You're dismissed, Mr. Curtis."

Ponyboy hops over the leg waiting for him this time, smearing out the words DEAD and MEAT with a grin. His bag comes with him easy, the classroom easily left behind in a few quick strides. The next class was study hall, which meant the library. The library if he went.

Truth be told, the itch to have a cigarette tickles at the back of his throat. No one would care if he spent the last ten minutes outside smoking with the other greasers. Moving quicker, Ponyboy goes down the hallways, trying to get to the gym — and immediately stopping when he catches the sight of Cherry at the other end. She had her books with her, talking to one of the other cheerleaders, her voice quiet.

All it takes is a glance, a whiff of her scent. Ponyboy doesn't pass her, just turns on his heel.

(He pretends he hadn't heard the words, "I hated being near him again, Sarah. He killed Bob.")

The cafeteria is empty, with no one watching when Ponyboy sits down there instead. He puts his books down, leaning against the wall and looking at the emblems around him. The cafeteria was also used as a meeting hall, with the mascot emblazoned on it, along with the school colors. He pulls the pack of Kools that Dallas left inside of his jacket, tapping one out, and putting it between his lips.

This was the first day. Ponyboy could do this. Johnny could, too. They had to.

He inhales the cigarette, thinking of the country. How the dew had been, how the grass had been in that moment when they'd jumped out of the train together, and he'd been half awake on the grass, hearing Johnny groan. Ponyboy wishes he could go back there, go back to the countryside with the dew. Only this time, why not have Dallas there?

Why not have Dallas with them, in the church together, away from all of this? He shuts his eyes, thinking about what it would be like if he and Dallas had the church to themselves, away from everything, away from all of this. What it would have been like to sleep there with him, to stay up there with him and Johnny and...

And a part of him knows that it couldn't have happened. As sweet as it is, Ponyboy knows that Dallas hates that country, knows that if he had stayed up there in that church with Johnny, he'd have never understood what he could have with Dallas, would never have been initiated, would never have even this taste of what's good now.

Even if the thought is there, too, that maybe the church wouldn't have burned down. That Johnny wouldn't be in crutches or a wheelchair.

He weighs it against everything else, against this trial and doesn't know what's the right thing to think or feel.

Things at home aren't normal either. Darry is tense as he makes dinner, careful with it as he puts helpings on Ponyboy's plate — all those damn cooked vegetables weren't what they normally had and Darry damn well knew it.

The comment Ponyboy wants to say doesn't come out, though. They'd made a promise to stick together, to be a pack. No fights.

Even if he wants to scrape some on Soda's plate as soon as Darry goes back to get the porkchops. Soda might not notice; he's too fidgety himself to even put any food coloring in his food or make a gross combination out of the mashed potatoes in veggies. He's tapping the table nervously, voice quiet, "You have an okay day at school, Pony?"

Soda shouldn't be like this, all tense and too nervous to eat food weirdly. Darry shouldn't be making extra vegetables for them to eat like this, as if something bad might happen if he doesn't feed Ponyboy the way he ought to. The television should be on some kind of western, and they should be talking or laughing or arguing with each other.

Ponyboy nods his head mechanically. "It was okay."

The smile Soda gives is at least big, and he mouths, Put the veggies on Darry's plate.

Lookout? Ponyboy mouths back, grasping his plate, and doing just that until he's got half of what he had. He turns that side of the plate towards him, scooping up some of it to shove in his mouth.

Darry isn't the least bit suspicious that his pile of food is higher. Ponyboy and Soda don't dare look at each other the whole time or they'd laugh.

That night, it's weird to be getting into bed by 8.15 PM. They should be up a little bit later, all of them and instead all the lights are off, the door is shut. No greaser has barreled in through their door, no one has called all of a sudden, no one came over to play cards or split beers.

Ponyboy can see a flicker of the bonfire at the window he peers out of, and he sighs with want. "You don't have to get to bed this early," he sighs as he pulls on his pajama pants, "You can go to the bonfire, Soda. I wouldn't be mad." He turns his head, able to see the line of Soda in bed already, back to him.

"Wouldn't be fair to you, would it?" It was very like Soda, to always be thinking of him, and for his voice to already be a little thick with sleepiness. "Be a real bad brother, leaving you here."

"Even though Ivy's out there?"

There's a rustle in the bed. "...What d'you mean?"

Ponyboy turns his head around, to look at Soda's face, clearly trying to hide a grin. He shrugs, voice low, "I wouldn't mind. I like her."

A smile flits on Soda's face. "You're a good kid. Turn off the light, come to bed. You can't stay up for Dallas."

Ponyboy does so, shutting off the light, and wondering how long it'd take for him to get to sleep, wondering when Dallas would get in and hoping he'd be there in the morning when he woke up.

Chapter Text

The street is utterly silent when Dallas turns the corner. Buck had been insistent enough to press that he needed his car, which left Dallas walking down to the house at the dead of night. He's walked longer and harder, even though he's not in his preferred jacket for this kind of weather, leaving some of the cold to nip at him.

The good thing is that this jean jacket had an extra inside pocket, which was where his money went, fresh from bootlegging. Buck had tested him on the car; he hadn't tested him on how much he'd earned tonight. Hauling ass to another county took more work than what that country bumpkin knew, and double going on back roads while avoiding the cops, and Dallas wasn't in any mood to get cheated by someone almost ten years older than him. That money was his, earned fair and square.

The bonfire is down to embers when Dallas glances across the way, at the hill. Darry had been pretty firm; they weren't going to the bonfire unless it was a Friday. He still tries to see if there's anyone from the pack there from where he was, and still can't catch a strong whiff of anyone's scent. He sighs, picking up his steps as he goes.

The Cades place has the lights on and where he can't catch the bonfire scent, the ever present stench of alcohol seems worse than ever there. Dallas walks faster past them, passing the Randles soon enough, turning the corner, and then cutting through a few lawns to get to the Curtises backyard.

Like everyone else, their house is dark aside from the porch lights that glow gently in the night from the back. Dallas pulls out the key he has, unlocking the back door and slipping inside. The kitchen light is off, Dallas knowing the house so well that he doesn't need to turn it on as he takes his boots off, walking through the kitchen and to the hallway.

Carefully, he opens the door to Soda and Ponyboy's room to see the both of them curled up together, sleeping softly. Months ago, Dallas would've said that the prettiest omega in Tulsa was Soda even if Soda wasn't someone he'd ever want given how like Darrel he was, and the sickly sweet tinge to his scent. Ponyboy has that title now, with how cute he looks, snoring on the pillow, with Dallas' jacket folded behind his head, his nose buried in the brown material. The moonlight makes his hair shine — taking him back to when he'd stepped into the church on Jay Mountain, seeing Ponyboy asleep on the pew after worrying about him for a week. It had been a shock then, and now Ponyboy's dark roots were starting to finally show again.

He's careful to strip down to just his jeans, tugging up the blanket and slipping inside of the bed as best he can. It's a miracle he can only fit because he's rail skinny, tucking himself in, wrapping an arm around Ponyboy's shoulder.

Neither Soda or Ponyboy wake up; Ponyboy continues to softly snore, Soda just completely dead to the world. Their scents relax Dallas, his hand coming up to run across Ponyboy's still bruised neck, a familiar ache setting into his teeth. If Sodapop weren't there, he'd be pulling him closer for that one bite between them, reaffirming the bond again. Instead, he has to try and content himself like this, stroking his hand on his skin, breathing in his scent, and having to consider what they'd be doing in just a scant few hours.

Suits again. Waiting again, having to think about how long this would all take, would play out. That judge could rule anything for them, and even with Cherry Valance's promise, Dallas didn't put stock into her. Why would he, given what he'd seen from Socs, from adults? When he'd talked to them in the car, about the offer up in Jay Mountain, Dallas had been trying to keep up a good front for them. They didn't have Darry, or Soda or anyone else with any kind of experience like this. They only had him.

And they were pack then, friends. Johnny, always jumpy and scared with that scar on him, Ponyboy only fourteen for a few weeks, both of them small and terrified. They'd never been to jail, never been hoods the way Dallas had been and while Johnny was still his friend, Ponyboy was something Dallas never thought he'd have: a mate. Something stronger than a husband or wife, something that he knew that his parents would hate, if he ever stepped back in New York.

Ponyboy doesn't know that. He doesn't want Ponyboy to know it, the weight of this decision.

Not now, maybe not ever. It matters to Dallas, and he knows that if this all goes wrong, if that judge comes down on Ponyboy, he'd do anything and everything to keep him. Ponyboy meant more to him than anyone had ever had, ever could.

He wants to believe that the judge will do right, that Johnny and Ponyboy would get out of this.

He's just never had that kind of faith in anything. Nothing ever had worked out that way for him before.

Dallas pulls Ponyboy closer, his nose pressing in his hair, wishing he'd been the one to kill Bob Sheldon instead.

The courtroom is silent, and Ponyboy doesn't know how he was able to stumble awake that morning to get there. He'd woken up with his teeth in Dallas' mating mark, his scent thick and heady and Soda having to pull him away with a firm if slightly embarrassed look on his face. Dallas had stared at him, face red, mouth pulled in an upset snarl that had shot straight to Ponyboy's groin in need.

Climbing back into the bed, to rut against each other hadn't been an option. Neither had been trying to work himself into a quick orgasm before they had to go. The shower had been punishingly hot, his breakfast quickly devoured, and now here he was in the courtroom, unsure if Dallas had followed them in the car or not.

He's just awake enough to take in his surroundings, the seriousness of the event as the judge shuffles her papers in the courtroom, speaking clearly, "Please remember the previous rules of the court. The prosecution may call upon it's first witness."

"We call David Ducan to the stand," Shaw stands up, saying it in a booming voice. He turns and gestures to the boy beside Randy, the one that Ponyboy remembers vividly. He'd been one of the Soc's who had been there with Bob and his throat goes dry watching him stand up in a red suit that clearly was expensive and new. It's tailored sharply, his boots clicking as he makes his way up the stand, placing his hand on the Bible.

You could use a bath, greaser. And a good working over. And we’ve got all night to do it. Give the dirty omega a bath, David.

Bob's voice sluices over him as David takes the stand, his hands beneath the box, eyes straight ahead. That night replays in Ponyboy's head for a moment, the way Bob had said it, the desperate run from them, and his heart bangs in his chest.

He doesn't know how he's able to stay where he is as David speaks. "That night, we were just going to see a movie with our girlfriends. Me, Bob, Randy, Cherry, Marcia and Cindy. We were supposed to see a movie, because school had started, and none of us had a break yet." The edge in his voice from that night wasn't there as he spoke now. Everything about him screamed the kind of Soc who made the papers for being a good kid, the future.

The courtroom begins to feel as if Ponyboy is on another planet, an alien witnessing humans in front of him as David keeps going, each word striking Ponyboy harshly with how uppercrust, apple pie it is: We just wanted a nice date. No one had any problem until they showed up. We were having a good time. There was a knife. They threatened us.

Time runs slowly in the courtroom. The breakfast he had weighs like lead in his stomach, and Ponyboy fears for a moment he might throw up. The feeling is hard to fight against, as David begins to look upset, pointing at Ponyboy and Johnny in succession. The taste of chlorine surges in his throat and almost floods his nose, and he has to grasp the table in front of him to try and keep himself steady.

"Describe the encounter that led to the death of Mr. Sheldon," the lawyer says, his voice soft, imploring. "Who instigated the encounter?"

"They did. The g – defendants," David looks at Johnny and Ponyboy as he says it, his eyes flinty in his face. "They started it by messing with our girls earlier in the night. They're the ones who started the fight at the movies, then the car, and when we got to the park, it was the same." He looks at them, unblinkingly. "They called us white trash, sir. We took it very personally."

You called us that first, Ponyboy wants to scream and he knows Johnny does, too. They don't have to exchange words; he can feel Johnny tense up beside him, can feel the anger at the way David is talking right now.

The judge isn't making any expression that either of them can read. She's just listening impassively, as the words keep flowing from David. "Things did get out of hand. I do agree with that. We got to arguing, and then the small one — he's the one who took out a knife. No one else had a weapon."

"When you said it got out of hand, David, what do you mean?" Shaw probes him, careful as he does it. "You seem to say that you were acting in self defense, and I want to clarify."

David hesitates for the first time, squirming in his seat. "We – chased each other at the fountain, wrestled. I remember at one point one of them was on the ground, we pushed the other in the fountain, to try and make him stop." David seems to get more confident. "Then — I, we had been drinking a little bit, I guess. And we got shoving at each other. That's when that one, the small one stabbed Bob. He came at him with the knife. I saw it, I just didn't realize what it was until Bob made this – this funny noise."

David's voice trembles, and Ponyboy hates how in this moment, he believes him. This moment where David goes pale on the stand. "He just — he made a noise like the air – like he couldn't breathe. I saw that kid just keep jabbing it. Bob f-fell to the ground. I didn't know what to do except to run after that. I'm – I'm sorry I did. I should've stayed, but Bob —"

Shaw nods. "It's okay, son. You can have a moment to collect yourself."

Silence blankets the room. David goes red in the face, shoulder slumping. He looks his age, like a high school kid who was close to graduating, not an adult. In his face, Ponyboy sees someone he probably had passed in the hallways numerous times, someone who he could've in another life, been friends with if things were different too.

It's not all he sees, though. He also sees a boy who had helped Bob shove him into the water, remembers his laughing face turned into a twisted, murky mirror in the water, leering. He can taste chlorine in the back of his throat, and Ponyboy is relieved when Shaw finally says, "No further questions, your honor."

David wipes at his face. Ponyboy looks at Johnny for the first time, now fully awake, entirely unsure of himself again. Of the way David had described it, Johnny stabbing Bob over and over again. It was something they'd never talked about, even on Jay Mountain except that once, when they had been alone that first day.

I killed a kid last night. He couldn’t of been over seventeen or eighteen, and I killed him. How’d you like to live with that?

His voice echoes in his mind as he looks at his face. Their eyes meet: Johnny's eyes dark, that kicked puppy look gone, a hood with short hair in a suit and crutches. A kid who'd killed someone, who shouldn't have been forced to kill someone in his life.

A kid who had also heard someone lie about it, too.

Eugene stands up, and Ponyboy breaks his gaze to look at him buttoning up his suit. He strides up to the front of the court, his voice soothing, "I understand you've just given testimony to what was undoubtedly a hard experience to live through. It's a hard memory, and I sympathize. Having said that, I do have a few questions, Mr. Ducan, for you to answer. The first one is this: You say that things got out of hand. When you say that, what, exactly, do you mean?"

David blinks at him, frowning. "I don't understand?"

Eugene nods. "I'll rephrase: when you say that things got out of hand, this sounds as if you have had skirmishes with each other before. It implies that what happened that night was out of the norm for those encounters. Could you elaborate on, if you had previous fights, why they happened, and what you considered to be normal?"

"I.... well," David blinks, and Ponyboy wonders how he'll answer. "You wouldn't get it." Eugene doesn't budge so David continues. "They're what we call greasers, sir. From the other side of town. We don't always get along, cause they're..." David clearly tries to figure out what to say. "They're just not like us. They don't dress like us, or look like us."

The hum that comes from Eugene seems damning in and of itself. "I see, I see. So you would fight over things?"

"Like girls, or where they were in places they weren't supposed to be, yeah," there's an annoyed murmur that Ponyboy thinks is Two-Bit behind him. "But we never have weapons or anything. Never."

"And did you have any encounters with the defendants today, before that night? Did some previous animosity carry over?"

David's eyes flit over to Johnny and Ponyboy. "No, sir."

Ponyboy thinks he's lying. The way Johnny shifts in his seat, he knows he is. Eugene doesn't press, David continuing. "We would yell at each other, shove each other. Throw a punch or two. Not like what happened that night."

The judge looks at her watch and Eugene keeps up the pace. "So were these fights always instigated by one side? Every time? Or was it something that both groups could start?"

Hesitantly, David says, "Yes sir. It... it could."

"But not that night? You're confident that they started it, despite the drinking you stated was going on?" Eugene's voice is smooth as butter as he says it, almost pleasant. "You can state that with absolute certainty?"

Johnny, beside him, cottons onto what he's doing before Ponyboy does. They both sit up a little straighter as David frowns. "We weren't drinking that much. I know we weren't!"

"You stated previously that it got out of hand. You also stated there was drinking that night. Do you remember how much you drank before your encounter? Do you remember exactly how much compared to your normal drinking, Mr. Ducan?" Eugene presses further, his voice still steady, but his tone growing sharper.

David squirms in his seat. "I... I know I had whiskey. At least... and a few beers." He glances at his parents, and he sinks into his seat. "I don't know after that. But it was – I think it was more than usual."

"You're not sure of how much you drank, and that was before your encounter with my defendants, on a night that you claim got out of hand," Eugene nods, rolling over the facts. He sounds less like a lawyer and more like one of Ponyboy's teachers when he'd gotten a math problem wrong and they had walk him through what he'd done wrong, one by one until he'd understood where he messed up.

Ponyboy feels a little bit of hope re-enter him. "Given that you were in that state, do you think that you can confidently state that the events you described were accurate? Can you really recount how the encounter went if you had beers, and a whiskey that night? Do you recall what the original disagreement was, Mr. Ducan?"

"It was because their friend," David spits out the word and Ponyboy can feel his hackles rise up, "hit on Bob's girlfriend. They're greasers, she's our girl."

Eugene doesn't seem upset at all. "But after that? At the car? At the park? Was it the same argument or something different? Can you confidently recount that for the court?"

When David's gaze looks over them, and back to Eugene, Ponyboy holds his breath.

"No, sir," David says, bitterness seeping into his words. "I can't."

Eugene turns to the judge. "No further questions, your honor."

Chapter Text

"Buck ain't letting you take his car anymore?" The cigarette that Ponyboy takes from Dallas feels good as he takes a drag. Instead of going with Eugene and Johnny to the diner, Dallas had clapped his shoulder once Ponyboy had gotten changed and walked with him down the street from the courthouse. Ponyboy feels as if he's slipped back into his normal skin now that Dallas was here, grounded into himself better.

He just wanted to leave that courtroom behind. Two days in and he already knew that if he closed his eyes too long, if he fell asleep, he'd be hearing Bob's voice again at the edge of his hearing, he'd be tasting and smelling chlorine, and if it was bad, if it was really bad, he thinks he'd taste blood again, see that red haze.

Ponyboy doesn't want that. He wants to be a normal kid with his boyfriend and desperately, he pushes it away from his mind, tries to push it back. He takes another drag from the cigarette, looking up at Dallas.

"Not every day, no. I'm thinking about going to get one tonight; make it easier on everyone than for me to have to grab a ride every time." Dallas keeps his pace with Ponyboy, even though Ponyboy wishes they weren't just on the sidewalk together. He wishes they were holed up somewhere, able to kiss each other, to finish what they'd started that morning. "Once I drop you off at school, I'll get it."

A sense of dread sinks into Ponyboy, almost sours the cigarette in his mouth. "Sure I couldn't talk you into letting me take off?" He gives Dallas a hopeful look as he wraps Dallas' jacket around him a little tighter, voice weak. "I don't have too many classes."

"If all this shit weren't going on? Kid, I'd take you wherever you wanted," the way Dallas smiles at him is so sharp, and god, Ponyboy wishes his neck was between his teeth, wishes he were biting at Dallas' mating mark so hard that'd be bucking beneath him.

They linger at the light, the very one they'd stood at months ago, about to have a day to themselves. Ponyboy pulls his cigarette from his mouth, and instead of offering it to Dallas, he leans up.

Taking the hint, Dallas leans downward, wrapping his lips around the end, allowing Ponyboy's fingers to touch his chin and mouth as he takes a drag. His eyelids lower, a grin works its way on his face and Ponyboy feels a twinge of jealousy for the cigarette in that moment.

Dallas draws away, the smoke issuing from his mouth and nostrils in a gray and white cloud. There isn't a flicker of worry or terror on his face, no words about how fucked they are, nothing to indicate that Dallas didn't see what was happening as anything but an inconvenience.

He was tough, in the face of all this. Tougher than ever, even and Ponyboy leans up again to kiss him, to try and take some of that toughness from him, for himself.

That was what love was, right? It had to be something like that.

Get tough like Dallas, whether it was by his lips or his hips.

Study hall is silent when Ponyboy enters it, juggling the work he has to catch up for his morning classes. If his teachers are upset with him, none of them showed it when he went around lunch to pick it all up. Johnny is either speaking to one of them or he's finishing up is what Ponyboy figures when he can't spot him.

He puts his books down on one of the tables in the very back of the study hall, aware of the looks he's getting from some classmates as he goes. There aren't enough to truly make it bother him as sits down, pulling out his pencil, pulling a book to him. As soon as he's reading over the assignment, he can get lost in his head, away from the trial, away from the reminder of Bob's laughter and the scent of alcohol being poured on him. It's much easier to finish up the reading for Great Expectations, answering a few questions and then moving onto his history assignment than to think about what some of the soccy girls are whispering to themselves about two tables down.

Ponyboy keeps his head down, keeps so concentrated on what he's doing that by the time the bell rings, he's lost in thought, not moving until he notices people surging to the door to leave. Grabbing everything, he puts them back in his bags, and walks past the gaggle of girls watching and into the hallway full of his peers. Some of them look at him, most ignore him as he makes his way to his locker, and then to the gym.

"Hey, Curtis," one of his track teammates gets his attention. He's a middle class kid, with a shock of blonde hair and green eyes. "You gonna be at practice this week?"

Shit. He'd forgotten. "Uh – what days?"

"Today through Friday," his teammate shrugs. "We haven't seen you around so Coach sent me."

"Thanks, Joe," Ponyboy finally remembers his name, pulling out his book. "I'll be there."

Joe gives him a searching, curious look. Something in him wants to know more, wants to pry. It's not a right he has — he's a year below Ponyboy, he's barely been on track at all, and even though he's not a greaser or a Soc, there isn't anything Ponyboy trusts in his searching gaze. So Ponyboy brushes past him, knowing he'd have to call Buck's before the afternoon was out as a reminder to Dallas.

There are no piercing stares, no gossiping for the rest of the day. Everything feels oddly normal for him, making sure to call Dallas when he could, and when everyone's leaving, Ponyboy decides not to go and pursue Two-Bit or Johnny when they have to leave. Instead, he changes his clothes in the gym locker room a few minutes before everyone else, pulling on the shorts and shirt, the shoes going on last.

His teammates words are heard, echoing as he finishes tying his shoes, "You think he'll tell us anything about it? Is it illegal or something not to?"

"I don't know, never been involved in a murder rap," someone else responds, and Ponyboy has never straightened up quicker in his life nor has he glared at his teammates the way he does when they finally round the corner into the locker room. There are two upperclassmen who stare back at him, and one freshman who gets pink in the face. Almost all of them are middle class kids, who stay out of the fights, and Ponyboy hopes he's as frightening as Dallas as he glares at them on the way out.

His coach gives him a searching look when he reaches the track, chewing his gum snappily. "You're looking a little pale and underweight, Curtis. I'm gonna have you take it light this week, til we can get you back in shape. I want three laps running, two walking, one running and you're done for now." His eyebrows go up. "You go easy on those smokes this month, understood?"

Unwilling to make a fuss, Ponyboy nods. "Yessir. I can do my stretches and get in about half the time."

Satisfied, coach dismisses him to do his own stretching. Ponyboy makes quick work of it, and as soon as he's done, he takes up his pace on the track. One mile was the standard warm up, the easiest you could take. Ponyboy puts his mind towards the track beneath him, taking in the red beneath him, the way his feet slapped against it.

For the first time in a long time, Ponyboy begins to find himself not thinking about the past, about the present, about the future. There's only the red ground beneath him, his breathing, the sweat down his skin, and his feet hitting the ground beneath him in a steady rhythm. Even though his teammates go past him or some try to stop to talk to him, he ignores him.

The road stretches out like a dark red ribbon as he goes and Ponyboy's mind clears of any worries, for awhile. All he has to do is run, all he has to do is move his feet, and that's all the world is currently demanding of him. All his imagination focuses on is his body, on if he needs to stop for water or to cough or take a break.

If nothing had happened Ponyboy knows he'd be able to have gone about half way through the entire exercise for a rest. Instead, by the time he's hit the second lap, he can feel his heart going too fast, his chest constricting and he's forced to stop at the stands where there's water waiting. It's shockingly cold when he gulps it down, and he knows his scent must be distracting with how much he's sweating at the moment.

Dallas' medallion bangs against his chest as he drains the bottle offered, glancing at the stands. As always, they're empty save for a few parents who came there to wait for their kids. One of the women there nudges the guy beside her as Ponyboy looks at them and he turns his head quickly, leaving the rest of the water behind.

No doubt they were gossiping about the only poor kid on the team, the one who was on the newspapers now.

Ponyboy picks up the pace, his mind now whirring when he didn't want it to: about what might be on the newspapers by the end of the week, about who's watching and what they'd be saying. He picks up his pace until he's hit the end of the second lap, forced to walk to cool himself down. Another glance at the stands, and no one is looking at him this time, so he relaxes his shoulders.

At least this would tire him out too much to have nightmares. At least he'd be able to have sweet oblivion when he slept that night.

It's the last go around that Ponyboy sees it: Dallas walking up on the stands, his voice carrying over the wind, brimming with annoyance and right beside him is Sylvia. Seeing her curly brown hair, the familiar stance of hers makes Ponyboy's blood boil.

At the same time, there's a momentary fear in his chest seeing her there, seeing her get so close to Dallas. It's enough that he trips on the track, almost hit by a few freshmen as he looks at them. Whatever they're saying, Dallas isn't happy about as he puts his hand on his hips, snapping at her.

They're too far away for him to know what they're saying, Sylvia looking just as incensed. Ponyboy tries to pick up the pace again, and he only gets a few feet before Dallas' voice raises again.

"Goddammit," Ponyboy wheels himself from the track — it wasn't like coach was looking at him for the last lap. He makes his way to the stands as quick as he can, seeing Sylvia ball up her hands into fists.

Their scents are easy to catch: both so deeply aggressively alpha, clearly annoyed with each other. Unlike the dozens of times Ponyboy had caught each other like this years before, though, their scents don't seem to have a grain of cohesion to them. For years, even when they were on the outs with each other, it always seemed as if their scents mingled together, complimented each other.

Not anymore. Now, he can clearly tell that they're not compatible in the least, Dallas' tinged with Ponyboy's own, a rejection of Sylvia's own. Ponyboy takes the steps two at a time, finally able to hear Sylvia yelling, "So this is it? You went and mated a kid 'cause you wanted an omega that bad?"

"You never gave a shit about mating!" Dallas snaps back, his teeth bared at her, clearly unable to see Ponyboy coming behind him.

Sylvia, though, has a clear view of Ponyboy, sneering. "Neither did you. I remember you talking about mating like it made you sick and now you're trying to tell me you're content fucking a goddamn ninth grader?"

"I'm in tenth," Ponyboy corrects her, unafraid of her. Up close, he can see that her face is a little puffy, her make up smeared in places, and one heel of her shoes is broken. She's a little taller than him, her glare as piercing as ever.

Dallas turns, a grin on his face. "Should be eleventh." He turns back to Sylvia, his voice dripping with derision. "You got anything else to say? We need to beat it and I ain't getting back with you if anyone fucking paid me."

Sylvia pins her furious gaze on Ponyboy. "Hope you enjoy that slickrat while it lasts. He'll go find the next stupid omega in the eighth grade while you're off waiting for the electric chair." She spits at Dallas' feet, and Ponyboy feels Dallas grab his elbow when he reflexively tries to lunge forward.

"Asshole —!"

"Hey, hey!" Dallas yanks Ponyboy back, apparently unperturbed by Ponyboy's simmering anger towards Sylvia now. His ears feel red at the spoken and unspoken implications, at the way Sylvia had looked at him so furiously. He'd never seen her look at a Soc with that much hatred, and Dallas frowns at him. "Listen, she's just playing games. Just wants to piss you and me off."

Ponyboy feels the anger in him spread further, hand fisting Dallas' shirt, dragging him down for a rough, angry kiss that Dallas returns. Dallas's hand on is on the back of his head faster than what Ponyboy can think, and he's pushing Dallas against the wall, trying to erase every hint of Sylvia that could be around.

They should talk about it. About Sylvia, about how upset she made him felt, about the words, waiting for the electric chair and instead, Ponyboy kisses Dallas, tries to claim him all over again and it's not until Dallas is nudging him away that he can think clearly again, Dallas' face red, panting, and Ponyboy can see that he's scratched Dallas' sternum.

"Go get your things before we get ourselves arrested," Dallas says, and boy, Ponyboy wishes that they could be, that he could do this like any other kid.

Instead, he nods and leaves Dallas where he is.

They don't talk about Sylvia or his track practice or anything else that night. Soda's off at the bonfire and Darry is staying late working. It leaves him and Dallas at the house together, and Ponyboy — despite his sore legs, despite Sylvia's face, despite the mountain of homework he has, doesn't do much else beside lock the front door and sink into the couch with Dallas.

They just stay there after dinner, the television on low, kissing each other, touching each other, sometimes watching the television, sometimes idly talking about nothing that mattered but mostly, they just touched each other.

Never quite going over the edge, never letting Dallas knot him, never dipping his head into Dallas' lap to suck him off. The most they do is Dallas' fingers slipping past his waistband, idly fucking Ponyboy's hole, getting slick all over his hand and the innermost of his wrist. Ponyboy always squirms with the feeling, always enjoys the way Dallas licks at the slick on his hand, even inviting Ponyboy to a taste.

He doesn't know when they wind up falling asleep for the day, his legs sore. All Ponyboy knows is that the next morning, he's waking up to Dallas on one side of him and Soda on the other, Darry calling for him to wake up to get on up and put his suit on and Ponyboy doesn't want to leave the warmth Dallas and Soda provide. All Ponyboy wants to do is stay there, and being dragged out, pushed towards the shower doesn't do him any favors that morning.

The routine they've settled in holds, as they make their way to their cars and then to the courthouse. Johnny looks more exhausted than what he has in a while when they meet outside the courtroom. Why, Ponyboy isn't sure of with how quickly they're ushered inside, to take their usual places.

The only difference this morning, though, is who's coming up to the stand: Randy Adderson, in an expensive suit that made him seem taller as he steps forward, seating himself. Ponyboy tenses up, eyes pinning themselves to him as Shaw approaches. "Mr. Adderson. We have previous testimony about that night from a friend of yours, David. David, however, was he close to the deceased, Mr. Sheldon?"

"No. Not as close as me. Bob I were best friends," Randy's voice is clear, with that odd lilt to it that all Soc's had around adults, the kind of voice that sounds less tinged with a coolness to it, one a little more suited for saying Yessir, Nossir. "We've been best friends since we were little kids."

"And as such, what can you tell us about Mr. Sheldon?"

"He was a good guy," Randy says, and Ponyboy feels annoyance spread through him as Randy keeps going, like one of those Soc kids on television who smiled a lot. He goes through every nice descriptor of Bob, ones that make him sound like a smiling piece of cardboard without a personality.

Beside him, Johnny gives out a small sound of what Ponyboy thinks is distress — he turns his head enough to connect eyes with him, to see Johnny's face pale, upset. He looks like Randy is a ghost, and Ponyboy tries to catch his eyes, to try and reassure him.

Instead, Shaw states another question, "And with all that said: if you had heard what happened, if you hadn't been there that night, would you say that what occurred was something Mr. Sheldon would've ordinarily done without provocation?"

"No," Randy says firmly, his eyes staying on Johnny, some of that old venom there, "He wouldn't have. Bob was a cool guy, the best guy, and he wouldn't have done anything if those two hadn't messed with us."

Eugene shifts his head, and Shaw brusquely goes on, "Now, what can you recall of that night? When did you first meet our defendants?"

"I'd seen the second one — Cade — before, only heard of Curtis. Well, I heard about his brothers. We were out to see a movie that night, us and our girlfriends, Cherry and Marcia," Randy's expression warms up, his mouth settling into more of a half smile as he says their names. "The girls didn't have to go cheer at a game, and me and Bob had both passed a hard Calculus test. So we said we'd go to the movies, see some dumb movie together." He adjusts his sleeves as he talks. "We got some food, got some dr – sodas together, and then we met at the movie theater. Only... Cherry and Marcia didn't wanna stay with us. They got into a fight, left us. So Bob and I just kept talking for awhile, and wanted to find them."

Ponyboy remembers that day vividly: the way he, Dallas and Johnny had teased the waitress; how he lied to the sodajerk at the shop that the milkshake had tasted bad, distracting him while Dallas had snuck over and stolen a pack of Kools; how he, Dallas, and Johnny had chased those kids in the park together, whooping and hollering; how Dallas had jumped the fence but Ponyboy had crawled under, offered his hand to Johnny and how he'd pulled him close before letting him go, walking into that cold, cold night.

What do you really remember? Ponyboy thinks to himself as Randy continues on. "We looked everywhere for them — and found those guys – the defendants messing with our girls. We told them to back off, and then we took the girl's home after one of their friends threatened us."

"One of their friends? Who? Are they in this court room?" Shaw presses. When Randy nods, he asks, "Could you point them out?"

Randy does, pointing at Two-Bit who looks coolly back, his collar up. The only part of him that's hardened, angry are his eyes. "He broke a bottle, threatened to fight everyone in the car. Something about the backseat." A murmur ripples through the court, and Ponyboy remembers Two's words clear as day, Then pity the backseat!

"We're not putting him on trial," Shaw curbs gently, "What happened after you took the girls home?"

"All of us drove around. Stopped and picked some drinks," Randy fidgets as he admits to the dalliance. "We all were driving around, trying to find a party and when we got lost, we stopped at a park. We weren't used to this part of town, see, and we ran into them. I don't remember who said what first, but I do remember them cussing at us. Called us white trash, spat at us." Randy shifts in his seat more, hanging on a pause. "Then everything gets kinda — kinda crazy." He swallows thickly, squeezes his hands together and pulls his palms apart. A pallor sweeps over his face, face going a little green.

Was he remembering the alcohol? Was he remembering how Bob had tossed it on Ponyboy, how Ponyboy had spat at them for it? Could he smell the grass, the fountain, hear the sound of their feet hitting the grass and then ground in terror? Ponyboy crying out for Johnny to run, and then his hand on Ponyboy's shoulders, shoving him backward into the cold depths of the fountain — was that all running through his head? Could he remember the fear on Ponyboy's face when he shoved him into the water, or was he so drunk at that point that it was a blur? Did he think Ponyboy was laughing with them, joking?

Most importantly though, where was the Randy who said, I'm sick of all of this. Sick and tired. Where was the Randy who had said, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I couldn’t tell anyone else. The one in the car who'd said, I didn’t mean that. I meant, thanks, kid.

A voice, a little too like Dallas' reminds him that he'd also said, You can’t win, even if you whip us. You’ll still be where you were before—at the bottom. And we’ll still be the lucky ones with all the breaks. So it doesn’t do any good, the fighting and the killing. It doesn’t prove a thing.

He'd been marked as a coward for not going to the rumble, it dawns on Ponyboy.

So this had to be his play, his big play to show them different.

Randy says, "Can we take a break before we finish this? Just five minutes?"

The judge nods, bangs her gavel. "Ten minute recess, everyone."

Randy flees the courtroom in a hurry.

Chapter Text

"That sonuvabitch," Steve barks out furiously, banging his hand on the door. The cold November air makes his breath fog as he goes on, "He's sitting on the stand lying. Can't you fucking object or something?"

Johnny's fingers flick the lighter he has stiffly, shaking his head. "I don't think you can," he inhales as soon as the cigarette is lit, eyes shutting. "I don't know how that all works."

Soda looks pale too, unsteady as they stay where they were in the parking lot. Eugene stayed inside, and Ponyboy's hand had been shaking for a smoke. Darry is pacing the lot himself, running his hands on his jeans, trying to clearly muster something up. Beside Ponyboy, Dallas offers him a Kool with a steady hand, not saying anything.

Whatever he's thinking beneath his eyes, Ponyboy isn't privy to. Dallas has opted to offer him a cigarette, Ponyboy clenching his teeth on the filter side. Dallas lights his cigarette, Johnny going on, "They'll catch him in a lie. I know they will." Ponyboy takes a long inhale of the cigarette, unsure of where his mind was at the moment.

Ten minutes didn't seem like enough time to process what Randy had said, to sit with his own anger and disbelief. The Randy that had appealed to him in the car before the rumble had seemingly collapsed beneath the Randy that was in the courtroom at the moment.

It makes him dig his fingers into his thighs, makes him take a longer drag of the cigarette. Dallas' hand comes around to touch his neck, right against the mating mark.

He shuts his eyes. Steve continues on angrily, Johnny saying something else, and Soda following up weakly. Everyone's scents are aggravated, upset around him and all Ponyboy can do is concentrate on the cigarette, on the feeling of smoking burning his nostrils, on the weight of Dallas' hand on his neck, on his scent. It's all he can do to stay attached to the ground beneath him, to try and not to give into the panic.

That feeling he had before the rumble threatens to take over: the wave of nausea, something creeping at the very edge of his mind that this wasn't all going to turn out right. Everything was on a precipice and if Ponyboy wasn't careful, they'd knock off the edge into something worse.

Dallas was here though, Soda was here, Johnny was here. The feeling of Dallas' body against his, the scent of his brothers, the rest of his pack all were settling on him, trying to ground him to the cold outside. They were here, they weren't leaving, they were pack.

And still, still: the chasm of fear is there, the uncertainty remains as Steve rants, Darry paces. In the corner of his eye, he can see Two-Bit in one corner, playing with his switchblade, not saying anything.

No one is feeling good now and Ponyboy wishes it was different. He shuts his eyes, trying to push away the buzzing sound in his head, trying to fold into Dallas more, trying to get away from everything.

The world goes into a fuzzy haze, and Ponyboy doesn't fight it, doesn't fight the feeling that maybe his body isn't his body. That everything was further and further —

"Pony," Soda's voice pushes against the attempt to shut things out. Ponyboy tips his head away from his voice.

A hand tugs on his hair, pain flaring up and Ponyboy's eyes snap open to focus on Dallas' harsh gaze, cheeks pink. "You gotta go back inside, kid." Behind him, the sky is a duller blue than what Ponyboy remembered, Dallas' mouth turned in a frown. "C'mon."

The words, I wanna stay with you, gets stuck in Ponyboy's throat. His whole body feels unsure for a moment, and then Dallas is helping him stand up, Soda is flanking him on the other side as they walk back into the courtroom. 

It feels as if he's blinked, and then he's seated again, looking at Randy in his suit, Eugene moving around the desk in slow motion. Ponyboy's hands feel clammy, and he reaches for the glass of water in front of him, taking a long, slow pull of the cold drink, Eugene's voice piercing through:

"I would like to know your relationship with Mr. Sheldon. The previous witness stated that they were best friends with him, and that he was a good guy, in his words. What, exactly, does that mean?"

The other lawyer looks as if he wants to say something. Randy leans into the mic as he speaks, "It means he was a good guy. He showed up when I needed him, he went out on dates with our girls, he always backed me up in a fight. We did a lot together." Randy pauses. "Sir."

"Including the drinking, which you admit happened," Eugene touches his chin. "You seem to have been drinking for some time, Mr. Adderson. Given what happened, we also know that the drinking this time turned out differently. Can you tell me if Bob often got into fights, provoked or not, when drinking?"

"It didn't always happen," there's an edge of a snarl at the end of Randy's voice, Ponyboy unsure of where it was pointed. "We didn't just take things lying down, though."

Eugene hums. "Still — fights did happen among you, correct?" When Randy nods, Eugene taps his finger against his chin again. "Can you give us an idea of what those fights were about, Mr. Adderson?"

"It was the gre – kids most of the time," Randy's gaze flicks towards Ponyboy and Johnny briefly — the sight of flashing rings, the glint of the bottle of alcohol rises to Ponyboy's mind — then back towards Eugene. "They used to get mad at us, threaten us. With knives, things like that."

"And why did you never say anything about these alleged threats to an adult before?"

Because they never happened, Ponyboy thinks.

Randy's face flushes. "It didn't seem — I wouldn't have known who to say it came from."

Ponyboy thinks Eugene will point out the fact that Randy said they had. Instead Eugene paces in front of Randy. "You said that the night went crazy, all of a sudden. What do you mean by crazy, exactly? What made that night unusual for you and your friends?"

"It was them bothering us," Randy fidges again. "The bottle, all of that. We never had that kind of thing, where they hit on our women."

"Was it unusual that they bothered you or unusual that they showed an interest in the girls? You said that fights occurred, and that normally it was them bothering you. So, which is it, Mr. Adderson?"

Beside him, Johnny perks up. Randy fumbles, but no one says anything else. He leans forward, adjusting his tie. "Maybe it was because we were drinking. That – That made it unusual, I guess." His voice falters towards the end, his eyes looking at the other end of the court, then back to Eugene. "We didn't normally drink the strong stuff. Bob usually was in charge of getting it from his parent's cabinet, we drank what he brought which was normally, uh, beers. Not that night, though."

Eugene nods. "You drank something different, something stronger. That was unusual for Bob. So you can say that his acts, after he started drinking, weren't in his normal character? It wouldn't have been within his usual temperament to have a fight?"

Again, hesitation sets on Randy's face. Ponyboy finds it difficult to concentrate on anything except the way his scent mingles with a familiar cologne that he can catch on the other end of the courtroom, a sick feeling washing over him again. 

"Not — not exactly," Randy mumbles out. "Sometimes if we had a little much, we got a little agitated. Bob did it sometimes, get all mad when he got drunk. Used to pick fights with people — not me," there's a weak film over the words not me as they come out of his mouth. "Mostly with Cherry or David. He didn't like it, sometimes, how things were. Only when he was drinking."

Eugene presses on. "So that night – there's a fight. You said that when he was drinking sometimes he picked fights." He points to Ponyboy and Johnny. "Did he pick a fight with my clients, that night, Mr. Adderson?"

Randy licks at his lips. Ponyboy stares down at him, feeling a wave of anger battling against the nausea, against the sick in his belly. He tries to stare him down the way he's seen Dallas stare down an ornery horse or Tim Shepard when he got mouthy, tries to get that bitterness and anger and defiance he's seen on Dallas before reflecting on his own.

"It —," Randy takes a breath, shrinking away. "It was their fault at the movies. At - At the park, you could say it. Maybe. That kid, the blonde, he spat at Bob, though. We chased him, cause he spat at Bob, called us white trash."

"And what did you do after you chased him?"

Eugene says the words calmy, simply.

Randy can't look at anyone except his hands.

Ponyboy doesn't have to hear him speak, doesn't have to see him mouth the words. He knows what that night was, the cold stinging at his skin, the sound of the Soc's feet behind him, the feeling of several pairs of hands locking onto him, screaming for Johnny to run, the shocking cold of the fountain water...

Randy talks, even though it's distorted in Ponyboy's ears: he keeps saying things like We had to and They were coming at us first and That kid with the scar we met him before and I just meant to scare them.

"Meant to scare them?" Eugene asks incredulously. "You meant to scare them by chasing them around a fountain at three in the morning? To achieve what? What did you want to do after you scared them?"

"I don't know," the words fall out weakly, defensively. "I don't know what we were doing — we just didn't want them around, didn't want them near our girls anymore. We – I just – We were trying to teach them a lesson. About hitting on girls that don't belong to them, about being around. I – Bob was shoving him in, and I was throwing some of the alcohol out. That- That kid, with the scar was behind us and then he just wasn't anymore. He had that blade out, and I didn't know what to do when Bob gave this – that noise." His voice grows thick, saddened. To his discomfort, Randy's voice breaks. "I didn't know what to do when he had all that blood on him, and I just — I ran. We all ran, and it wasn't his fault he got killed. He was my friend —"

The tears cascading down Randy's face feel real. The pain in his voice feels real.

Ponyboy doesn't look away from it, as the judge says, "I think we'll end today's proceedings here."

No one talks much during lunch. Ponyboy finds himself eating his food mechanically, and when it's over, he finds himself pressed against Soda in the truck, heading towards school. Dallas isn't there, gone to run an errand he doesn't name.

Ponyboy misses him as they drive to the school in silence. Soda keeps a warm, steady arm around him, and it's what he's reluctant to pull himself away from once they make their way to the front of the school.

He wants to beg to stay, and knows that Soda and Darry won't allow it. Getting out of the truck is stiff, and when Soda pulls away with Darry, Ponyboy considers cutting class altogether. Just sneaking out, going to Buck's and lying on the bed and sleeping beneath Dallas' clothes there until he came back.

The thought leaves him when he sees Johnny at the other end of the parking lot, being driven up by Mrs. Mathews and Two-Bit. What kind of friend would he be to leave them here alone?

Ponyboy watches as Johnny adjusts himself with the crutches — there was no ability for him to get the wheelchair up inside without going around back to the singular ramp the school had. Johnny struggles up, steadies himself, and he and Two-Bit come over.

Together, they walk inside, guards up.

All Day, Ponyboy thinks he can scent cologne, aftershave, chlorine. In the hallways, in packs of Soc kids that seem to form around corners he isn't watching for, in the amount of people who pop up all of a sudden with glares aimed at him, with mouths moving with gossip.

No once does he see Randy, Cherry or any of the other Socs who were at the trial. He can snatch bits of their scents, can guess where they've fled to, but they never cross paths.

All day, he thinks about the sluice of cold water on his skin, about how Randy looked when he'd been drinking beside Bob, about Give the dirty omega a bath. His hands itch, and his skin feels grimy whenever he touches it, despite knowing he'd showered the night before. Randy's pained face seems to impress itself in his mind and Ponyboy finds himself moving without knowing where he's supposed to go, staring into nothing at times.

He and Johnny meet up in study hall together, the second to last period. Johnny's face looks pinched when Ponyboy sits beside him, both of them with assignments in front of them. Ponyboy thinks about asking him a question, about what to do or say.

He can see something similar is on Johnny's face, uneasy and upset as he looks at his assignments. A sort of bleakness to his face that Ponyboy wants to break.

Except he doesn't know what to say or how to say it.

So they work in silence, punctuated only at times by the sound of their pencils on paper.

"Can we go somewhere else for awhile?" Ponyboy asks, glancing at Dallas when track practice finishes that evening. Like before, Dallas is there, and his eyes are dark. He must've known what was said in court, holding it in all day. "I don't wanna keep going straight home."

"I ain't taking you to the bonfire," wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Dallas steers him to the parking lot where lights are starting to come on. It's not dark just yet, even though the days are starting to hit autumn dark. "Darry'll kill me."

Resentment washes hot over Ponyboy's face, mouth firing out, "The electric chair'll kill me if this trial goes bad. So who cares if we go to the bonfire tonight?" He bites out the words, resentment growing. "No one else has to worry about it! Why do you care about the rules now?"

Quick as a snake, Dallas' hand comes to grasp the back of Ponyboy's neck, squeezing down on him the way he would when scruffing someone. "'Cause I ain't dumb enough to get my mate in trouble, is what," Dallas snaps out. "I don't wanna have to worry about some cops dropping in to be an asshole and hauling you off!"

Ponyboy squirms beneath his hand, tears welling up unexpectedly. "We can just go for one night! Just —"

"Friday, and that's a maybe," Dallas shakes him, forcing Ponyboy to shut his eyes, with how harsh his voice is. "Jesus kid, you need to use your head!"

I reckon it never occurred to you that your brothers might be worrying their heads off and afraid to call the police because something like that could get you two thrown in a boys’ home so quick it’d make your head spin!

All at once the memory crashes down on him, of Darry pointing his finger, at the thunderous tone of his voice, of how small Ponyboy had felt. Ponyboy, what on earth is the matter with you? Can’t you use your head?

A dam bursts in his chest and Ponyboy breaks into a sob in the parking lot.

Everything comes crashing down on him all at once, every moment from the night in vivid color and the only person there with him, the only one who pulls him close is Dallas.

Weeks ago, he'd never have considered it'd be Dallas trying to calm him down, that it would be Dallas trying to soothe him, that it would be Dallas he'd be clinging to in the encroaching dark of night.

Chapter Text

Darry isn't expecting to come home, aching and head full of the day's events, to see Dallas sitting on the couch with a serious expression on his face.

Not that he's been happy to see Dallas lately at all. Whenever they've had to be in court, Dallas has been forced to sit outside. Having him in there as Ponyboy's mate would be a mistake, and further, Darry didn't think he could trust Dallas to keep his head on straight as this progressed.

Two-Bit has been the one filling Dallas in, when Darry or Soda haven't. And no doubt, Ponyboy has told him too. Between it all, they've been at the edge of each other's spaces, hackles seemingly halfway raised, a current of anger and distrust between them. Distrust that Darry feels very, very entitled to given what had taken place.

He has to get a grip on his deep feelings of annoyance and even deeper level of unease he feels when he realizes that Ponyboy is tucked beneath Dallas' jacket, snoring on Dallas' lap as the television plays in front of them. Dallas' eyes have that cold, angry expression to them that hasn't changed in the slightest since he'd come back with Ponyboy and Darry starts shrugging off his jacket, keeping his voice quiet, "Has Pony eaten dinner yet?"

"He ain't hungry," Dallas says, raising his voice, right above the sound of the television, steady. "We need to talk about keeping him on lock down."

"We?" Darry pulls his coat off, glare sharply focused on Dallas. "We don't need to talk about anything. He's my brother —"

"And he's my mate," the words are snapped off threateningly, Dallas' dark eyes growing colder, angrier by the second. "Think that comes before brother now."

Darry clenches his fist, then reconsiders it given the hole in the wall he'd had to fix himself days before lingering in the corner of his eye. Ponyboy dozes on Dallas' lap, none the wiser, forcing Darry to exhale. Dallas tightens his grip on Ponyboy's shoulder, pressing on. "He's a kid, Darry. He can't just sit up here and just go to school and go to court for the next week. You gotta let him do something else. Let him go to Buck's with me or let him go to the bonfire this weekend. Anything other than keeping him cooped up here all the damn time. Either place, he'll be with me."

Darry scoffs, unable to keep it to himself. "You being with him is why we're in all of this mess! It's your fault for messing with those Socs at the theater and wandering off —"

"I'm not talking about that," the hitch to his voice, the rising hostility in his scent is a warning signal. Dallas doesn't have the decency to look the least bit guilty, raising his voice, "Pony ain't doing well with all of this. Just let him go with me —"

"No," the word is thunderous out of Darry's throat, booming in the room with the force. "No, I'm not letting him stay with you or go to the bonfire. You have done enough as is, Dallas! You know what happened the last time he just went off with you?"

"Pony was crying —"

"No," Darry moves to the hallway, brushing past Dallas and Ponyboy both. Whatever Dallas has to say to follow up with, he doesn't want to hear. How could he even be sure Dallas was telling the truth? "He needs to stay out of trouble and he's in enough with you as is. It'd be crazy letting you two run off again." He hangs his jacket up, fuming as he does it. "He goes to court, school, home. That is it til this is over!"

He slams the door to the closet. He can tell Dallas is pissed enough to spit nails, and it doesn't get much better the rest of the night. Dallas simmers, glowers angrily around him the rest of the night and Darry does his best to ignore him as he goes about washing court clothes, ironing them, and getting to the bills.

If Soda or Ponyboy know why they're so tense around each other, they don't acknowledge it. There usually isn't much time anymore, given how early they have to get up. What Darry gives begrudging credit to is that Dallas doesn't distract Ponyboy from his homework, he does the dishes and he doesn't get in the way when they have to get everything together for the next day. He even does the decent thing and showers after everyone else does, having to use the cold water rather than the hot.

For all of those good points, Darry is reminded of other failures: Dallas' hand on Ponyboy's mating mark, the way he refuses to do anything Darry asks directly, noticing how Dallas hasn't cleaned Darry's plates. It itches at the back of his neck as he watches Dallas get in bed with Ponyboy and Soda, his back facing the door, a pale arm wrapping around Ponyboy's shoulders. The spare room, collecting junk, would have to get cleared out if possible just to make sure Dallas couldn't always do that.

Darry goes to bed, pretending as if he'd never had responsibility too, for all of this. He pretends as if every time he clenches his hand, he doesn't remember what it had felt like hitting Ponyboy, he pretends as if every morning his heart isn't caught in his throat.

He pretends that Dallas isn't doing a better job than him.

"Something went on last night that Dallas and Darry aren't sharing," Ponyboy frowns as Molly covers up his mating mark as usual in the courthouse bathroom. "They were all mad, tense last night before we went to bed."

"You think it has to do with you because...?" Molly is surely playing a little dumb, eyes focused on Ponyboy's neck and shoulder.

"They always fight over me," Ponyboy sighs out, trying not to slump his shoulders. "Are they gonna fight over me for the rest of my life?"

"Maybe," Molly puts the last finishing touches on him, her freckles stark on her face in the light, looking at his face. "Didn't you guys make some pact or whatever not to fight? Maybe that's why they aren't telling you."

Ponyboy reaches out to touch his hair, then thinks better of it when Molly raises her eyebrows, settling with just rubbing his hands on his thighs nervously. "Thanks, Molly. You — you wanna meet us for lunch today?"

"I dunno," she smooths down his lapels, the way his Mama would've done for his father when they were alive. "I'm heading home Friday, might be better then."

There's something on her face that Ponyboy wants to know about. Something full of unease.

They don't have time to talk, though. The tell tale knock to begin the proceedings comes, forcing Ponyboy to square his shoulders up, going in step with Molly to the door where Dallas is waiting as always. His face is stormier than usual, his scent clear in his discomfort to see Ponyboy's mating mark covered up.

As always now, Dallas walks with him up to the court room doors, falling back when Ponyboy goes through. Ponyboy turns his head, unable to keep his eyes off of him as he walks behind Johnny's wheelchair. He wonders what Dallas must be thinking, feeling.

He knows what he's feeling, what he wants now: to turn around, to go somewhere else and be a kid with Dallas again. Not to have that embarrassing crying scene he'd had the day before, or at the very least, only have it in front of Dallas and no one else.

The doors shut. Everyone takes their place, Johnny beside him, looking steadier than usual, Eugene with glasses on today, and Randy going back on the stand in a suit that's newer than the one from the day before with how immaculately pressed it is. His curly hair seems a little limp from where Ponyboy is sitting, his mouth in a tight line, his hands clenching at the podium.

Eugene stands up in his black suit, his gold rimmed glasses glinting beneath the light. "I want to continue our conversation from yesterday, Mr. Adderson. But I want to go back a few steps, if you'll oblige me. From what you and the previous witness stated, it seemed that drinking was not an uncommon activity between you and your friends. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Randy's voice is clear in the courtroom, steadier than it had been no longer cluttered with tears. "We drank a lot. Probably - Probably once or twice a week we'd go out, get as drunk as we could. However we could."

"Right. And yesterday, you stated that you, at times, had a lot to drink. You also conceded that at times you lost your tempers and that at times, it altered you temperament. Was that whenever you all drank or was that only sometimes?"

Shaw looks as if he wants to interject as Randy thinks, frowning. "I.... are you asking if we got too drunk?"

"I'm asking if you were in control of your actions when you were drinking, no matter how much you drank or what," Eugene is patient, drawing out his words a little. "And if you were aware of what you had done after drinking?"

"Not — Sometimes?" Randy struggles, averting his eyes from Johnny and Ponyboy as he does it. "Sometimes we — I mean yeah. Sometimes we drank too much, sometimes we got a little too hot while we did it. And sometimes... sometimes we got into fights. Fights that we-we started." Randy's face goes a little red, frustration mounting. "I said that, didn't I? We'd get in fights with each other, mostly with greasers. We got into it with the kid with the scar once, before everything." The words tumble out and Ponyboy isn't sure why Shaw's face morphs into surprise and then disbelief.

Eugene pounces. "Could you tell me about that?"

"Objection — relevance?" Shaw almost barks out the words, his mustache trembling as he speaks.

The judge glances at Shaw. "Hall? Relevance?"

"Pattern establishment," Eugene says confidently. "If there was a prior altercation, it is relevant to the one we're in court for particularly as he stated previously that they wanted to scare my clients and others."

"Sustained," the judge gestures for Randy to continue who's looking nervous. "Answer Mr. Hall's question fully."

Beside him, Johnny nudges Ponyboy. He's understood before Ponyboy has as Randy looks bewildered, and suddenly going pale. "We — We got drunk and uhm. The little guy, with the scar —"

"My client, Mr. Cade? Can you point to him?" Eugene presses.

Randy's eyes rise up, meeting Johnny's own. Ponyboy can see there's fear, shame in his gaze, when he points to Johnny. "Him. Cade. We ran into him a few months ago when we were good and drunk. He – he was just smoking in that dingy lot they have. Looked like an easy enough target. Uhm, so we. Bob is the one who did most of it, that day. We roughed him up, and Bob's rings cut into him." He averts his gaze again, Ponyboy feeling that old familiar anger rise up in him. Cherry in the movie theater flashes across his memory and the realization that she had known the instant he had mentioned the rings to him. She had known Bob had attacked Johnny. "I know we shouldn't have done it. We told him — told him if we saw him again, we'd do it again. Or worse."

A murmur runs through the courtroom at his words. Ponyboy looks at Johnny to check how he is: he's still got a level of paleness to him, and he shrinks under the gaze of people who are looking at the scar still raised on one side of his temple. There is no buckling though, no attempt to lower himself — just a small wave of shame that Ponyboy can feel, yet no fear beneath it.

Pride swells up in his chest, despite the anger in him, the disbelief.

Randy seems as if he can't stop talking though, barreling on, "I don't – we didn't set out to go target them. We just saw them, after they were messing with Cherry and Marcia. I don't know, I just. I got so angry looking at them, seeing those greasers." There's some disgust in the way he says the word, greasers. "That kid and his omega friend I – I remember Bob saying we hadn't omega hunted in awhile. I told him we hadn't, and it could be fun, chasing them. Then things — things got out of hand."

Eugene hums, walking back and forth, pacing with all the finesse of a caged lion. Ponyboy thinks that he's playing with his food now as he raises a finger. "You state that you were upset about the movies, and at Mr. Cade. That does not cover Mr. Curtis, my other client. You cited something called omega hunts; could you tell us what that is?"

Red blooms in Randy's face, rolling his shoulders. "It means.... it's not a big deal. Just means that if you find – if you find an omega out at night, you chase them. Until you catch them."

"What happens when an omega is caught?"

"It — depends," Randy's voice goes a notch quieter, hands twisting. "Some friends just pin them down and mess with them. Sometimes an omega's into it. They wanna... you know. Have- sex."

The faces of the adults all seem to shift; Randy's mother looks offended from her place on the bench and even though Ponyboy knows she's probably not an omega, he can see a clear dislike in her face. The judge's face turns, her mouth dipping downard in disapproval. Eugene hums. "No further questions, your honor."

"Mr. Shaw? Do you have any further questions?" The judge's voice is pointed, her dark eyebrows raised.

Shaw considers Randy's sloped shoulders, the atmosphere. He stands up, pacing in front of Randy for a few moments. "You were inebriated with a friend. You were upset at a night at the drive in — would you have performed any of the actions you had done that night if you were sober?"

Randy shakes his head, remembers himself and says, "No, sir."

Shaw nods. "No further questions." He takes his seat and a silence overtakes the courtroom.

The judge checks her watch. "We'll dismiss early today. I'll see you all back here tomorrow."

Ponyboy stands up, his eye catching the other side where the Soc families sit. Cherry is there, her head bowed, in the same black dress she's been wearing every day of the trial, her parents flanking her. Her mother doesn't pay attention to Ponyboy, her father meeting Ponyboy's gaze. He's got red hair, nodding curtly as he helps his wife and daughter stand.

Bob Sheldon's parents are on the other end, his mother with a blank stare. His brother, Dick, however is glaring venomously at Ponyboy. He's Bob in miniature, down to his scowl, and the hatred he has for Ponyboy feels very, very real as Ponyboy grips the back of Johnny's wheelchair to help get him out.

He refuses to look at Randy. He does, however, see Randy's father — the way Dick is Bob in miniature, Mr. Adderson looks like a bigger, rounder version of Randy in a tweed suit with a face that would be kind, maybe, in another life.

Something in his face is painfully human, as he looks at his son with clear feelings of disappointment.

Chapter Text

"What's taking them so long?" Dallas mutters, tapping the wheel of the car in annoyance. "I thought you said they were letting them out early."

"Probably needed to give 'em a pep talk," Two-Bit mutters, his face dark. Not that Dallas blames him — he'd come rushing out, breathless to tell Dallas what had gone on in court. Two-Bit looks like a monkey in a suit with the outfit he's wearing, Dallas distinctly sure that the suit used to belong to his father with how frayed it is. Two-Bit is almost two sizes too big for it, and must've just forgotten to get his newer one on the way out. "After all that went on, those kids need it."

"Ponyboy's tough," he clenches the wheel, not wanting to think about how much he wants to smash his fist against Randy Adderson's nose and throat. "He'll be okay. Johnny too."

"You know that isn't what I mean."

Dallas doesn't answer; Two-Bit is right. It just doesn't serve a purpose to sit up here and dwell on it, not when his instincts are itching at him to go and grab Ponyboy and get him somewhere quiet. Not that it wasn't the only thing he wanted — god, he'd been too long without sinking his fangs into Ponyboy's neck, too long without knotting him — it was simply the only thing they could do at the moment until all of this was over.

If he talks more, he knows he's going to lose his temper with Two-Bit, and he needed that anger, that ire for someone else that day. Not Two-Bit, not when he'd been his pal like this and kept him up to speed.

His head was still buzzing over the fact that it had been an omega hunt and Randy had said so in front of everyone. That was a phrase he was sure almost no adult in Tulsa knew, and even if Dallas had never been an angel, he'd never been one to engage in it. They all knew what happened if an omega was caught, and to have Randy admit it....

Dallas bounces his legs, tasting copper in his mouth with distaste and anger as much as he wants to be rid of it. All he can do is sit up a little more as the doors open, Johnny and Ponyboy at the forefront. They both look, to his upset, almost like they had in Jay Mountain, weighed down with exhaustion. Ponyboy's blonde hair seems hardly styled as he makes his way towards the car, running his hand through it in distraction.

"I wanna just go home," wasting no time apparently, Ponyboy throws himself into the back seat, his scent clear with distress. "No going out for lunch or nothing." Johnny mutely agrees, and with a knowing look between him and Two-Bit, Dallas takes off.

The whole time, the car is mostly silent between Two-Bit offering a smoke to Johnny to steady his fingers and Ponyboy dozing on. Turning on the radio isn't an option, Dallas too concentrated on getting on the road. Randy's face swirls at the forefront of his mind as they go, of how much Dallas would enjoy punching him until his teeth were knocked out, what he might sound like if he sent his foot crashing through his knee or his ankle or crushing his dick until he understood he'd never lay eyes on Ponyboy again.

The car screeches to a stop outside of the Curtis house, Dallas stepping out. Two-Bit helps Johnny out, Dallas opening the fence so they could get through first. Ponyboy steps out of the car yawning, his hair half a mess from being pressed against the car window on the way in. It's cute looking in a way, Dallas nudging him behind Two-Bit and into the house. "You guys gonna stay and get some rest?"

"Yeah," Johnny staggers his way inside. "It's okay for me to use the couch?"

"You and Ponyboy can take the bed, I ain't tired," Dallas steers Ponyboy towards the room, slamming the door behind him. "Go on, me and Two'll stay out here." Ponyboy yawns, shoots him an appreciative look, and he and Johnny go into his room.

As soon as the door closes, Two-Bit says, "Whatever cracked up idea you got in your brain, you think you can save it for another day?"

"No," Dallas snaps, glaring at Two-Bit. Wariness is evident on Two-Bit's face, his arms crossed. That suit on him still makes him look stupid and not tuff, Dallas pacing around the living room, lowering his voice. "Darry keeping Pony under lock and key isn't gonna make any of this better. He needs to be able to be normal for a little while — what was the fucking point of initiating him if he was gonna get grounded like this?"

"He could get arrested," Two-Bit's clearly over the argument with the way he throws up his hands, "If you wanna be a stubborn mule about it, fine, I don't think it ain't a bad idea that he's gotta go out. It's a huge weight on him, I get it. I just ain't see how you're gonna achieve that without Darry trying to take your head off again when we all agreed fighting wasn't on the menu anymore."

The scrape of Dallas' boots against the floor feels loud, and Two-Bit huffs, rubbing at his face.

They both know that Dallas is always, always spoiling for a fight of some kind, and even though he'd promised, Dallas still wanted to kick the shit out of Darry a few more times for seeing him as some kind of threat. What threat, when Randy Adderson and his buddies were out there, rules of the rumble be fucking damned!

Dallas snaps his teeth, trying to get over the need to even twist around and fight Two-Bit for lack of Randy or Darry. "I'm not fighting him, fuck that. I'm telling him Ponyboy is going out whether he likes it or not."

"Sure, sure, piss him off again. That'll go real well, you being Bugs Bunny and him Elmer Fudd," Two-Bit turns around, going to the fridge to rummage for a beer. "You two are gonna keep going at it, no matter what." He opens the fridge, entirely checked out. "Just remember that either of you going to jail isn't gonna be pretty."

Dallas concedes the point on that, stewing on his own. Where the hell was Darry, anyway? Back at his job? Talking with Soda?

The minutes tick by, Two-Bit polishing off a cold beer, Dallas occupying himself by pulling out bread and condiments. The only way to work off the energy he was feeling was by doing something, and getting together sandwiches for Ponyboy and Johnny wasn't too hard.

No, neither he or Darry needed to be in jail either. Yes, they'd made a promise to be pack. But following Darry all the time, for every bone headed decision he made, Dallas wasn't going to keep to it. Not if he could do or say anything different, if it meant Ponyboy would be better off.

Ten minutes before one, the sound of a truck pulling up fills the house. Two-Bit looks up from where he's on his second beer, cocking an eyebrow at Dallas. He looks from Dallas to the door, waving his hand that meant Get it over with.

Dallas about launches himself out of his seat in the kitchen, leaving the stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he made. "Don't wake 'em up, and I'll shove my foot up your ass if you eat a single sandwich!" Two-Bit flips him off, scooting over to see right out of the window, Dallas blowing through the front door, the gust of cold hitting him, barking out, "Darry! We need to talk!"

Almost everyone in the neighborhood who'd be out this time of day would be able to hear how loudly Dallas spoke, the click of his boots against the pavement louder than ever in his own ears as he gets up to Darry, who's tense, shutting the truck door carefully. "Dallas, I —"

"Fuck you, you're gonna shut the fuck up while I talk," Dallas knows he probably sounds like his father in this moment with how angry he is, with how much he's posturing himself, snapping up at Darry. He's two inches shorter than Darry and at this moment, he feels like he could still beat him bloody if needed. "You've been in the court room every damn day hearing what those pieces of shit did. They were omega hunting him! And you think the solution is keeping him home all the damn time?" Dallas raises his voice higher, not giving a damn. "No, you're gonna let Ponyboy go to the damn bonfire and you're gonna let him go with me to Buck's. I'm not gonna have him running wild, but at least if he's with me he isn't sitting at home wondering what the fuck is wrong with him. And if he ain't with me, he'll at least be with other greasers who can look out for him. What was the point of initiating him if he'd have to be separate from the rest of us?"

Darry puts his hand on his hips, fuming. "Dallas, I already said he wasn't going to! Them hunting him proves that he needs to be protected!"

"He was crying, the other day!" Dallas has to ball his fists together to keep from shoving. "You didn't wanna listen — he was crying his guts out cause of all of this. Darry, you have got to let him be normal for five goddamn minutes or he's gonna run away and it ain't gonna be for a murder rap. And I wouldn't stop him. I'd go right with him, and who are you and Soda gonna care for then? You think your parents would be happy you drove him out?"

Most people would classify that as a low blow.

Dallas classifies it as the truth, soaking up the white face Darry has, the clear look on his face as if Mrs. Curtis herself had slapped him.

He doesn't care about the way Darry slumps his shoulders, clearly on the edge of maybe tears himself. All Dallas cares about is Darry mumbling out, "Fine. Bonfire, and your place. That's it."

Dallas doesn't even stay to savor it. Just walks back inside, his boots clicking against the pavement, and going straight towards the bedroom where Johnny and Ponyboy are sleeping. Two-Bit doesn't join him — he can see him outside of the window, slapping a hand onto Darry's shoulder.

He busies himself with looking at Ponyboy and Johnny. They'd barely gotten their shoes off, thrown themselves on bed. Johnny's scent, he's not wild about having it mix with Soda and Ponyboy's scent. Ever since the fire, something about it had be more muted than before, and all those hospital visits were making it almost medical in stark contrast to Ponyboy's earthy, slightly bittersweet tone that he enjoyed.

"Hey," he threads his fingers in Ponyboy's blonde hair, like the way he'd done on Jay Mountain, tugging at it gently. Some of this auburn roots are showing again; what they said about heats causing growth changes seemed to be true with how much his hair had suddenly grown. "C'mon, kid, wake up. You gotta go."

Ponyboy mumbles out, "Five more minutes, Dally." He winces when Dallas tugs more insistently, forcing his brown eyes open to look at Dallas pleadingly. "C'mon, please?"

"Nope. I made you and Johnny sandwiches, let's go," Dallas pulls his hand away, shaking Johnny's shoulder now. "Up, up, you two got school."

He stands up, and outside of the window, he can see Darry wiping his hands on his thighs and Two-Bit nodding in consolation.

The track beneath his feet feels steady as ever, Ponyboy knowing he should be pacing himself. Every slap of his feet against it reminds him of where he is, of what he needed to do and what was going to take him to the end of this day.

It's easier to concentrate on that than what he'd seen when he'd come into school, full of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that Dallas had made and a bit of beer he and Johnny had shared. The past few days had been a little odd, a little harder than what he'd anticipated.

None of those days could have prepared him for what was taped to his locker.

He hadn't wanted to freeze the way he had or feel the cold that had seeped right into his fingers, when his eyes had laid on it. The black and white photo of Bob with his big smile and warm face, placed above the row of mugshots of Dallas, him and Johnny and the headline: The Biggest Case in Tulsa — A War Between Teen-Agers. Their mugshots had been defaced, with the words Killer and Grease scum! written there in permanent marker.

His feet hit the ground. Slap, slap, slap. Over and over again. A rhythm.

Even though he'd ripped it down as fast as he could, throwing it in the trash on the way to class, there hadn't been any way to escape it. People had bought their own copies or they'd been sharing it. Eyes had been locked on him every where he went, scents ranging from hostile to curious in class and the hallways. People gave him a berth and one person had gone so far as to ask him, as he'd tried to leave studyhall, You think your friend's gonna get the chair and you get the noose?

Ponyboy had left without a word, not trusting himself, not trusting anything around him. The greasers had caught on enough to have come to track practice, sitting at the bleachers, giving Socs hostile looks. Dallas wasn't there, promising he'd come back to get Ponyboy after track was over like always. Sylvia is among the greasers, her eyes flinty in her face, eyebrows drawn together as he'd stretched, gotten instructions from coach and had taken to the track.

His feet hit the ground. Slap, slap, slap.

The jeers, the looks, the accusations in people's tones expanded even to the teachers. One of the librarians had stared at the mating mark on his neck, and he had felt his ears go red, his hackles raise. There had been some apprehension in his math teacher's face when Ponyboy had approached him to get his test; he wasn't the best student in his class, yet until that day he'd never so much as misspoke Ponyboy's name.

Now, he clearly was careful with the way he treated him, and the assignments he gave him.

His feet hit the ground. Slap. Slap.

Ponyboy closes his eyes, thinking about the words of the article repeated back to him: Was it the death of the Curtises, in January this year, in part to blame for this delinquent behavior? What could have driven a boy, who on paper, seems to be the best of the North Side kids, be driven to be involved in a murder?

Below, there had been a photo of his parents, beaming. Right next to one of Bob Sheldon's grieving ones at his funeral, their bodies tightly drawn together, save for the haunted expressions of grief ravaging their faces. It was so animated, even in black and white, the grief, the sudden lack of their beloved son in their lives.

His stomach lurches and all of a sudden, he's on his knees in the grass, vomiting. Everything from the day comes up, and Ponyboy doesn't know who's rubbing his back and pulling him to the bleachers. It feels like several greasers at once, helping him sit down at the bleachers, offering him water.

The water goes down cool, and Ponyboy shuts his eyes, puts his head against his knees.

He tries to breathe, tries to keep his head on straight, and it takes longer than he likes for him to finally sit up better, breathing in the fresh air, mumbling out a thanks to the greasers there.

Not a one of them have the newspaper. Or if they do, they have the decency to not show it as the sun begins to set.

Ponyboy shuts his eyes, thinking about the article, about the photos of the Sheldons. How his mother's face looked pinched, at the far off look on his father's face and his little brother's sobbing face. Did such photos exist of him and his brothers at the funeral? Was there just one out there on someone's mantle or scrapbook, with the caption of Jennifer and Darrel Curtis' funeral, January 1965. They leave behind Darrel Jr., Sodapop, and Ponyboy. Was his face etched somewhere like that forever?

He can't even remember his parent's funeral.

A shiver courses through him. His hands go clammy again, right as someone nudges his side. "Dallas is here."

Ponyboy snaps his eyes open, turning his head to where Dallas was. He was in another car that didn't belong to him — a spare, Ponyboy had to guess, on loan from someone given how it seemed to be a '57 Chevy — with a determined look on his face as he loped his way over. His scent underscored that, clearly aware something had happened. That dangerous, determined look on his face makes him look wilder than usual, his mouth in a half snarl that shows off his sharp teeth in a way that makes Ponyboy ache for them to be around his neck. A swell of affection grows in his chest, one he's never felt for anyone before in this way.

Ponyboy waves goodbye to his classmates, walking quickly to Dallas, unable to speak. His backpack bounces against his back as he goes, relief washing over him as soon as he's within arm's length. "Don't kiss me – Got sick earlier."

"Alright," it doesn't stop Dallas from grasping his neck, running his hand over Ponyboy's scent glands. Instantly, that relief increases sevenfold, Ponyboy's shoulders slumping, leaning into Dallas as he walks him to the car. It was a good looking car; if Dallas stole it, Ponyboy wouldn't blame the owner for being pissed about it.

He climbs in the passenger side, throwing his book bag into the back. The car smells good, fresh air and Dallas mixing in. "Got a real tuff ride, huh. Who'd you steal it from?"

"I borrowed it from Ed," Dallas takes the front seat, "He ain't so bad." He throws the car into drive, the engine with a purr so good that Ponyboy wonders just how he'd convinced Ed to let him have this. Waiting for him in the passenger side is a sight for sore eyes: Dallas' brown jacket. Ponyboy shrugs it on and sighs when Dallas' familiar scent over takes him. It's a comfort as they drive away from the school.

Words gum in Ponyboy's throat as they go, weariness settling on him. Whatever meager stretches he'd done, they weren't enough, his legs burning and aching as they make their way down the road. Traffic isn't bad, Ponyboy shutting eyes. The familiar turns (or lack there of) are just enough to relax him, get away from the small embarrassing feeling that he'd puked earlier.

Dallas pulls the car to a familiar intersection, Ponyboy cracking his eyes open to be sure where in the journey they were. Pass this light, a right turn and in about seven more minutes, and he'd be home. He'd need to make an excuse to not eat too much, then work on homework. Ponyboy can see Dallas is already chewing at his ring, his other hand at the wheel, clearly thinking about something the way his mouth is in a downturn, his eyebrows together in thought. It's one of his favorite looks on Dallas. The downturn of his mouth is always exciting, his lips pursed and pinkish in the fading light, the dark of his hair brushing against the side of his ears.

The car blows right through the light instead of taking a right turn.

Ponyboy turns in his seat, shooting Dallas a confused look. "Dal, you're going the wrong way. Home's back that way."

"No I'm not," Dallas turns his head, eyebrows lifting, his grinning. "We ain't going back there, not tonight."

He presses on the gas, Ponyboy's face lighting up.

Chapter Text

Spitting the mixture of spit and toothpaste into the sink, Ponyboy doesn't think he's been this happy in awhile. The lack of Hank Williams playing downstairs certainly plays a part, having a hot relaxing shower adds to it, and not being here trying to find a way out of a murder helps triple.

Dallas is downstairs, and Ponyboy has never been happier than to be in Buck's, splashing water on his face, wringing out the towel he'd used to brush his teeth with. The mirror and bathroom are immaculately clean — Darry would be jealous to see how clean it is in comparison to how they could get it at home. The idea of a teenager lived here would shock anyone who didn't know better, Ponyboy amused as he makes his way out of the bathroom and into Dallas' room. He pulls on the spare jeans Dallas had brought from the house, followed by one of Dallas' own shirts he'd left out for Ponyboy, the cotton light against his skin.

As usual, his bedroom is the sparse twin bed with the wooden railing pushed against the wall and the drawer stand with the cracked mirror on top of it that had a pack of cigarettes and a glass of water. The last time he'd been here, when Dallas had been so bruised up, Ponyboy had read a book. Now, he looks around it more carefully: there's a small closet that looks like it doesn't have a whole lot in it, the window has an ugly beige and pink stained floral curtain over it, and an unused bookshelf beneath.

It's no bigger than his room at home, maybe even a little smaller. Ponyboy doesn't mind it, running his fingers on the furniture. It's already dark outside, and the parking lot had some people already turning in for the night.

Any minute, the music would come on and Ponyboy hopes that he won't have to hear any honky tonk music that night. That was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do.

The door opens, Dallas stalking inside with a grin on his face. "You got all cleaned up?" Leaning against the door, Ponyboy takes in how he looks: Dallas still resembles a lean tomcat, full of danger on every speck of him. Pony thinks he's grown half an inch, brown hair askew, his dark eyebrows even darker on his face with the shadows. "The better cook's here tonight; the bar ain't gonna fill up til around nine so we got time to sit down and eat without every redneck in the county trying to take a whiff of you."

"That's just you," Ponyboy shrugs on Dallas' flannel top, running his hand through his hair. Given Dallas never wore grease under any circumstance, Ponyboy's forced to just let his still mostly blonde hair hang against his neck. His hair's at least grown a little over half an inch, his roots showing. It was like his textbooks said: post heat hormones were always intense, revitalizing. "What do they have?"

"Typical bar food, nothing really fancy," Dallas runs his eyes over Ponyboy, the brown looking a little brighter than usual in the light. "You wanna come down or stay up here with me to eat? I got a tv I stole a couple months ago that works if you don't wanna sit in the booth."

Ponyboy doesn't have to think too long on that one, thinking of just how many people might show up and gawk at him in the bar or ask questions. "Let's eat up here. I don't want anything fancy anyway."

Nodding, Dallas reaches over, running his fingers over his neck, scenting him. "I'll put in the order with Sunny. You're smart, you can set up the tv. It's in the closet."

Just the touch, the weight of his fingers on his neck feels like a much needed salve for Ponyboy, his eyes shutting just for a moment. Dallas seems to pick up on it, running his thumb over Ponyboy's neck longer, pulling him closer. His scent washes over Ponyboy, his body coming closer until their foreheads and knocking together, Ponyboy's fingers grasping his shirt, their breath mixing, and then their mouths find each other, tongues following just as easily, pulled together like gravity.

The burgers could wait.

Right now, they could be two kids, necking at Buck's for a minute. That's all Ponyboy wants or needs, and as he opens his mouth wider, tongue slipping into Dallas' mouth, he thinks that's perfect.

"Samantha? Did you have a bad dream?"

"No. I just started it,"

Ponyboy cracks a grin at the television, taking another bite into the burger. He and Dallas are sitting next to each other, the portable tv plugged in and sitting on the makeshift shelf. They've rearranged the room, having Dallas' bed and the drawerset switched places so they can prop the television up against the shelf, aligned with the window to watch. There aren't too many people below, the volume up on the television as the intro to Bewitched plays on the television.

"You always watch this?" Ponyboy chews, glad he doesn't have to worry about manners with Dallas. They're sprawled against the bedframe, the plate of food between them. At Dallas' knee, he's got a bottle of Jim Beam he'd gotten from downstairs and a glass of water he's sipping out of. "I didn't know you liked this show."

Finishing a gulp, Dallas wipes at his face. "Sure, I like TV okay. Not all of us just like reading books all the time." He reaches for a french fry, turning his head halfway to look at Ponyboy. "You guys always have it on at home, doncha?"

"Yeah, 'cept what's on isn't always interesting," Ponyboy gestures to the animation of Samantha wiggling her nose, "I like Sam. Same for Perry Mason. You like... games shows, I think?" Ponyboy takes another hefty bite, Dallas nodding beside him.

Weeks, months ago and he wouldn't have thought about what Dallas had watched or listened to. At the time, it had seemed like something that might've gotten him in trouble or something he couldn't have ever asked. Now though, he likes to see Dallas shoving the rest of his burger into his mouth, smeared with ketchup on one side of his mouth, thinking as he goes.

There were so many details of Dallas he'd never paid attention to, and so many of it he wanted now, hungered for. The tally had been growing well enough, a slight memory from the heat hotel floating up as he and Dallas continue to watch in contented silence as Sam dealt with her mother for a bit: of them on the bed between a round, Dallas' cock nestled inside of him, watching the television on low while his hips rocked forward, sending pleasurable signals up his body, hitting his brain. The images had been in a ghostly black and white, Ponyboy only concentrating on how Dallas had felt, on how good his nose had felt nudged against his neck.

As good as the memory is, Ponyboy allows it to just slide over his mind. It's nice to be here, in Buck's on a school night, sitting on the other side of Dallas, to see him grin at jokes or roll his eyes at corny bits, to fight with him over a french fry they'd both wanted. Ponyboy is the one who wins that one, popping it in his mouth with a smirk, laughing when Dallas shoves him out of half annoyance.

When the show cuts to commercial, Dallas opens the Jim Beam, grabbing one of the spare glasses. "We're gonna split this. Don't drink too much, alright?"

The smell is so sharp that Ponyboy wrinkles his nose against the burn, polishing off his bottle of Coke. "You're sure I won't —"

"Darry ain't here, and you need to loosen up just a bit. You're having a crazy time," finishing, Dallas screws the top on the whisky, a stubborn edge to his voice. "You're a pack member now, and you're mated. I had beers at nine, Darry's treating you like a baby and you ain't." He offers it to Ponyboy. "Besides, this is better than a beer Two-Bit could steal."

Beer had never smelled well, ever. Ponyboy remembered the whisky sip he'd had at the bonfire, and trusting Dallas, trusting the reckless grin on his face, the warmth of his fingers bumping against his and his dark eyes, Ponyboy takes it from him, and takes a tentative sip.

Like the taste at the bonfire, it burns it's way down his gut and sinuses, Ponyboy coughing for a moment. Determinedly, he takes a second, bigger gulp, that burns just as much, his eyes watering on reflex. The taste is so strong, Dallas taking the glass from him, taking a swig himself, a good bit of it left. "See, you'll be okay." The glass goes on the floor, Dallas grasping the now mostly clear plate and setting it on the dresser.

"Ugh, I can't imagine drinking that all the time," Ponyboy mutters, reaching for Dallas' glass of water, throwing his empty bottle of Coke away. He polishes off the cool water, putting the glass beside the plate.

A swell of laughter, raucous, floats up through the wooden floorboards. The normal Buck's crowd was here, apparently. Dallas cranks the volume up with a flick of his long, handsome fingers. "You ain't supposed to." Samantha's voice echoes, Dallas coming to sit on the bed behind Ponyboy, hand dropping heavy into Ponyboy's blonde hair. It feels good, Dallas tugging on it a little. "Geeze this is gettin' long. They're not gonna get too much quieter, just to let you know."

"I figures not," Ponyboy says, sighing as Dallas runs his fingers through his hair a little more, the patterns soothing. "You wanna go down there, if we can't watch anymore?"

The press of Dallas' thumb against the back of his skull feels so good at that moment. It goes in circles, massaging the back, right down to the roots. Waves of calmness seem to emanate from it, Dallas' voice deeper than ever as he says, "Sure, kid. Long as we don't lose any money at those tables."

He laughs, takes a sip of the whisky, grimaces, and passes it back to Dallas. "Keep rubbin'. You're gonna put me to sleep like that."

"Hope not," the press of his thumb against the base of his neck has Ponyboy's shoulders shifting downward, his eyes shutting in the black and white television screen. "Thought I was gonna get lucky with you tonight."

Ponyboy laughs, and soon Dallas joins him.

The jukebox in the corner is blasting a song that Ponyboy doesn't recognize. Or, at least, he thinks maybe if he weren't so drunk and happy that he might recognize it. It doesn't matter in the larger scheme of things that was Dallas' hand on his hips, his own hands balled up in Dallas' shirt, the thrumming of music in the crammed dance hall of Buck's and the way Dallas tastes whenever their mouths meet, whenever a hand dips below a waistband or when their hips meet each other.

There must be almost fifty people crammed into this room, the jukebox pressed to it's very limits as it fills up the room. Smoke is everywhere, the sound of hollering and the clink of beers, and bodies young and old around them moving in their own dances, whether it's shambling or eager. The scents of everyone mix with that of alcohol, the smoke itself, the outside air that wafts in every now and then.

None of it bothers Ponyboy or Dallas. Not when they're intertwined on the dance floor together, laughing, kisses, tearing at each other, Dallas' fingers slowly probing at Ponyboy's ass, Ponyboy grinding his hips against Dallas' own, working each other up.

There's no worry that a Soc will barge in and provoke them, no anticipating a fight from Darry, no having to think about lawyers or the burning church or Darry's anger or Soda's concern or Johnny's worried face.

Right now, he's just dancing, drunk and safe with Dallas at Buck's. Dallas' eyes pick up the light sometimes, showing a brown ring around the dark. Sometimes, his teeth glint in the light, sometimes Ponyboy can taste the whisky in his mouth, sometimes he can feel his mouth widen and his jaw clenching tightly as he bites Ponyboy's neck, sometimes Ponyboy's mouth meets the mating mark on his neck back.

All of it is drenched in a haze, one that Ponyboy sinks into as they dance, as the music grows louder, as people dance around and with them.

There is nothing that matters here in this moment, aside from that. There's just the room, the music, the people around them and he and Dallas pressed against each other.

Just as it should be.

Just as he wishes it could be.

At some point, he closes his eyes and opens them. He doesn't know when he and Dallas had left the floor. He knows that they're on the roof top together, the wind sharp and cold, and that They're lying on blankets together and when Dallas looks at him with a lopsided smile, he knows that he could just fall into it if he could. The meanness there, the cynical side of Dallas still lies beneath that sharp white row of teeth, mingled with real tenderness, real want.

"When this is over," Ponyboy says, his tongue heavy in his mouth, "Or if things don't go right, I love you, Dally. No matter what."

Dallas, beneath the stars, with his dark hair a mess above his eyes, shakes his head. "Pony, I'm not gonna let you go to the fucking - to the jail house, if you lose. I'm not." There's an odd determined glow to his eyes as Ponyboy runs his fingers through his hair. "Jail — I know jail would turn Johnny into something else. If you went in — "

"If I went in, I wouldn't blame nobody. Not as long as you're there for me," the words are drowsy, heavy and he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. "I love you, Dally. That's what matters."

He means to say more things. Means to say, The only way I could get through it is thinking about you out there. Means to say, I trust you. I love you. I'm not scared here.

Instead, he thinks he falls into Dallas' chest, surrounded by his arms, and greets the darkness of sleep, unaware of Dallas' face growing colder, more determined.

Chapter Text

The last time Ponyboy had been in his bed, things had been a little different only in theory. Things hadn't been perfect, just looming in the corner of everything else.

The future was much closer than it had been, and even with the alcohol coursing through his body, Dallas can't shake that off. He's not even all that drunk, and his thoughts are going a mile a minute as Ponyboy dozes off, his arm flung over Dallas' chest. He'd rather be looking at his blonde and auburn hair, would rather be copping one last feel before they slept, not staring at the ceiling having to barter with himself what to do.

Being told I love you, even drunk, had made Dallas' teeth go on edge, his fingers clenching so deeply into his palm that it felt like a bite. It wasn't the first time, wasn't the last time Ponyboy had said it. It still was so new, still so foreign every time Ponyboy said it. There was always a warmth to his look, always a want to say it, always the salient fact that he meant those words.

They'd always come cheaply from Sylvia, said with a sneer or a total mocking. From his parents? Forget it. Not a single one of them said it. The first time Mrs. Curtis had said it to him, Dallas had avoided the house for a week out of discomfort.

And his mate says it, always says it in a way that's so affectionate that it leaves Dallas like this, staring at a ceiling, not knowing what to do with it. Not knowing how Ponyboy could say it to him, over and over again, not knowing what he should say or do back, and not knowing what he could stand if the judge's verdict came out to anything other than freedom for Ponyboy.

He'd meant it. He thought jail would crush Johnny under it's boot, kill him from the outset. Ponyboy, though? Ponyboy he accepted when he'd been rushing to Jay Mountain, he could go through jail and be okay. If anyone on their block could survive jail, it was Ponyboy. It had been a comfort then, that if anything got worse, he'd be able to survive it, tougher than Johnny had ever been or could be.

Now, though, it's making Dallas feel antsy and sick the more he thinks about it. Ponyboy could survive, would survive.

He'd change, though. A change that Dallas didn't know he could stand, his mind filling with the image of Ponyboy years down the line, hardened like him or Tim Shepard. A Ponyboy with cold eyes and a sharpness to him that wouldn't fit, a Ponyboy with dreams ripped right out of him.

That scares Dallas the most, now. Whatever change could happen to Ponyboy if that judge made a mistake, what would happen if he survived.

His teeth sink into his cheek. A whoop erupts from beneath, putting his nerves on edge and Dallas tightens his grip on Ponyboy.

There had to be something he could do. Something that could keep him close to Ponyboy if things didn't work out.

The mating mark on his neck throbs, and Dallas sinks his teeth further into his cheek. There are options, more than one. Options that he's never had to look over his shoulder for, always too prideful and too cautious to look at them. And right now, as he closes his eyes, trying to block out the sounds of Buck's beneath, he considers his father's face for the first time in years. Really concentrates on him, on the mole on his cheek, on the angry dark eyes he had that matched Dallas' own, on the black hair that still held a subtle shade of brown, on the discontent on his face if Dallas ever had to approach him for help.

A man who would sooner spit on Dallas, and who would do even worse if he dared showed up with the one thing he'd forbade in his house: a mate. A weakness, one that Dallas couldn't ever bring up.

That was what he'd been holding back, still was holding back from Ponyboy now. Why he wasn't in New York anymore, and why being asked to be a mate had been so huge for him. That was a transgression of the highest order to his father, even if in Tulsa, it was how every greaser cemented their lives over the marriages Socs took.

The only way his father would help, if things came down to the wire, was if Ponyboy wasn't a mate. He'd only do it if Dallas had a husband.

His heart races in his chest. Another whoop and song erupts from below. Dallas shuts his eyes, and pushes away the thought of going to his father.

He wouldn't. He couldn't. He'd find a way to do something more, on his own.

There a heavy arm slung across Ponyboy's shoulders that he knows is neither Johnny or Soda. Soda's never been that much bigger than him, and Johnny always balled up tinier than the arm slung around him. The comforting scent that greets his nose when he inhales tells him that there's only one person who could be tangled up in the bed with him, with legs that are too long, and a nose pressed into his neck, right against his mating mark: Dallas Winston.

It's still dark outside — it was almost November, which made sense — with barely any light seeping through to the room that wasn't the neon signs for beer that had been left on from the night before. Cold air permeates the room, even though the blankets that Dallas had gotten out for them were pretty warm.

The fuzzy haze of sleep keeps Ponyboy half suspended between dreams and wakefulness, his eyes fluttering shut, that heavy arm keeping him there. There's no need to look around, Ponyboy just feeling out his body in small ways: the soft, warm breath of air from Dallas' mouth fans across Ponyboy's skin, his mating mark tingling more than the rest of his neck; the press of Dallas' knee against the top of his calf, able to feel the rough pads from where Dallas must've skinned them as a child; the press of his hip against Ponyboy's back, shifting ever so slightly as he nuzzles deeper into Ponyboy's neck; the sound of their breathing, synced up in the darkness of Dallas' room, matching as quietly as they can.

If he'd been dreaming, Ponyboy can't recall as he sinks into the warmth around him, into Dallas' scent. He still can't pin it down what it is exactly that fills his nose when he's lying in bed or so close to Dallas. Any particular name he tries to come up with fails; it's something earthy, untamed in it that Ponyboy thinks of, let's his imagination spin out with. It's clear that only Dallas has been in this bed, ever, and he sighs, feeling more comfortable here than he'd been anywhere else except maybe the heat hotel where the days and nights had spun out of control into something he didn't think he'd ever have so intensely again — even if he more than wanted it.

All he wants is to stay here, with Dallas. Ponyboy can feel his imagination take over the same way it had out in the lot that night, only he doesn't restrain it at all this time. Jay Mountain materializes again, only bigger than before. This time, Dallas is there with him, grinning with him over a fire, and Ponyboy's hair is as long as it was before. Dallas tells him how tuff he looks with it, and when they kiss, the heat that unfurls in his belly is as good as anything.

There are no cops, no murders, no running away. There's only the ever expanding green of Jay Mountain beneath their feet, a church that had never burned down, and the sunlight pouring out onto them as they kiss and kiss.

His fingers sink into Dallas' hair, and when Dallas presses his mouth to his, Ponyboy thinks that this dream is so sweet it almost hurts. He thinks that his imagination is running wild, until a warp hand pushes down his boxers, and the realization that Dallas is actually kissing him washes over him, right when his hand wraps around Ponyboy's cock.

After that, all he wants is the feel of Dallas' hand around him, and the taste of him in his mouth.

Molly isn't at the courthouse when Ponyboy arrives, which is both disappointing and a relief. Ponyboy made sure to take a shower before he'd gotten dressed — one he took alone despite every temptation to take one with Dallas. He can't even look at Dallas in the face as they walk into the building, fearing his ears might tip red and give away what exactly had happened that morning before the shower.

The one glance he'd had towards Dallas had made his face flush and Dallas' mouth hooking up into a smug look on his face. Not that Ponyboy could blame him — he'd certainly had wanted more than just Dallas' hand jerking him off in bed, wanted more than just a quick few kisses and a promise of Next time, from him. The shower had been so cold, and still Ponyboy had wanted more.

It was all he could to just quiet it down, remind himself of what was at stake as he'd gotten dressed and walked through Buck's and to the car with Dallas.

Waiting for them is Two-Bit in his father's suit, his boots and a look on his face that was harder than normal as they approach. Eugene is speaking to him softly, Two-Bit nodding his head, not a single bit of humor on his face. It's a tautness to him that has Ponyboy leaning closer to Dallas on instinct, worried.

Dallas' hand brushes his, in understanding. He says nothing, moving his hand to nudge Ponyboy in his back to the court room. "I'll be here when you're done, okay?"

Even though he shouldn't, Ponyboy kisses Dallas on the corner of his mouth. If he's reassuring himself, if he's taking strength from Dallas, if he's just doing it out of affection, he doesn't want to think too hard about which.

Dallas' hand twitches, and Ponyboy draws back. "I'll see you later." He waves goodbye, and makes his way to Eugene and Two-Bit. Two-Bit gives him a half smile, Eugene gesturing towards the court room.

The usual feeling of trepidation isn't as strong as it had been as Ponyboy enters. There seemed to be a little less people than usual, with Johnny already at the bench waiting for them. His hair finally seemed to be growing out decently again, in the clothes they'd gotten for him and his eyes curious as Ponyboy comes up to him.

"Where'd you go yesterday?" He asks, voice quiet.

"Stayed with Dally," Ponyboy whispers back, and finds his ears growing hot the moment Johnny puts it together. He ignores the amusement on Johnny's face, and settles in.

Dallas is thinking of some kind of a plan. Two-Bit can see it on his face, with the way he tracks Ponyboy through the court room doors. He always got like this when he was cooking something up, overly focused on something or someone, his face getting that hard look that a lot of hoods cultivated over the years.

Two-Bit isn't sure if he trusts that look on his face right now, or if he should ask a question. The lack of beer in his system was making it hard to pick a choice on that field, as Dallas pinned his dark eyes on Two-Bit. "What's going on with you?"

"I'm taking the stand today," there wasn't any use in beating around the bush. Dallas' jaw clenches in response, Two-Bit going on, "Said Marcia's taking it first and then me."

A cloud of distrust comes over Dallas' face, and Two-Bit knows whoever pisses off Dallas today is going to regret it. Wasn't going to be him though, Dallas jerking his head in a nod. "I'm sure she'll probably back up those Soc friends of hers."

"And I'll back up the kids," Two-Bit affirms, to a wolf like grin on Dallas' face. That element of danger, ferality as his teachers would say, that always has defined Dallas seems to have been getting more and more evident lately.

Two-Bit wonders if that's why Ponyboy's drawn in.

He and Dallas clasp hands. "You going to get some more money again?"

"You know I am. Can't be too careful," Dallas nods. "See you afterwards."

Something in Two-Bit knows that Dallas is up to something else. He doesn't have proof or anything; just knowing a guy like Dallas for as long as he has, there's always the mildest sign of trouble that tingles right at the base of Two-Bit's neck whenever it comes around. Not once has he been wrong, and right now, he doesn't want to get too far into it if he can.

What's at the forefront of his mind, as his mother walks in pulling off her gloves, her red hair pinned up in tight curls, is what's going to happen today. Eugene had told him it'd be his turn going up on the stand, and Two-Bit has never felt more nervous about anything in his life. The judge never showed much of an expression on the stand, minus Randy talking about omega hunting. What she did or didn't think made Two-Bit sick; they couldn't tell if they were winning or losing.

His mother looks exhausted; Two-Bit knows she's been having to do a lot with them, and he wished he could slink off like Dallas did, do more. She brushes her red hair back, voice calm, "You're ready for this?"

"I guess so," Two-Bit tries to smile; it feels like a grimace.

His mother reaches up, tugging him down to press a kiss to his forehead. Her scent washes over him, reminding him of how safe she'd always been, how strong she'd always been for all of them even when he'd caught her crying to Mrs. Curtis in the dead of night after his father left. She's being strong for everyone again, himself included, and Two-Bit knows he's gotta do better for her.

A press of a kiss to her cheek has her smiling, right as the doors open by the bailiff. Two-Bit squares his shoulders, and walks inside of the court room. He tries to put on his best face, giving Ponyboy and Johnny enthusiastic waves as he walks in, putting some jaunt in his step. Johnny still looks spooked, Ponyboy shy in his seat in the suit he has. Two-Bit takes a seat on the bench, and in no time, Darry, Soda, and Steve walk in too.

Darry looks as quietly annoyed as usual at Dallas not being there, even though they both knew damn well part of the reason Dallas wasn't in the court was because of Darry. Soda looks as withdrawn and scared as ever, taking a seat on the other side of Two-Bit.

The Soc families come in, always in suits they'd never worn in the past. Cherry Valance's father walks in with her, her mother absent. Something about him seems familiar as he takes a seat next to her; she clearly got her red hair from him. Bob Sheldon's parents come in next, missing their youngest son this time, followed by Randy and his parents and then a few reporters Two-Bit has seen.

The biggest surprise, though, is when Marcia walks in with her parents. Two-Bit's eyesbrows shoot up seeing her, in a nice dress, her hair curly and a smile on her face when she catches him. She's taking all of this with stride, it appeared, giving him an enthusiastic wink and a wave that he returns.

(He squirms when his mother elbows him in the side.)

The usual opening proceedings are slow, Two-Bit tense, his leg bouncing as he listens. Ponyboy and Johnny don't seem phased from where he is, even though he can't see their faces. Their scents don't change, at least. Not that Two-Bit could detect Johnny's scent much anymore. After the fire, his scent had gone from mostly neutral to almost non-existent; it was as if he wasn't in their house sometimes.

They'd come in together that morning, Johnny slow to wake up, biting at his nails in the car. Any joke Two-Bit could've cracked just fell flat; Johnny was stuck in his head and Two-Bit couldn't blame him.

It's Norm who gets up, calling out Marcia to the stand. Two-Bit watches as she gets up, swears her oath and gets up on the stand. She's just as pretty as she had been months ago, and he watches as Norm walks up to her, saying, "Can you state your name and your relation to the events?"

"I'm Marcia Penelope Thomas," she chirps out, "I'm Cherry's best friend — she's over there, and I was dating Randy when everything happened." She doesn't even look at Randy, who seems to have his eyes glued to the bench in front of him.

It isn't that hard to put two and two together for Two-Bit.

"What can you tell us about the night you went to the theater with your friends?"

Marcia pulls her hair behind her ears. "Well, Randy and Bob were drunk when we met them at the theater, sir. I didn't mind it, I know that they like drinking. Cherry was upset, though; she always hates drinking, and I know she and Bob used to argue about it all the time. I didn't know him that well, since me and Cherry have been friends since the third grade." Marcia glances over at Two-Bit, and he winks at her. She giggles, losing herself for a second, then clears her throat. "Anyway, it was an okay night. Cherry decided she didn't wanna be around the boys drunk, and we both left to sit somewhere else. So we sat on the other side of the movie, and were okay until some greasers showed up. Four of them."

"Are those people in court today?" Shaw asks, cocking his hip a little.

"Three of 'em, sure," Marcia points to the front. "That's Ponyboy and Johnny. And back there is Two-Bit." She points at him, and as people swivel around, Two-Bit can feel his mother grinning right beside him. They both wave, like class clowns they are, and he's sure his mother has uncomfortable butterflies in her stomach surely he does.

The judge doesn't look impressed and Two-Bit feels some of the butterflies in his stomach settle. "We hit it off real good, me and Two-Bit. The other one, Dallas, he isn't here. He's the one who hit on Cherry — she turned him down so he left off in a huff." Marcia shrugs. "They all stayed with us, and then Bob and Randy showed up, drunk and mean. They tried to pick a fight, and Cherry didn't want it to happen so we went home. I gave Two-Bit my number, and we left. I didn't know anything else had happened until I woke up the next morning."

She talks at a fast clip and Two-Bit doesn't know what to feel. Apparently she hadn't given him a fake number, and for a second he wishes he'd have called or something.

Shaw paces for a moment. "Did you explicitly see Bob and Randy drinking, that night? Did they seem to be aggressive?"

Eugene pipes up with, "Objection. The second question is leading."

"Susatined," the judge shoots a sharp glare towards Shaw. "Rephrase, please."

"Did Bob and Randy behave oddly?" Shaw says, clearly reaching for words.

Marcia scrunches up her face. "I saw them drinking, sure. Bob always had a flask on him and Randy used to share it. They smelled like they'd been swimming in a river of moonshine, if you ask me!" A few bits of laughter erupt. "They weren't acting unusual, though, not to me."

Shaw nods. "No further questions." He's almost jaunty as he walks to his seat, and Two-Bit wishes he could snatch that twenty ton hat off of his five ton head.

Eugene stands up, adjusting his burgundy red suit. "When you stated that they weren't acting unusual, can you describe what that is for me? What was usual behavior for them?"

"Well, when they got drunk, they were sort of mean, I guess," Marcia shrugs at the stand and Two-Bit almost cracks a grin. "Bob liked to always pick fights whenever he was drunk. Randy, not always but sometimes he could get a little nasty. We had our worst fight when he got drunk, and I broke up with him for about a week." Marcia drums her fingers on the podium. "So things were normal that night."

"No further questions, thank you," Eugene takes a seat again.

The judge nods. "Ms. Thomas, you are dismissed. I call Keith Matthews to the stand."

Two-Bit breathes heavily out of his nose, stands up and winks to his mother. She looks frightened at him, her face drawn. Nodding, she lets go of his hand and Two-Bit makes his way up to the stand.

Johnny looks as if he's trying to puzzle out what's going on, while Ponyboy seems to be far away, even though his eyes are pinned on him. It's troubling, to say the least, as Two-Bit takes his oath.

The podium is raised up, Two-Bit sitting down with heft. A waft of the judge's perfume tickles at his nose, mixing with the faintly remaining scent from Marcia. He clears his throat, joking, "Sorry it took me a second. I ain't used to anyone, not even my Mama, calling me Keith. Two-Bit's better, if that ain't a problem." He can see the greasers cracking half smiles; his mother's hand however, still flutters at her throat in the back.

"If that's what you want, I can do that," Shaw stands up, coming around in boots that clink against the floor. He's probably never even ridden a horse, Two-Bit thinks. "Can you please state your name and relation to the events?"

Two-Bit nods. "Sure can. I'm Two-Bit, cause I always put in my two bits. Johnny and Ponyboy, right there, are my friends. I met them at the movie theater, while I was kinda soused myself. Had a six pack all to myself, and wanted to see what they were up to. They're both kids, you know, and I wanted to make sure they were having fun with our ol' buddy Dallas. They weren't doing a whole lot when I showed up — Dally had left, and it was just them and the girls. All I did was pay for drinks, watch the movie. We were gonna walk 'em home but their boyfriends showed up, real ornery about them hanging out with greaseballs like us." A sneer a lot like Dallas' own graces his face, glaring at Randy. "They wanted to get into a fight with us. I was gonna give it to 'em, only Cherry told them they'd leave, didn't want any trouble. Which is okay for a Soccy girl, I guess. They got in the car, left, and we walked home."

As he talks, Shaw nods along with him, sucking at his teeth. "During this altercation, did you at any point detect that the boys were drunk?"

"Course. She just said they smelled like they were bathing in moonshine, didn't she?" Two-Bit scoffs, rolling his eyes. "You calling her a liar?" Ponyboy seems to finally come back to himself, him and Johnny both trying not to laugh.

The judge speaks up this time. "Mr. Mathews, please answer the question straight forwardly. No jokes."

"You're ask —" Two-Bit almost finishes the joke, but his mother makes a cutting gesture at his neck, so he forces himself to stop it. "Okay, okay. Yessir, I saw those two drinking from one of his flasks, and they both reeked of alcohol when they tried to pick a fight with us."

"Are you saying, for clarification, that the people who wanted a fight was Bob and Randy?"

"Sure am," Two-Bit's voice is firm, hard as he can get it. "They told me they had more guys in the backseat. You think it's a fair fight between five guys on three? I broke a bottle, handed it to Ponyboy and told 'em to pity the damn backseat. I had a blade, I wasn't scared to use it. You wouldn't neither, if you had to deal with them."

Bear, in the back, nods ferociously. Two-Bit grins at him and Shaw's mustache is moving so fast on his face that Two-Bit has to hold back a crack that if he kept doing it, it'd jump off onto the floor. "You state that you were not sober yourself. Were your friends as sober as you?"

"Neither of them drink," Two-Bit has to try hard to keep from laughing. "I do all the time, but those two? Never. Not once and not that night for sure."

"And in your admitted drunkenness, did you escalate the situation at all?"

Two-Bit frowns. "If you were in a situation where you were with your buddies and five more drove up to try and pick a fight with them, are you gonna de-escalator it?" He knows he's said that word wrong, and doesn't care. "They were all in a car, together, and trying to pick on two kids who didn't even know those girls had boyfriends. I was trying to protect 'em — I wasn't thinking one of them would go ahead and try to kill 'em that night. I had a blade, and a bottle."

Shaw huffs again, and the judge exchanges a glance with her. "That was a yes or no question."

"Judge," Eugene speaks up, his voice a caution, "I don't think —"

"Boy, there isn't anything to object over!" Shaw rounds on him and Two-Bit tenses up. He knows exactly what it means for Shaw to say that to Eugene and it's making his blood boil.

"Five minute recess," the judge barks out, "Both counsels, to my chambers. Now."

Shaw goes red, his facial expression one of someone clearly caught out doing something he shouldn't have. Eugene keeps his cool, and both of them move warily around each other and to the back of the court. Two-Bit remains where he is, not sure how any of this will pan out as the door closes with a sharp snap.

In the five minutes it takes for the judge to speak to both lawyers, Two-Bit doesn't move from the box. Just sits there nervously in the courtroom, looking at everyone there, from his mother who looks livid on Eugene's behalf to Ponyboy and Johnny who converse in quiet whispers. Bear is talking to Darry and Soda looks like he wants to bolt.

Two-Bit doesn't look at the Soc side of the court room. He's not sure he cares to, unless it's Marcia. All he wants is to leave here, get a drink and make sure Johnny isn't chewing his nails down to nothing. Maybe go find Marcia after all of this was over, see if they could actually have a real date.

It's a tense five minutes, and when the judge sweeps back in the chamber, Shaw looks embarrassed while Eugene's face is hard to read. He sits down at the bench with Ponyboy and Johnny, with Judge Cross sitting down heavily. Her voice booms over the court, "As I have just reminded counsel, there are particular rules when you are in a court of law. Anyone who does not obey them, from here on out, will be given charges of contempt. Is that clear?"

"Yes ma'am," echoes through the chamber.

"Mr. Hall, you may proceed," Judge Cross says sharply.

Two-Bit straightens up, and Eugene approaches him with that similar thoughtfulness he's seen on the daily now. His hair is brushed in waves against his scalp, and he starts off with, "That night, you stated that you didn't have an indication that things would go as far as they did. Has that always been your experience when you've had these skirmishes with other 'Soc' kids, as you say?"

"Yeah. They'll chase you, beat you up, all that kinda stuff. Having someone chase after someone the way they did, hours later? I've never heard of that sh– kind of thing before," Two-Bit says. "I thought they'd just see that Ponyboy and Johnny weren't into their girls like that, and leave it alone."

Eugene nods. "You stated that you had a switchblade and a bottle there, correct?"

"Yessir."

"Why did you have those that night? Do you always have those on you?"

"I don't know anyone who's a greaser who doesn't, except those two," Two-Bit shrugs. "I carry 'em so we don't have to fight or if we do, I'm not just left with skin and fists."

"Would you say that these are only meant for self defense, then?"

"Yessir. I'm not taking them out to impress nobody," Two-Bit laughs. "I don't pick on kids or nothing."

Eugene gives him a warm look. "Thank you, Mr. Mathews. No further questions at this time. I believe we've hit our limit for today, Judge Cross."

Judge Cross nods. "Thank you for remembering the decorum of this court. As we've now reached Friday, please be aware that I expect everyone to remain on their best behavior coming into the weekend and to Monday. Everyone except counsel, you are dismissed."

Two-Bit fights the urge to slump. He was going to have to finish this on Monday. Fuck.

At least the bonfire was an option.

Chapter Text

Ponyboy tears into a burger, groaning at the taste, chewing voraciously. He's got his tie half undone, and all he wants is more of the burger as the gang does similarly around him. They've all crammed into a diner together, courtesy of Eugene. Dallas hadn't been there at the end of the day, and Ponyboy tries not to let it worry him as he bites into his burger more.

For all that had gone on that day in the court room, Eugene doesn't look bothered as he eats his onion rings. The way Shaw had snapped at him was so sudden and cruel that Ponyboy's stomach had flipped, sweat breaking out on his neck. Beside him, he'd heard Johnny give a little gasp. Yet, Eugene was as himself as always, enjoying his onion rings appreciatively. "I don't suspect there's much more that you'll be asked on Monday. I would still anticipate some level of questions from Mr. Shaw, though."

Two-Bit looks deeply unhappy beside him, sitting opposite his mother at the three tables they've put together to fit everyone. "I don't wanna wear this stupid penguin suit anymore." He's got his own suit half off, clearly uncomfortable in his father's old clothes.

"One more day couldn't hurt, now could it?" Eugene says, picking up his drink, "You've at least got plenty of time to not be in one. It's part of my everyday job."

"At least yours looks nice," Two-Bit grumbles, taking a swig of the beer that Steve had brought with him. Mrs. Mathews doesn't seem bothered — she has a beer from the same pack in her hand, taking a swig just as he does. "I gotta wear this." He tugs at the suit collar, scowling. "I feel like it's two more wears away from falling apart."

Steve grunts, shoveling another burger into his mouth. Soda sits opposite him, picking at his fries in silence. Darry is at Ponyboy's left side, and opposite him is Johnny with all manner of food between them. Bear had joined them as well, shoveling some of the ice cream sundae he'd gotten into his mouth. They all are hungry and eating on Eugene's tab, and Ponyboy couldn't be more grateful for it.

"You all should be going to school after this anyway," Mrs. Mathews says, putting her beer down with a clink. "I'll drive anyone who needs it. A shame you all have to go in; usually homecoming is about now, isn't it? Late October?"

"Yeah. It got canceled over all of this," Darry stirs his water with his straw. He's got their father's suit on, half unbuttoned on him, with a mustard stain on one side of his mouth. "They suggested having a day out to honor the situation." He frowns, his cold eyes glittering beneath the fluorescent lights. "I think it got canned quick after the trial started getting reported on."

Just thinking about the idea of an article out there makes Ponyboy reach for his Coke to slurp it down, bury the feelings of discontentment in his stomach. He wishes Dallas were here — for the warmth of his hand on Ponyboy's neck, his fingers through his hair, his sharp grin on his face. All the night and morning of before, he wants to have again.

It's Friday and if he were like anyone else —

"Shit, we need to go," Mrs. Mathews says, checking her watch. "You guys need to get to class. C'mon, c'mon finish up!"

There's a flurry of motion, everyone moving their chairs, finishing their food, exchanging pleasantries. Ponyboy stands up, hears someone clear their throat, and turns to see Darry standing there with Soda shooting him an expecting look in the diner. "Something going on?" Ponyboy asks, wiping his hands off, curious.

"I — had a talk with Dallas," Darry's voice is cautious, the look on his face reticent. "You're allowed to go with him to the bonfire." Soda nudges him again, Ponyboy's chest expanding, his mouth turning into a big grin at the news. "For as much and as long as you want. As long as you don't get in any trouble, and you keep your grades up. You unders — woah!" Darry is surprised when Ponyboy wraps his arms around Darry, giving him a brief hug he knows is embarrassing Darry.

Ponyboy doesn't care, though. He can feel himself about to burst out of his own seams with excitement. "I won't get in trouble, Darry, I promise! I swear I won't! Thank you, thank you!" He pulls off, unable to keep from smiling even though Darry seems as if he wants to say he regrets this already.

Still, Darry gives a small, hopeful little smile that looks so much like their father at that moment that Ponyboy would've cried if Mrs. Mathews hadn't called out for him.

He turns and leaves, feeling as if he could walk on air and the feeling pervades the rest of the day. Even though there are people with newspapers eyeing him, even though there are sneers and shoves, Ponyboy doesn't care.

In this moment, he gets to be a greaser like anyone else: looking forward to necking in a car with his mate at the bonfire, thinking about what they could bring to the bonfire, thinking about what he could do that weekend, just hanging out like any one else. There's no tension, no anger, nothing except happiness filling him as he goes to his afternoon classes and collects his homework from the other classes he couldn't attend.

It's all he's wanted, and finally, finally Darry is letting him have it.

When the bell rings, he goes to the back, where the parking lot is. He doesn't linger, just moving with the other students out —

— and being taken surprise at Dallas in the parking lot, leaning against a car that wasn't Buck's. It was a gleaming black car cut with a white stripe on the side, going off into a tail fin. Even for Ponyboy, who didn't know cars that well, knew he was looking at a Plymouth Fury. One that had to be nine or ten years old, cleaned up and entirely something that Dallas would've had to pay for. How much, Ponyboy doesn't know as he walks up in awe.

Dallas looks smug, leaning against that gleaming black car, dressed in a pair of jeans, an undershirt and a pair of old boots on the gravel, brown hair lifting a little in the wind. "I take it you like the ride, huh?"

"Did you steal this?" Ponyboy squints up at him suspiciously and when Dallas just leans down to kiss him, he figures that answer is good enough for now. Nothing could be bad in a world where Dallas was cupping the back of his head, where they could kiss in front of everyone, the feeling of need pooling in him.

He's sure he slicks up; Dallas' nose flares, Ponyboy pulling back just in time to see the look of hunger on his face. "I take it Darry gave you the good news?"

"Sure did," Ponyboy smiles and unwilling to hear anything else, he lifts up, kissing Dallas again. There's nothing in the world more important than the feel of Dallas' lips on his own at that moment, and he's rewarded with Dallas' hand on his waist, crushing him close.

"What d'you wanna bring? I'm treating you," Dallas pulls the car sharply into park at the general store. Even with his new wheels, Ponyboy grimaces a little at how fast Dallas can take the car at any moment. He still hadn't answered the prescient question of how he'd acquired it, giving Ponyboy a cheery look. "I figured we could start out light."

The car is old, and Ponyboy can see that as he takes it in. The upholstery is black, with brown on the seats that made it look almost like a turtle. Parts of it have clearly been pulled out, with some fraying white threads poking out of the side. The passenger side door feels a little odd when he knocks against it — if he had to bet, it had been modified for some bootleggers.

"There any rules about what you can bring?" Pulling his feet from the dash, Ponyboy looks around at the store. There are greasers hanging out in front of it, some families doing their grocery shopping, and he's pretty sure he can see Curly Shepard cackling at some Soc kid.

Dallas scoffs, opening the car door. "I ask him what he wants to bring and he brings up rules." He huffs, Ponyboy ignoring him as he gets out on his own, his tennis shoes kicking up dust. The air is cool, and he fumbles for the zipper on the jacket he's wearing. Dallas walks over to where he is, grasping the brown jacket with firmer fingers, his dark eyes glittering beneath his starting to become too long hair, the strands dark in the beginnings of dusk. "There ain't no fucking rules about food at the bonfire. All you gotta do is show up and bring something people can eat and don't kill anyone." He zips up the jacket, leaning downward to whisper against Ponyboy's ear, his breath fanning out against Ponyboy's ear and cheek, "And if you wanna get knotted tonight, I got a spot picked out, no sweat."

The laugh that Dallas gives is indication enough of how quickly the blood rushes to Ponyboy's ears, standing outside like this. He reaches to grasp Dallas' shirt, stammering out, "A-Are we- I mean —"

"I meant it," Dallas pulls back, motioning him to follow. Dazed, unable to do anything else, Ponyboy does, going past the flocks of other people into the general store. It's got a good bit of kids coming in for their after school purchases — enough that Ponyboy can ably grab and tuck in some candybars in his pockets without any adult noticing. The same goes for Dallas, pulling some stuff into his own pockets as they go.

"I dunno, beer probably," his feet scuff the floor as he follows Dallas, his eyes purposely not fixating on the row of newspapers with his mugshot displayed there. "Or the whisky we had at your place. I liked that real nice."

Dallas hums, sucking his teeth when he catches the eye of one of the busy girls working there. "Sure, sure. I'll get the whisky for us, beer for everyone else. What about cancersticks, you getting what I'm getting or do you want something else?"

"Lucky Strikes," the doors jingle open, another wave of kids coming in, mingling with some adults. Ponyboy can see that there are so many of them there that no one is able to watch them all. He catches Dallas' eye — sees the mischievous glint in his eyes, the challenge in his pulled up upper lip — and begins to pull what he can from the shelves. His heart beats in his chest, doing what he can as others pass him, as he walks past others, until he is hitting the pavement outside with pockets laden with candy and bags of chips and a lighter he'd swiped off the shelf.

Dallas is striding confidently to the car, grinning with a carton shoved in the side of his own jean jacket. They catch each other's eyes at the same time, and with a burst of laughter, they both make their way to the car as quickly as they can. The black and tan interior feels tuffer than ever as they slide in, laughing. Dallas tosses the carton of Lucky Strikes to Ponyboy, sliding his keys into the ignition. The car roars to life, and then they're pulling out of the parking lot with twin grins on their faces.

This is what it should always be like, Ponyboy thinks as they drive out of the parking lot, the wind whipping through the hair, the car out like a shot. Greasers laugh, wave out to them as they zip along, Ponyboy emptying out his pockets into a brown bag Dallas has on the floor. Dallas is all but cackling to himself as they go, saying, "Suckers!"

Every day should be like this, with Ponyboy reaching over to kiss him as they zip underneath a light, the car heading towards the bonfire. It should have them pulling over to the side of the road, his hands finding their way up Dallas' shirt, and Dallas' mouth against his, tasting like menthols and sunlight. Every day should be like this, caught up in Dallas, in the moment, and not having to think about lawyers or Bob Sheldon's dead body or Johnny screaming for help in a burning church.

It should be this, with Dallas' fingers slipping inside his jeans, their mouths meeting, Dallas tongue in his mouth, Ponyboy moaning when the blunt force of his skull ring penetrates him, the scent of slick growing in the air. It should always be the hiss Dallas lets out when Ponyboy scratches at his sides, when his hips rock forward, feeling how hard Dallas is for him.

He hadn't intended to have this happen, to be whining and rocking on Dallas' fingers as he fucks him in his car, in the evening sunlight. Ponyboy had always known that broads necked and fucked in cars like this, and he'd never thought he'd be the one asking More, please, please as Dallas fingers him deeper.

There isn't a complaint from him though, not when his own teeth find Dallas' neck, and he bites into his mating mark hard enough to draw blood into his mouth. Not with how much Dallas growls in his throat at the pain, not with the way Ponyboy is finally sent careening into an orgasm so good that he's almost boneless as it washes over him, his vision whiting out, the world undoing itself at the seams for a beautiful, long moment.

The world comes back, containing nothing except him and Dallas, panting, kissing and nuzzling in his car at this moment, wrapped around each other, happy to be here, happy to have this moment, happy to be two greasy hoods.

He doesn't want or need anyone or anything else.

"I love you," Ponyboy murmurs against Dallas' neck, and he means every word of it.

Chapter Text

Dallas sucks up the last of Ponyboy's slick off of his fingers in the car, the dark strands of his hair bisecting his face, his grin wide and full of his sharp white teeth. "You ready?" His voice rumbles out of his chest, his lap still beneath Ponyboy now — obviously still a little hard, wanting. A wanting that had to wait for later, with the way other greasers are passing the car, one of them banging on the front end in admiration.

Wishing his hair was brown again, just to match, Ponyboy nods, still breathless and shaky. He opens the door, climbing out into the pavement waiting for them both. He adjusts his jeans, still able to catch his own scent. He hadn't done anything much to his hair, some of it falling in blonde strands around his face, and there wasn't a comb to fix it with. Dammit.

"Catch," is the only warning Ponyboy gets, the carton coming towards him. He catches it, Dallas sliding out of the car with the rest in a brown paper bag he has. The jean jacket he has is thrown around his skinny shoulders — the streetlight beside the car buzzes on, and Ponyboy's eyes are drawn to his left forearm. It's where Dallas still had the gnarled scar from the fire, right where he'd desperately put out the fire on Ponyboy's right shoulder. He looks at it for a moment, entranced by the way it looks like a raised, red tree against Dallas' skin.

It has his attention enough that Ponyboy doesn't notice until Dallas is steering him, that they're going to the bonfire at a quick pace. He juggles the carton of cigarettes — noticing that they felt lighter, probably from Dallas keeping a few for him — and tries to focus on the sight of the greasers descending on the bonfire and not the memory of smoke and looking for children.

What greets him is a much more welcome sight: the table laden with various foods on it, the bikes that are parked further up with various greasers and hoods greeting each other or laughing or deep in conversation already, the various packs already staking their grounds with each other from the River Kings closest to the bonfire in their yellow hues to the Vipers in their vibrant greens to the side to Shepard's Outfit nearer to the tree line, skulking around. Even some of the Tiber Street Tigers were there in their orange and black regalia — with Sal gone, of course.

Ponyboy wants to reach out for Dallas' hand instinctively as people catch his scent, turn and greet him in various ways. He feels shy, with so many people around, and the only reason he doesn't grasp for Dallas' hand is because Dallas has his hand raised, barking out, "Hey, Shepard! You got new tires yet or you still bumming for rides?"

"You owe me money for those!" Tim Shepard's eyes flash coldly, looking up from where he'd been talking to a Tiber Street Tiger broad. She rolls her eyes, snapping out something in Spanish, Tim ignoring her. "When are you gonna pay up?"

"When the sun shines outta your ass," cheerfully, Dallas drops his arm on Ponyboy's shoulder, steering him closer. It's more than a holding of hands, Dallas laughing as he pulls Ponyboy to the table. Ponyboy focuses on the table, with all the food there. A rumble rushes through his stomach, his mouth watering at the food there. There's a basket of apples that someone brought, some home made fried chicken that was dwindling enough that Ponyboy puts some pep in his step, a bowl of macaroni and cheese, some fast food someone had brought, biscuits that looked like they were buttermilk, various cakes and cookies, beers of every kind, cigarettes, and more.

Ponyboy throws down the carton, plucking up a whole pack to himself, shoving it in his pocket as Dallas greets Ed, tipping out the candybar and other things he'd taken from the general store. Ed tips his hat, voice brimming with pleasure, "Good to see you boys back. Are you two holding up okay?"

"We're doing fine," Ponyboy throws the wrapper down, sticking his cigarette in his mouth, grabbing for one of the plates. "Trial is... half way done, maybe?" The statement is offered not because he wants to talk about the trial but because he knows Ed will ask.

Everyone asks now.

Ed nods, watching for a moment as Ponyboy slaps Dallas' hand away to grasp onto one of the only thighs left, Dallas giving a half growl, having to settle for the chicken breast. "It's hard to keep up with everything being said. Harder, not being allowed in." A tinge of bitterness brushes against his words. "Hopefully, we'll know the outcome soon."

Ponyboy doesn't know what to do except nod, putting macaroni and cheese on his plate, allowing Dallas to mutter out, I actually gotta talk to you about that, Ed. You got three minutes later tonight?"

"Sure do," Ed glances towards downhill. "I'm sure you got that new car of yours through actual legal means?"

The barking laugh Dallas gives out, accompanied with his sneer, is a perfect response.

The bonfire is warm, raging and Dallas picks the spot closest to it without the heat being overwhelming as the night gets a little colder. "I'll get us a blanket when we actually get comfortable," he crosses his long legs, placing his plate in his lap. "Guess this is the first bonfire you get to be at with nothing happening, huh kid?"

The warm way Dallas looks at him, Ponyboy can't help soaking up. It's not as if his bitterness, his coldness entirely was gone. Dallas could never look totally innocent, unmarred by the world. He could, however, pull in some warmth in him, and direct it at Ponyboy in a way that always made Ponyboy's stomach flipflop, made him want to pull Dallas down for another kiss. It's something that only comes to the surface when they're together, Ponyboy thinks, and god he wishes he could pick up a piece of charcoal, and sketch it.

Instead, he pulls his unlit cigarette out from his mouth, tucking it behind his ear as someone lets out a war whoop and laughter breaks out. "Guess so," he says the words, teeth aching in his mouth for Dallas' throat.

If his stomach wasn't giving out hunger pangs, he'd do just that instead of bringing the fried chicken to his mouth, biting down. Whoever made it must've been heaven sent; Ponyboy groans as he tears off the meat, the taste just spicy enough in his mouth. The crunch feels good in his mouth and for a few moments, he just ignores everything except the chicken in his mouth, and when he's eaten it down to the bone, he goes to toss the bone in the bonfire.

Dallas knocks against his hand. "Wait, wait, I'll finish that!"

"Finish it?" Ponyboy frowns, even though he gives his wing to Dallas. He watches in fascination as Dallas opens his mouth, and his fangs come down on the bone. It cracks, splits beneath his teeth and Ponyboy stares as Dallas chews it, sucking at the marrow.

He thinks of the Jack London books he's read before, theories in biology about how they evolved. Ponyboy has never seen someone eat like this before, and when Dallas finishes, Pony is mesmerized, watching him wipe at his lips, and his hungry eyes looking at Ponyboy's plate.

"Don't get greedy," he jokes.

"I'll be greedy later," Dallas digs into his own chicken breast, leaving Ponyboy to dig into his biscuit. He looks around the bonfire as he chews, watching Steve approach with Molly to the bonfire. Ponyboy perks up, looking at her red hair, at the way she's beaming at Two-Bit from where she was. Dallas' eyes follow his, his eyebrows going up. "Huh. How'd she get back here?"

Molly's wearing a huge yellow sweater on her with flower patterns, a pair of jeans and boots on her. From a distance, Ponyboy can see her wrinkling up her nose at Two-Bit. "Mmobph —" Ponyboy swallows the biscuit, trying to talk again, "Maybe she snuck out?"

A skeptical look crosses Dallas' face, and Ponyboy looks back towards them and he hisses out, "What the fuck are they doing here?"

Dallas' head turns sharply, surely seeing what Ponyboy is seeing: Marcia and Cherry, coming up the hill towards the bonfire. Marcia is in a sweater, skirt and some saddle shoes, calling out Two-Bit's name and waving towards him. Cherry is beside her, more hesitant as she follows. Her red hair blows in the wind, and she's in a heavy burgundy jacket, a long skirt and an expression on her face that said she knew she wasn't welcome there.

It's evident when everyone sees them or catches their scent: Steve looks annoyed and his expression is mirrored on Molly's face, only more angry when she looks at Marcia; Ed pulls away from some of the older men, his scent distinctly cautious; Soda and Ivy are both staring, and the River Kings clearly call out something crass towards Marcia and Cherry.

Only Two-Bit seems happy to see Marcia there, leaving Molly to approach her. Ponyboy can't hear what they're saying; his eyes are glued onto Cherry. Not in the court room, not forced to be around adults, she looks lost, unsure of her place here. She keeps an arm around Marcia, her eyes looking over them fearfully almost, as if she couldn't conceive of all the greasers here, together.

Ponyboy catches her eyes this time, and doesn't waver. The flames of the bonfire aren't high enough to obscure his gaze, and he holds it with Cherry, defiant. He can see how she's gotten a little smaller than when he'd last seen her, can see that she shifts nervously even though Two-Bit and Marcia are joking, talking.

Other greasers glare, shout out crass things. Dallas shifts beside him, his scent getting hostile, and Ponyboy stands up, not breaking eye contact with Cherry, "You think we should go give Two-Bit some back up?"

What did he care about the girl who had denied seeing Johnny at the hospital? What did he care about Cherry Valance when she was here, among greasers, looking uncomfortable? What did it matter that she had shown up, here? Was she trying to figure out what to say still, was she just trying to look at them before she made her choice? Was she reminding herself of who killed Bob and why? Was she even considering who and what they were, was she remembering that one moment they'd shared, about sunsets?

"Two-Bit knows the score," the words are cold, and somehow, that coldness, that bitterness is comforting for Ponyboy. "He wouldn't be stupid even if she is."

Molly's glaring daggers at Marcia, and Two-Bit seems to not notice, waving to some of the other greasers. He walks to the table with Marcia and Cherry, and Ponyboy tears his eyes away.

He doesn't have time to think about Cherry's opinions on sunsets or what it looked like. "You wanna finish eating here or go somewhere else?"

"Finish eating here," There's a defiance in Dallas' voice too, beckoning Ponyboy back down beside him. "I eat here, we sleep somewhere else. I'm not letting two Soc broads change that."

Ponyboy agrees, silently, watching as Two-Bit walks with the girls down the table with the food. This was their territory, it was their bonfire. Cherry, Marcia, and himself needed to remember that. He keeps his eyes on them, watching them make modest plates, with Ed supervising, until he's finished with his own food.

He tosses the paper plate into the bonfire, Dallas already standing up to throw in his. "I'm gonna go get something out of the car. You can pick where you want us to nest." Excitement threads Dallas' voice, and Ponyboy feels his ears turning a little red at the reminder.

Though, he doesn't immediately go looking for a spot. No, Ponyboy watches as Dallas walks past Two-Bit and the girls, not stopping for a second to address them. Cherry watches Dallas walk away, and Ponyboy can distantly hear her say his name.

Dallas never looks back at her, never says a word.

Ponyboy thinks about what she said, about falling in love with Dallas, about being afraid of it. He thinks about how Bob had been described on the stand, and his stomach gives a painful rumble and he pushes it away.

He gives Cherry one last look — wondering what part of her was real, what part of Cherry was really Cherry — then turns around, looking at the rest of the space for the bonfire. There are clearly spots for each pack, spread out. But there's plenty of room available too, more along the treeline.

That's not a good option; Ponyboy doesn't want to be in the woods. Just at a spot where they could be just warm enough yet not seen by everyone if they wanted to do more than just neck. He turns his head, walking around, dodging some of the more insistently curious greasers until he finds a springy patch of moss. It's halfway to the treeline, and between a nest with a sleeping River King and a much more far flung one containing two Vipers who were whispering to themselves the moment Ponyboy had come close.

At the table, Dallas is coming back, holding onto several blankets. Cherry has mostly left her plate alone while Marcia has cleared hers, she and Two-Bit deep in some kind of talk. Dallas passes by, and Cherry avoids his eyes this time.

Good, Ponyboy thinks, reaching a hand up to run his finger over the St. Christopher. Good.

(Do not think about Cherry and sunsets. Do not think about how much she loved Bob. Do not think about how much she could be hurting right now.)

Dallas' hair is more windswept than ever when he gets to where Ponyboy is, pushing his hair back with his right hand. "Alright, I'll leave it up to you to make this." His hair is beginning to fall in ringlets about his neck, and he steps back once he puts the blankets down in front of Ponyboy.

They go down in a heap, the scents wafting up — some of which are distinctly from the heat hotel. They're so strong, the memories rolling over Ponyboy of Dallas's hands pinning his against the bed, the feeling of his fangs on his throat again, how the world had suddenly lit up for Ponyboy in a way it never had before.

The flare of Dallas' nostrils is enough to tell him that Dallas knows what's coming to the forefront of his mind. He doesn't move from his spot, watching as Ponyboy toes off his shoes, then positions the blankets out, layering them one by one, mixing some of them together. The ones from the heat hotel are the ones he tries to prioritize; they're the softest and biggest, with the newer, unblemished blankets going on the bottom. Instinct simply drives him in the right direction, until he lifts his head up to ask, "Can you get me a pair of pillows or something?"

Without a word, Dallas turns on his heels to go to the getting smaller pile of nesting material. In a matter of seconds he's throwing down pillows, to Ponyboy — and still, he won't step a foot inside of it, his boots firmly against the green grass as Ponyboy accepts them.

If people are staring or gawking, Ponyboy doesn't care or notice as he arranges everything. The best blankets are pushed to the side for them to use when it got colder, and with a tug, he smiles. "Nest's done. Come on, Dally."

With care, Dallas tugs off his boots, placing them beside Ponyboy's at the edge of the nest. His jacket follows, and he steps into the nest with a clear thrill. "Feels nice, kid."

"What kind of omega would I be, if I couldn't make a nest?" Ponyboy beams — know that he didn't know half of what it took to be an omega anyway. In this moment, though, he just wants to feel and be happy with what he has.

It's easier when Dallas dips his head to kiss him, full mouthed and wanting. There's a warm taste of Bourbon on his mouth from his meal, and Ponyboy welcomes it.

Laughter breaks out, some people laughing and cheering. Ponyboy's ears grow hot, and he pulls up, wanting to not look —

"Kid," Dallas grips his arm, pulling him back to him, frowning. "Where're you going?" He tilts is head a little, and the way his dark hair curls on his forehead makes Ponyboy intimately aware of the slick starting to seep down his thighs. "You know what the bonfire is about."

"I — I know," his heartbeat speeds up, cheeks going hot, aware of how Dallas' body feels beneath him, of how warm he is, of the expanse of his chest, "Everyone's just – too awake right now. And- and aware."

A huff leaves Dallas, shifting his body beneath Ponyboy's own, his other hand coming to grasp at Ponyboy's hair and tug. "They're only gonna stare if you stare back," He cups the back of Ponyboy's head, and Ponyboy slips forward, until they're kissing again. "See?" Dallas kisses him again, harder this time, rocking his hips into Ponyboy's own.

The more he kisses him, the more Ponyboy relaxes into his body, the more he can find Dallas' body up against his own. It becomes easier to run his hand up Dallas' sides, to push his shirt up to touch him, to kiss and lick at his chest. It gets easier to have Dallas pulling his jeans off of him, for Ponyboy to fumble with Dallas' own.

Their bodies tangle up together, Ponyboy's hands hooking over Dallas' shoulders, Dallas mouth hooking into Ponyboy's mating mark to bite and bite down, Ponyboy moaning. It takes Ponyboy's fumbling, wanting hand to find Dallas' cock, stroking it between them. The cold air across their bodies, the mingling of the other scents of the bonfire are small things, growing smaller as Dallas groans, as the stars reflect in his eyes —-

— then Steve gives an aggravated yell, and there's the sound of a ruckus and Ponyboy realizes where they are and what they're doing and he pulls away. A hurt, annoyed look crosses Dallas' face, his head whipping towards where Steve was shouting. Ponyboy doesn't even care what Steve was doing; just the reminder that he was around was enough for him to go to the other side of the nest, his neck, ears and face red from embarrassment.

He can hear Dallas swearing a blue streak while he looks at his hands, trying to stop his arousal, pulling some of the blankets around him. It was more than fair game for him and Dallas to be touching, to have sex here but –

There were simply too many eyes out, and not enough stars at the moment. Ponyboy feels stupid, like a kid as he mumbles out, "We can wait til later. It's okay, I'm – I'm sorry."

Dallas turns back to him, clearly irritated, clearly wanting. There's no way he doesn't want to just close the space between them, kissing Ponyboy, getting his cock inside of him the way they had nights before. There's no doubt that if Ponyboy and him were alone right now, he would crawl over to him, they would kiss and pick right back up.

Not now, though. Not with this being Ponyboy's first night actually sleeping over at the bonfire, not with the way there's clearly something going on with Steve, not with the way other people's eyes, other people's voices were disturbing everything.

Ponyboy can see the acceptance, however grudging, in Dallas' face, see his skinny shoulders drop in the firelight. "Alright, alright. Just get back over here, okay?" Dallas beckons him back over, his ring glinting in the light. "I'll keep my hands to myself."

"I need you to keep your dick, not your hands, to yourself," he tries to joke, coming back to Dallas in the nest. He drags the blankets with them, curling against him, accepting Dallas' long, warm arm around him.

"If my hands are gonna get involved, we'd both be in trouble," the grumble comes out of Dallas laced with a bit of smugness and Ponyboy feels his ears growing redder than before. "Go on, get comfortable. You got a book or something?"

"No," Ponyboy turns to get a better look at Dallas, at his slightly surly expression, his too long hair and slightly swollen lips. "I remember you answered me about Breakfast at Tiffany's months ago. You never told me about how you ever landed on reading books for good behavior. Or which ones you've read to be a good dog at the pound."

"I would get a mate interested in fucking book reports," is huffed out and Ponyboy kicks Dallas. The sharp grin he gets in return is worth it. "Listen, it's a rule in jail that if you behave well enough, you get out early. The easiest way to behave for those assholes is to not do anything at all and not stick your nose into trouble. So the easiest way to not stick my nose into trouble was shoving it into a book." He shrugs his shoulders. "I found that out from an older hood and he wasn't necessarily a librarian, you know? I didn't have a lot to choose in the pen so I just picked up whatever I thought would make me look smart. Some guys they pick up books that're all the wrong type — shit close to a skin mag. If you look like you're trying to be educated or like some candy-assed Soc, they'll think you're 'fixing' your bad behavior. So I pick up all the smart seeming ones — most of them are shit though."

Ponyboy shifts in the nest a little, his hand running over Dallas' chest. He can see Molly walking past them furiously, with Steve trying to bring up the rear in the distance. There's more wood being tossed into the bonfire, and another round of laughter and acknowledgement goes up as more people come.

Even if he couldn't go all the way with Dallas at that moment, he feels comfortable, as he focuses on Dallas' sharp face, on the way his eyelashes tip against the tops of his cheekbones when he blinks. "If — If I were in jail, you think that'd be good for me? Reading books, keeping my head down like that?"

Dallas' jaw tightens, and he grips Ponyboy's hair tighter, possessive in intent, as if he could keep Ponyboy in the nest alone by the hold of his hand. "You ain't ever gonna step foot in a jail cell. So don't even think about it."

A cool breeze wafts through, Ponyboy's bond almost humming with the way the stars reflect themselves in Dallas' dark eyes, in the fix of his jaw. Ponyboy doesn't waver away from it, away from the conviction he trusts, from the boy he loves more than anything.

Chapter Text

In the sky, the moon is a slim silver crescent amongst the stars. The wind makes the trees shift, dance in the wind — the leaves are still thick and bountiful, even as autumn slowly turns to spring. Ponyboy finds it hard to keep his eyes open, taking in the way the trees sweep against the heavens as he feels Dallas' fingers dig into his hips, accompanied by him growling against the shell of his ear, his breath fanning out against his cheek.

He can't look at the sky too long; if he does, his eyes might drift downward to the treeline where other greasers are sleeping, about two couples he knew were there. If one of them woke up, if they saw, Ponyboy was sure he'd lose his nerve and try to climb away.

As it was, he didn't want to: not with how good Dallas felt fucking deep into his slick drenched hole, not with how much he needed Dallas' mouth wrapping around the column of his neck where his mating mark throbbed, not with how good it felt to be connected to Dallas again, beneath the open sky and the cold.

The bonfire is almost a pile of red embers — Ponyboy is glad he can't see it, can't think about being inside of one — leaving no room for much light at all. The alcohol he and Dallas had shared through the night was strong, enough that it makes everything around him feel surreal and not at the same time. He knows that Dallas is leaning over him, that at some point, his hand had interwoven with Ponyboy's own. He knows that they had spent a long time kissing, that by the time Dallas had flipped him over onto his stomach, Ponyboy had groaned out that he hadn't wanted Dallas tasting him, not with how empty he felt without him, not with how much slick that was gathering around his thighs.

Then it was just Dallas' body above his, the feeling of his cock pushing into him, and the moon a crescent hanging above them all.

It's heaven, as far as Ponyboy can figure, feeling Dallas pull back again, his hips slamming back against him. If the universe moved slower, if he could keep this moment, the happy moan he gives when Dallas slams back into him, if he could keep the feeling over Dallas' mouth against his ear, if he could keep the sound of Dallas swearing with need, with their hands gripping tightly together, he would.

This was how things should be, this is what he wanted, what he needed.

He needs to be panting out Dallas' name, he needs to feel Dallas'breath against his neck, he needs to feel the swell of his oncoming knot press against his hole, he needs to feel Dallas hammer home into him over and over again. The weight of Dallas' chest, the feel of their thighs meeting, the heavy wild scent of the outside around them, mixing with Dallas' own, mixing with the scent of whisky, the darkness wrapping around them, it's everything Ponyboy wants, everything he needs.

He knows he breathes out, "Knot me, knot me please!" He knows he wants to cry out more, wants to say more and he's not able to, not with the way Dallas drives his body into him one last time. All thoughts of anything else just break apart at once as he cums — there's just the feeling of happiness, of wave after wave of pleasure rippling through him.

Feeling Dallas knot him, feeling it lock in, Dallas' teeth sinking into his neck ground him just for a moment — just long enough to remind Pony of the bonfire, the trees, the stars — then he's dragged under into a blissful nothingness.

When he comes to, he can still hear the wind in the trees, can still feel the center of the world where Dallas' knot pulses with more cum inside him, can scent blood mixing with the earth, but his eyes are too heavy to open. His skin feels warm where it's pressing into Dallas' own, their legs and feet tangled up.

There's a heaviness to his head and mouth as he slurs out, "Love you, Dally."

Dallas squeezes his hand and Ponyboy doesn't need anything else, just breathing against their nest, listening to the dark of night, the sound of trees, the sound of the wind, a car going down the street, laughter bursting out from the road, the sound of bodies turning and twisting.

Everything feels slow, and heavy, and he can feel Dallas pull him closer, the knot between them still pulsing weakly every so often. "Wish we could be like this all th'time."

"That so?" Dallas' palm comes to rub at Ponyboy's thigh, his voice a rumble in his chest.

"Yeah," It's hard to articulate his thought, the feeling, as he breathes against the nest, hearing the rustle of the tress, feeling Dallas' warm against him. "Like everyone else. Just coming here, being together."

Dallas shifts closer, pulling the blanket over them both. "You're gonna, Pone. Every day, we're gonna come back here." The conviction in his voice is stronger than before, edged with something more. "You don't have to worry about any of that shit."

"Even if —" he thinks about the fire, the smoke in his throat. Thinks he can feel the cold bite of handcuffs on his wrists, a cell. "Even if things go bad?"

"They aren't going to. I got a plan," a squeeze on Ponyboy's hip has him opening his eyes just enough to catch a glimmer of the sky. "I mean it. You're my mate. My mate."

Ponyboy's eyes focus on the stars, for a moment. The heaviness in his head doesn't subside, and Dallas' words are lost in the sound of the wind and the trees, and he slips into a darkness, surrounded by Dallas and nothing else.

A hand brushes his hair away from his cheek. Soda is hollering something. Cars are turning over, and honks are filling up the air. There's a sense of sudden emptiness that makes Ponyboy come to, the sound of feet on the grass and he thinks that the bed he's sleeping on is springier than what the church floor had been. He thinks he's there for a moment, back on that mountain, listening to the world wake up.

Then: no. He's not sleeping on a bed; his eyes open to see a dawning blue sky, with the treetops stretching towards the heavens. There's no one beside him, Ponyboy throwing out his arm for Dallas and finding nothing. He looks around him, blinking some of the sleep out of his eyes as he turns, the world righting itself around him, coming into better focus.

The bonfire has burned out, entirely. There are only a few smoking embers left among the wood. Around it, there are some people who are still dozing off, or who are slowly waking up. The older hoods who have jobs, or the greasers who have jobs period, all seem to be the ones awake. They've gathered at the table, where Ed and two other greasers are handing out food that ranged from sausages that made Ponyboy's mouth water, to fresh fluffy biscuits. Soda is at the line with Dallas, both of them talking together, Dallas already holding a semi full plate and Soda with his shirt half off his shoulders.

Behind them, Steve stands there with Molly, both of them apparently having their own issue with each other, Steve with his arms, folded, Molly with some leaves in her red hair. Ponyboy for the first time wonders where Johnny was — he'd been initiated, he should be here somewhere.

He scans around the field; Two-Bit is asleep still, snoring alone in his usual spot, the blankets half pulled up on him. A throb runs through his forehead and Ponyboy sits up, wondering if he's gotten a hangover.

God, he hoped not.

He pushes at his hair, pulling Dallas' jacket around himself, the blankets he had concealing his lower half. There's a distant feeling of loss in him — wanting Dallas back inside of him the way they'd fallen asleep together the night before — mixing with a stomach that was cramping, in dire need of food.

Not that he has to wait long: Dallas comes striding over holding two plates and a huge mug of water. Slight stubble is on his cheeks, and boy, he could probably do with a haircut, Ponyboy thinks. His hair is starting to obscure his eyes, evident with the way Dallas has to blow them away from his forehead as he sits down beside Ponyboy. Ponyboy wishes his hair wasn't so blonde anymore, that he could go and dye it back to the natural auburn he had, instead of the blonde strands that were catching the wind as Dallas shoves the plate towards him. "Thanks, Dally. Wouldn'tve gotten nothing if I'd woken up on my own."

"I know," Dallas adjusts his plate, his dark eyes on Ponyboy.

The plate is full of food: bacon, scrambled eggs that weren't colored by dye, biscuits, some gravy, and a chocolate donut. Ponyboy looks at it all, stomach growling, adjusting his seat, to keep it steady. He glances over to Dallas, seeing his dark eyes watching him steadily, as if waiting on —

— oh, right.

Hastily, Ponyboy bites into the bacon first, not sure how to address Dallas waiting out loud. That was something he'd been noticing, how Dallas never took a bite to eat until he did. He tears into his bacon again, and apparently satisfied, Dallas digs into his own plate, consisting of slices of ham, bacon, some grits and eggs, and a biscuit.

They eat mostly in silence, some people waving to them as they pass, others throwing looks, some whistling, but most intent on getting a bite to eat with minimal interference. Most of the hoods who ate headed out as soon as they finished, heading to jobs they had.

Among them, Ponyboy notices Steve first, walking away with Molly quickly. Steve doesn't wave to anyone, just makes his way the car with a similarly annoyed Molly. She does take the time out to wave at Ponyboy — and pointedly ignoring Two-Bit when he calls out for her. Ponyboy watches with interest as Two-Bit seems miffed at first, and Dallas beside him gives out a half bark of a laugh.

"What's going on?" Ponyboy whips his head around, curious to what Dallas knows. He has to try not to laugh; Dallas was a messy eater, with some of the yellow grits on the side of his mouth.

"Those two Soc idiots showed up last night," scraping his biscuit in the gravy, Dallas drawls out his words in pure disdain, "The girl Two-Bit was hitting on in the movie house, Wendy something —"

"It's Marcia," Ponyboy corrects him, shoveling eggs into his mouth.

"Marcia, decided that she'd get some points and I guess Molly decided it was a step too far for two Soccy girls to show up," there's a clear disdain in Dallas' voice, almost similar to the one he'd had in the movie theater in what felt like a lifetime ago. "I think she's had something for Two-Bit for a minute, and Marcia worming her way back in wasn't something she thought would happen."

Surprise works its way on Ponyboy's face, having to grab for the canteen to swallow some water down to keep from choking. "She likes Two-Bit? Why? He don't go for girls like her."

"No, he doesn't," Dallas shrugs, almost done with his food, "Guess she's finding out the hard way." He wipes at his mouth, looking expectantly at Ponyboy. "What d'you wanna do today, kid? There ain't nothing to worry about 'cept maybe some rain."

Ponyboy thinks about it, about that wide open day. Homework had been done, there wasn't a suit he needed to don, no rehashing over bad memories or thinking about anything except how Dallas needed to wipe the side of his mouth and necking in a movie theater.

He smiles, happy to feel some of the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. "I wanna go see some movies, after we go home. Think I need a better change of clothes, see Johnny too maybe."

The sun starts to come out above them, Dallas grinning sharply. "Alright. We'll stop at Buck's first, then yours."

Reaching over, Ponyboy wipes the grits from the edge of Dallas' mouth, laughing when Dallas snaps his teeth, trying to avoid him like a little kid.

This was going to be a normal, fun day.

The blankets are bundled together, shoved into the back of Dallas' trunk, and Ponyboy's waiting for Dallas to finish up a conversation with Ed when he spots Ivy Ueda making her way down the hill with other Vipers and Sodapop.

For the first time in weeks, Soda seems relaxed right down to his scent as he beams at Ivy. Her normally stoic expression has cracked into something warmer, her arm around his waist as they go.

Ponyboy figures that maybe Sandy really is in the rear view mirror for him with the way he kisses Ivy, quick and clearly meant for other greasers to see. He smiles to himself; at least Soda could have someone for now. Whether Steve would like it....

But who cared about Steve's feelings about that?

He keeps his mouth shut as they pass, Sods clearly heading to the DX with Ivy. Some of the other Vipers clearly are pleased to have snagged a good looking omega, and Ponyboy doesn't want to bring too much attention to himself.

An older hood passes by him and then Dallas is yelling out, "Go on, get in the car, Pone!"

Not needing to be told twice, Pony opens the door, slipping inside. It really is a tuff car, and once again he wonders how and where Dallas got it from. It's nowhere near as old as the Ford Darry drove — their father's car, as their mother's had been the one stuck on the railroad tracks months ago — but still not new either.

Dallas opens the door, sitting inside with a grunt, tossing a newspaper to Ponyboy. "Ed had today's paper with the movies and times. Just pick one, long as it ain't a dumb beach movie."

"No more of those, please," he unfolds the paper, the engine all but roaring to life. It's a good thing Ponyboy has it as Dallas is in a reckless driving mood, pulling into the street with a jerk and gunning it down the road immediately.

Ponyboy supposes, as they strip down the road, that he should get used to that. Or, figure out how to drive soon enough with the way Dallas takes to the streets. He can see various greasers walking around in groups, some of them piling into a car — others, he can see adults going about their own lives, or kids starting to come outside to play like they would on a normal Saturday.

As they go across town, the wind whips in Ponyboy's face, his still blonde hair flying with it, and he breathes in the oncoming autumn air, lets himself drift into the sounds of the Saturday morning, the radio blaring a song he didn't recognize, hearing Dallas croon along with it with that deep voice of his, with Dallas' scent settling on him with the half down window. It's a good morning, if Ponyboy had any say so in the manner.

What else could be as good as this, turning his head to look at the way Dallas grinned brightly, those sharp fangs in his mouth gleaming. He bobs his head with the music, and Ponyboy's eyes drag downward to the mottled skin around his mating mark. It was a perfect circle of his crooked teeth, and Ponyboy wanted to lean over and wrap his mouth around Dallas' neck, and sink his teeth in there again, with his hand down Dallas' jeans.

Not now, though. Not with how Dallas cuts his eyes at him, as if he knows what Ponyboy's thinking, and knows that if he said anything, Ponyboy might deny it.

Rather than be caught out, Ponyboy drops his eyes to the newspaper in front of him, scanning over the movies. Normally, he'd have known without the newspaper what was out. With everything going on, though, he'd fallen out of it, and most of the titles don't sound appealing. There is one familiar face there, though. "Sal Mineo's got a movie out. Who Killed Teddy Bear? sounds like something we could see."

"Alright, kid. We move fast enough we can sneak in for the noon showing," Dallas keeps his eye on Ponyboy, turning the car around a corner so tightly that Ponyboy has to grip the seat tighter. "He's that guy who looks kinda like Johnny?"

"Sorta," Ponyboy puts the paper down, huffing. "Why you gotta have us sneak in? It isn't more than a quarter to get in at noon for two of us if we go to Jay's. Be nice if my mate spent a quarter on a date, you know."

Dallas sucks at his teeth. "Oh, now you want me to spend the big bucks?"

"Since when is a quarter big bucks?" Ponyboy laughs, Dallas fishtailing into the parking lot of Buck's and parking there smoothly. He turns off the engine, and Ponyboy looks at Buck's, at how it is in the daytime. "You gonna be long?"

"No, just need some money," Dallas opens the driver's side, stepping out. "If I'm here longer than ten minutes, honk the horn." He walks away, Ponyboy looking out, towards the parking lot. Sometimes, people who drank too much would either drive home, walk, or park their cars here to sleep. The most reckless would risk a drive, where it seemed more experienced drunks would just sleep.

It was something they rarely talked about, how sometimes Mrs. Cade would be at Buck's, asleep in her car or someone else's. How she'd be the one coming in early in the morning at times, with her ink-black eyes glaring beneath a curtain of ramrod hair the same ink black tone, her clothes stained, reeking of alcohol. Ponyboy can't help but to look for her, to see if she'd stayed out again instead of giving a rat's ass about her son.

There's no sign of her with someone else or by herself, it seemed.

Johnny should be waking up at the Mathews about now, probably expecting to see other greasers. Or, back before all of this, he'd be one of the first ones over to the house. He'd want to go to the empty lot or would watch TV with them and play football.

Now he couldn't do any of that. He was probably waking up in the Mathews home, eating with them or at least being able to somewhere quiet where his father wouldn't belt him or his mother ignored him.

With people who cared about him, took care of him.

Ponyboy picks at the burn mark on his shoulder, feeling some anxiety crawl into his stomach. He traces over it, thinking of Dallas' facial expression, how he seemed furious at the time, when his arm had come down, how Ponyboy was confused until the shock of the hit was so bad that he —

"Dallas! Dallas come on —!"

His head snaps away from the landscape of the parking lot before him, to where Dallas was stomping furiously away from Buck, who was standing at the doorway of the bar, his face contorted, voice raised, "It's just one job! You've done it plenty of times!"

"I said no!" Dallas continues towards the car, resolutely not looking up. Ponyboy looks between Buck's pleading face, and Dallas' determined one as he gets back in the car. "Call Tim or one of the other guys to do it."

"I'll pay you double!"

The car turns back on, and Dallas turns the music up, turning the car into the road. Ponyboy looks behind, catching Buck swearing, muttering to himself as Dallas takes them home. "What was that about?"

"I'm not doing a bootleg run for him when I fucking told him I had to keep my nose clean for a little longer," Dallas' words are firm, eyes steadily on the road even though he's still driving like a bat out of hell. "I'm not doing shit to get eyes on me or you." He grips the wheel steadier than before, mouth in a half snarl. "And the county he wants me to go to, they're worse than most about this shit. Nah, he wants someone stupid, it can be Shepard or someone else."

Ponyboy can't help how good it feels to hear Dallas say me or you. He doesn't do much more than lean over to kiss Dallas once they get to the Curtis house, but it's a damn good feeling to keep.

It doesn't take long for him to get in a quick shower, pull on fresh clothes — making sure that the St. Christopher wasn't hidden beneath his shirt — and open the door to see Dallas waiting for him on the couch. He's rolling a pack of cigarettes into his sleeve, and he gives Ponyboy a sharp look as Ponyboy scans around. "No one else came by?"

"I saw Two walking back towards his place, Soda, Darry, and Steve are at work, and I'm pretty sure Johnny's got some kind of doctor shit going on," Dallas shrugs, leaning back on the couch. "We got more time than I thought — "

Oh, Dallas isn't subtle, Ponyboy finds. Not with the way his eyes fall to the St. Christopher on his chest and not with the way, his mouth hooks into a wolfish smile.

He just wants to stay inside with Ponyboy a little longer, to get to necking or more.

Who is Ponyboy to say no to the opportunity? Who is he to say no to climbing into Dallas' lap, kissing him with a welcoming mouth and his fingers sinking into his hair?

Chapter Text

"You comin' to the bonfire tonight, little buddy?" Two-Bit asks, looking at his reflection in the mirror, trying to get his hair right. He's in a baseball shirt for once instead of his usual Mickey's, the sleeves torn off, his jeans with some dirt on the bottoms from the day.

Johnny doesn't answer immediately. He doesn't want to, really. All day he'd been spending it in being ferried around by Mrs. Mathews or being poked and prodded by doctors — pokes and prods he hadn't really felt very much. It left him feeling odd, suspended in this half state where he wasn't exactly a total cripple and at the same time, doing anything he wanted to do was hard.

He tries to focus on the school work that's been piling up — Ponyboy seemed to mostly do it in class to keep up, whereas Johnny was staring at a lot more work that he struggled to understand even before he'd been injured. "I don't know. I gotta lot of work I need to catch up on."

"Alright," Two-Bit straightens up, giving himself one more look. "You change your mind, we'll be up there."

Johnny wonders if he should mention the whole Marcia thing, and instead keeps his trap shut as Two-Bit grabs his jacket. Katie's over at a friend's house, Mrs. Mathews working her bar maid shift and when the door slams, it leaves him alone with a stack of assignments, the television going on in the back and his own thoughts.

Thoughts he'd rather not tend to. Johnny didn't want to tell anyone that he'd seen his mother early that morning, when he'd woken up gasping, thinking he was burning up again. It had to have been five am in the morning when he'd seen her stagger down the street, laughing and clearly drunk. There had been nothing except suffocating sounds of the night surrounding him, watching her shamble along, hearing her laugh until she passed the Mathews with no thought apparently spared for Johnny at all.

It makes his belly burn, his gust churn with anger, with despair. His own mother just didn't give a fuck about him, and it couldn't be more evident than now. He didn't even know what his father was doing — maybe he was back on the road making money, maybe he was drying out in a tank, but who knew?

Johnny didn't.

And he still wanted to know, regardless. Wanted to know if at any moment, the drink had subsided and they'd wondered about him. Wanted to know if they had cared before his mother had shown up to the hospital.

He'd heard her, screaming, snapping at the staff. That was the most she'd ever looked for him, and now that he was alive, she was back to her old habits.

What if he had died? What if he'd been paralyzed and no one could've stepped in? What if they finally were his parents, were people who cared about their child?

Johnny can't keep the thoughts to himself, stubbornly getting up from the table. He ignores the wheelchair, the crutches as he makes his way out the door, towards the empty lot. The bonfire was there, the fire already raging, voices carrying in the cold wind. Tonight, he didn't want to be in the warmth of it all, didn't want to see all those people together, able to be together there — all the kids who he should want to be and didn't know how to be.

He just wants the parents he'd had briefly, in dreams. He doesn't want to be up there, thinking of them, remembering how Dallas had glared at him in the car, snarling out, The boys are worried! They didn't ask about you! You think my old man gives a hang if I'm dead in a car wreck or drunk or in jail or something? He doesn't care! But that doesn't bother me none!

The words still slice him up everywhere, still makes something upsetting stir up in him as he sits down on the old car interior he and Ponyboy had been sitting on a lifetime ago. He thinks of how he wanted to kill himself, and thinks of how he'd been in that hospital panicked, thinking he'd die, truly die.

Sixteen years aren't long enough to live, and dying...

Johnny stokes up a small, lonely fire. He thinks of what it could be like if he could have his parents be parents the way the Curtises had been. Thinks of maybe his mother having a softer face, a softer voice. What if his father could see him even when he wasn't hitting him? What if things could be better than what they were?

He entertains the idea of what if he could walk up to the house, knock? What if he could demand to speak to them, what if by some miracle, he could have them behind him?

What if he could make them care again? Or, at all?

The sound of raucous laughter interrupts his thoughts, Johnny lifting his head up and automatically looking into the shadows around him, his hand going for the switchblade — the switchblade that he belated remembers is back in Windrixville — as two figures manage to make it down one of the hills and spilling into the street. For a moment he thinks the figures will transform into Randy and David or Bob Sheldon even though Bob Sheldon was very much dead.

Instead, a streetlight fixes the world for him: it's just Ponyboy, laughing with his blonde hair with increasingly auburn roots, in a white shirt, Dallas' brown sheepskin jacket, and jeans and sneakers all his own. It's the ones he always liked to wear on the weekends, those white ones that Ponyboy had wanted for ages before he'd stolen a pair from a donation bin. The medallion Johnny has seen on Sylvia a thousand times before flashes on his neck as he kisses at Dallas' cheek. Dallas himself is the one giving that laugh, his taller form rocking against Ponyboy's for a second, leaning down to allow Ponyboy to kiss his cheek and neck. His hair has grown long since Jay Mountain, and he doesn't seem to care as he laughs and laughs, Ponyboy kissing him.

A bottle of brown liquor glints in Dallas' hand as they move beneath the streetlight together. Johnny can hear the scrape of Ponyboy's feet on the pavement, can see Dallas' teeth flash, and almost violently, needlessly, he wishes he could stand up, run over to them and get between them. Join them as they steered their way over to the bonfire, completely unable to see him there, crouched over a drying fire. He wants to be there, in that warmth, and instead he stays where he is.

All he can do is watch as Dallas pulls Ponyboy to the shadows for a moment, Ponyboy's voice climbing up and the obvious way that Dallas was kissing him. A tight feeling rises in his chest as he watches them, wrapped up in each other, all over each other.

He wants them to see him. Wants Ponyboy to break away, come say that maybe his parents could care about him again. He wants to be able to tell Ponyboy about not dying, about living. He knows he can't say any of that to Dallas, knows that Dallas would snap at him again.

All he can do is watch, as Dallas pulls away, holding Ponyboy's hand and guiding him back to the bonfire.

All Johnny can do is ache and not understand why, not entirely.

All he can do is fall asleep, next to dying embers, dreaming of parents who could've existed, and who didn't.

When Sunday dawns, it comes in with a gust of cold that makes Ponyboy wake up first. His mouth is dry, his hair windswept, and having Dallas beside him is the only comfort he has as he shivers.

He looks around, able to see some of his breathe: at the greasers and hoods who were sleeping around them, the half died out bonfire, plates and cigarette butts and wrappers left on the green space between them, the sight of Ed coming through with a trash bag, nudging at some people to wake up themselves. He looks around, blinking, and realizes that the blankets over him and Dallas are pulled almost entirely away. Dallas' body, pale and long, is stretched out beneath him, and Ponyboy scrambles to pull the blankets and pillows on them.

There's a growing throb in his head as he pulls the covers up over them, shivering as he arranges them better. Dallas is entirely out, his head turning away, his arm around Ponyboy's waist stronger. They both reek of cum and what Ponyboy knows is the alcohol they'd shared last night.

They'd stolen it from Buck's — Dallas grabbing it while Buck's head had been turned towards one of the other bar patrons. At that point in the day, they'd already gone to the movies, necked through most of it, had shoplifted from one of the nicer stores, and they'd been planning to get the alcohol and share it with Johnny.

They simply got....

Well. Drunk. Distracted.

Ponyboy remembers vaguely, as he cuddles against Dallas' body, that they'd walked to the Mathews. They'd been sharing the bottle between them, Dallas choosing to leave the car at the Curtis house. Beneath the streetlights, Dallas had looked beautifully dangerous with his pointed ears and sharp teeth, the sure way he'd pulled Ponyboy close to him, whispering lowly in his ear Probably shouldn't let you wander off alone scenting like this, now should I?

Just thinking about it is making Ponyboy slick up, squirming beneath the blanket. He knows that they'd gone to sleep early, comfortably knotted together and at some time in the night, they'd untangled. That loss makes him want for more — just not enough to wake Dallas up and ask.

For now, Dallas just looks younger as he sleeps, more innocent if that could be said about him. Those hard lines, the bitterness that was there, it was replaced with something softer, less like Dallas on his face. Or at least the Dallas he knew, or the one he thought he'd known before this. The Dallas he'd thought could never love Cherry back, the Dallas that he thought was so hard he couldn't care anymore.

That Dallas still exists; Ponyboy can see it whenever they've brushed past Cherry and he understands now that Dallas couldn't love Cherry because Ponyboy was who he loved. Even if he couldn't say it, wouldn't say it. Dallas can love, just not in a way Cherry would want, could have. And Dallas was still bitter, still hard but not beyond caring.

Beyond, maybe, being able to be vulnerable. Hardened to protect himself, maybe.

The thought feels unfinished and rough, Ponyboy running his finger over Dallas' cheek in the morning. His cheeks are rough from the overnight, in need of a shave, with the dark brown hair he has getting so long that it's curving in ward, in need of a real cut. His fingers move upward, touching the tips of Dallas' pointed ears, and Ponyboy smiles to himself.

They were still like a lynx.

Dallas grunts in his sleep, rolls over, dragging Ponyboy with him.

Ponyboy saves his complaints. It's Sunday, and all he wants to do is spend it with Dallas even if it's with him half snoring into the nest.

The television is on almost full volume that evening when Ponyboy and Dallas walk inside of the Curtis house, and it's Steve who greets them first with, "Well ain't the home town hero and the hood come striding in."

"It's my house," Ponyboy can feel his irritation immediately show up with the way Steve is giving them a clearly piercing, clearly challenging look. Something must've happened, and Ponyboy is weary of it coming from people he doesn't like. "Why wouldn't I come through my own door?"

Evidently, Dallas has the same thought as him, snapping out, "What happened?"

Steve throws a paper to them right as Darry bustles through with plates. "Steve, we ain't got enough to feed you tonight." The words are just as barbed, and Ponyboy wonders if there's been some sort of tit for tat he's missed. "Ponyboy, you're letting the heat out, shut that door."

Ponyboy turns and shuts the door, hoping that there hadn't been any real damage. They'd agreed to get along, and today had been nice. He and Dallas had abandoned plans to hang out with anyone else, spending the time driving around Tulsa, getting burgers at Cosmo's, necking where they could, and pointedly keeping out of trouble. The only minor spot had been when Dallas had gone to a barber while Ponyboy was in a book shop. Dallas' hair was now cut down enough that it was out of his eyes and an inch shorter so that it wasn't down his neck so far and he'd groused about it on the way back.

The paper is in Dallas' hands and Ponyboy comes around to see it. Immediately, he regrets it: there are photos of him, Bob Sheldon, and Johnny splashed up at the top. Bob is the one with the glossy school photo while he and Johnny have photos from where they'd been in the hospital, Ponyboy clearly dazed and sooty and Johnny in a hospital bed, out of it. That was without the other photos of Cherry and the other Socs – still in glossy school photos – with the mug shots of Two-Bit and Dallas at the bottom of the spread.

"So I guess taking my yearbook picture wasn't worth nothing," Ponyboy tears his eyes away from Bob — perfectly styled, his smile wide, and no Give the omega a bath being uttered — to glare at Steve, his ears burning hot. "Least your ugly mug isn't on it."

"Nah, he ain't relevant," Dallas cuts his eyes to Ponyboy, then back to Steve. "Who gives a shit. They're gonna keep running whatever they want til the end of this." He shrugs. "Ain't Pony's fault he's a hero."

I would have let those kids burn to death.

You might not have. You might have done the same thing.

The memory slides over Ponyboy, his stomach almost curdling remembering how matter of factly Randy had talked. He tunes out Steve, making his way to the kitchen where Soda is pulling fried chicken out of the pan of grease with a look of determination on his face. "Hey, Sodapop, I just want the legs."

"I know, honey," his voice sounds brighter than what it's been in awhile. "Don't let Darry tell Steve we don't have enough food. We got plenty, it's just up to him if he wants to accept it."

Ponyboy knows he shouldn't stick his nose where it doesn't belong and still. "So.... does that mean he's mad you went with Ivy?"

He can't keep an innocent tone in his voice same as Soda can't keep from giving a big, goofy grin. "Well, he don't know that yet. Not... entirely." He puts more chicken on the plate, smiling in that way he had back when Sandy had first gotten with him. "We had a great time though."

That's enough for Ponyboy to beam at him and for Soda to beam back with the biggest, sweetest smile he's ever seen. Maybe things were going to be okay.

Maybe he wasn't going to think about the fire or what the paper meant for just a little while longer.

It's not so hard when other greasers come to the table that night: Johnny on one side of him, Two-Bit on the other, with Two-Bit's kid sister Katie and Mrs. Mathews coming along with her dishes of green beans with neck bones and sweet cornbread. She doesn't complain about the beer that Two-Bit has and she laughs at the jokes they say. Dallas still won't bite into his chicken until Ponyboy does — helped when his own foot nudges Pony's under the table. Steve, if he's unhappy, mostly keeps it to himself, while Soda and Darry are mostly normal.

It's manageable, livable and Ponyboy makes sure he never looks at that newspaper the entire night.

It's enough that he realizes later that it's Halloween and not a single trick or treater has come.

"Last week, when we left off, I had some questions for you regarding your tactics in dealing with the 'Soc's' as you call them," Eugene rocks on the balls of his feet in the court room, his glasses shining, the expression on his face confident. "I would like to know more about that. There was an implication in your statement that you had previous skirmishes — run-ins with them before. Could you elaborate on that for me?"

Two-Bit adjusts his tie, pretty sure that his mother had done it too tightly on his neck. That morning had dawned blisteringly cold, with no reprieve for anyone. The shivers he'd had persisted until they'd climbed into the car, forcing it to heat up for the first ten minutes while his mother, sister, and Johnny all finished getting dressed.

Sure, his mother could've done it. It was better for him to do it, though. He'd been man of the house since he was twelve and even though being lazy usually was how he liked to do things, this was one of those times where it just wasn't going to work.

If anyone knew he'd been getting more responsible over the past few months, they'd laugh. They also wouldn't have had a week where every friend they'd had was getting jumped, where two of their youngest buddies might've been dead and came back very, very changed.

Two-Bit reasoned that if it could be better for him to help than sit on his ass, then so be it. Even if it was as small as making his mother coffee, getting Katie up, and getting the car warm and ready, he could do it. Even if it didn't stay after this, when things either went tits up or got better, it'd be remembered.

So he tries not to be too harsh on his mother, even if the tie is uncomfortable. "Sure, thing. Uh, I mean, yessir I can. A lot of those rich kids have been a pain in my ass ever since I was old enough to know I was poor, I guess." Two-Bit shifts in his seat, sitting up taller. "We could get jumped for anything – if my shoes looked too shabby, if my shirt wasn't fancy enough, if I don't know, my hair didn't look good enough. I could get jumped or yelled at on the street."

"Were any of these previous times ones that involved any measure of violence from any party?" Eugene asks, listening patiently.

"Almost always was violent," Two-Bit glances at Ponyboy and Johnny behind him. Johnny looks tired, really tired and Ponyboy's blonde hair looks slightly darker from his roots really coming in. "Any greaser could tell you that a Soc kid was always happy to fight even if you weren't. I've been chased in cars, gotten my money stolen, and I've had to use a blade to defend myself more than once 'cause of a Soc."

"Any greaser?" Eugene walks a little closer. "Would that include Johnny and Ponyboy as well?"

That's why we're here today, ain't it? Two-Bit hardly manages to bite his tongue, nodding. "Yessir."

Eugene seems almost like the cat that got the canary, then. "So, a typical encounter between the two groups, there's always been violence. Violence enough that you have carried weapons or sought out improvised weapons, and enough that you've always been cautious around others?"

"Yessir," Two-Bit nods. "I ain't scared of 'em. I haven't been scared since I was a little kid, but that don't mean others aren't."

"That night you were all out together, did you have a sense that there would be violence?" Eugene keeps his voice steady, his face coaxing. "Or did you believe that you were in danger?"

"I did. They threatened us first — said we shouldn't be around their girls. Randy, over there," Two-Bit gives a wink that could never be mistaken for friendly, "Was real emph- real... Shit, what's the word? Emphetic? Enthusiastic?" Two-Bit can hear a few peals of laughter and giggles, the least of them his mother. He wants her to laugh; she's been hanging onto every word in a way that was clearly concerned. He thinks Ponyboy mouths the right word, and he barrels on. "He was enthusiastic, telling us that we had no right to be around their girlfriends, even though the girls left 'cause they were getting sauced."

"Yes, yes, you mentioned that there were more of them than you," Eugene goes to grab his notes, checks them and approaches Two-Bit again. "Now, do you have any previous history or know of any previous history with the boys who attacked Johnny and Ponyboy that night?"

Two-Bit pauses, and then nods. "I do, sir. I can't prove it now — he's dead and all — that Bob Sheldon was hurting Johnny before all this. Johnny talked about getting jumped weeks back, and had a guy with rings do it. I think that was him. Even before then, though, I've been chased by him before, and that David kid. I don't know if my greasy mug is enough for them to remember, but I remember that car. That car was hard to miss."

Eugene doesn't look back at Johnny. Two-Bit, however, can see the shock on his face and the sudden alertness in Ponyboy's face. "Thank you, Mr. Mathews. Lastly, I just want to be sure: did you believe that they were in significant danger that night?"

Two-Bit remembers it. How he'd walked away from the lot, feeling lousy and confused and wanting. Why would a Soccy girl actually give him her real number? Who was gonna pick up the phone when he called and let him through — if the number was even real? Her folks would know immediately it was a hood on the other line, and then it'd all go to shit.

He'd gone and gotten soused, all those late hours and stumbled home. It had been two in the morning, and he'd walked up to the phone and he'd dialed that number he shouldn't have — not Marcia's, though. It was the number he'd found in the phonebook, the one that should be going to a place in Oklahoma City.

And every time, before someone could answer, he'd hung up. Knew even drunk that calling his father like that was a bad idea. Then he'd sunk into his bed, dreaming about another blonde and had woken up to the news, to the boy and the yawning pit of guilt he'd carried in his stomach for a week after. It was bad, mirroring all those moments he'd read in his biology book and the word drop. It had felt like his protective instincts had failed him, that he had somehow been responsible.

All that week he'd been in a guilty, upset state, one it had been so hard to crawl out of.

It makes answering simpler.

"They came into our neighborhood," Two-Bit locks eyes with Eugene, "They usually never venture far into our neighborhood. That park is so deep in, they'd had to come on purpose and for a long time. I headed home at midnight, and they did it hours later. There was no way that I thought they'd have come so deep — if I had, I would've had everyone inside, and safe. Hell no, I didn't think they were in any real danger. Kind of alpha, hell, what kind of friend would I have been to have let them go if I thought that?"

Eugene seems to approve. "Thank you, Mr. Mathews. No more questions."

Chapter Text

The amount of people around Ponyboy's locker immediately makes him regret the milkshake he's carrying. It had been Dallas' idea to take him to lunch with Johnny, and they'd gotten back a little after the bell. It had been a nice time, to just exist with them, to have a little bit of a reprieve that now felt terribly short with all the people there.

All those scents — some of them mixing with English Leather in a way that makes his stomach drop — in front of his locker, all those unfamiliar faces, the jeering has Ponyboy slouching, putting on a more Dallas like sneer on his face as he approaches. "You mind? I gotta get to class?"

One of the guys snickers, and some of the girls peel off automatically. The ones who stay seem to glare at him and god, Ponyboy wishes he had more greasers around him now. With the trial going on for over a week now, some people had already peeled away, disinterested.

Until now. Which meant something had gotten their interest again.

A teacher barks out a warning, and the Socs pull away from his locker. It's enough, however, to show what's on there before he's even fully where he needs to be and the sour feeling in his stomach deepens as he realizes what's on there: a newspaper clipping, the one from the Sunday paper. It's one where his eyes have been crossed over with two bold X's, with his mouth drawn over with a frown and his tongue sticking out, like a cartoon. Johnny is worse, an electric chair drawn around him, with the words DEAD GREASER! COME SEE HIM GET ELECTROCUTED FOR $5! PROCEEDS TO THE SHELDONS!

The worst part is Bob. They've drawn a halo around his head.

A ringing starts in Ponyboy's ears. It grows as he realizes there are more things written around Bob's beatific smile: We miss you, Bob! Bob, we love you!

It feels like a rad haze of anger engulfs him at that, at the halo there, at the words PROCEEDS TO THE SHELDONS!, at the well wishes. They'd never been chased by his car in the middle of the road, never seen their friend curled up and beaten in a lot, never been pushed underwater, thinking I'm drowning, they’ve gone too far, never had to think about what they would do when someone like Bob Sheldon wanted to use them for entertainment.

The scent of English Leather seems to grow, his hands shaking. He forgets the milkshake, forgets about looking like a good greaser kid, forgets about anything else except what's in front of him, just tearing at the newspaper at his locker. Trying to get rid of the idea of Bob as a good kid, trying to tear at the notion that Johnny was going to die, that he would go to prison for the rest of his life, trying to fight any of it, all of it.

He tears and tears at it until the newspaper is gone, until it's shoved into a trash can with everything else.

Ponyboy thinks of who could've done it — was it a classmate he knew? Was it an upperclassman? Was it someone who he talked to? Was it someone who he hadn't?

He grips the brim of the trashcan filled with the shreds of the paper for a moment, trying to beat back the red haze of anger, the nauseous phantom smell of English Leather and whiskey, and Bob's voice chasing him with, Give the dirty omega a bath.

He doesn't want to force himself into his classes anymore. All those A classes where everyone was a Soc except him, all those classes where he'd be stared at for when he'd taken out the switchblade in front of that pretty girl in yellow who looked at him as if he were dirt, all those classes full of Bob and Cherry and David and Randy's friends. All of them, there, smiling at him with smugness that they had rattled him, all of them waiting for him to crack.

Dallas' voice seeps into his mind, too: You get tough like me and you don't get hurt. You look out for yourself and nothin' can touch you.

Ponyboy reaches for the St. Christopher at his neck. Shuts his eyes, and concentrates on his mate's voice, on the savage, biting tone he had whenever he addressed a Soc, focuses on the toughness Dallas emanated.

He could do that for today. He could become cold and unfeeling towards them for just four hours.

He could.

Ponyboy pulls himself away from the trash can, and with some surprise, realizes that the milkshake is pooling on the floor.

It doesn't help that he thinks of Bob's body, and all the blood seeping out of him, too.

Instead of leaving it there, seeping onto the floor, Ponyboy goes to the boys bathroom and forces open the paper towel dispenser. He takes out as much as he can and gets to cleaning up what he can.

He could be tough, he could be cold. But he wasn't going to forget himself in the midst of it.

When he finishes, he barely is able to make it to study hall. He doesn't think he has to ask Johnny how he's doing, not with the way he's staring at his notebook, his fingers clenching his pencil.

Ponyboy sits down, and Johnny looks at him, his eyes wide. The scar on his temple looks stark against his skin, the one from Bob's rings. His hand shakes, and when Ponyboy looks down, he can see that Johnny's got a shredded piece of newspaper shoved in his textbook.

No. He doesn't have to ask at all.

There's nothing he can say that can help Johnny and nothing Johnny can say either. They can only sit in silence, hunched together, wishing to not be seen by their classmates, trying to get through another day together, trying to finish this trial without acknowledging the sword hanging above their heads, coming down closer and closer, day by day.

The newspaper is still on Ponyboy's mind that night, pushing a dish down into the warm, soapy water in front of him. He keeps thinking about some of the brief sentences he'd seen — Robert Sheldon Jr., was taken from his parents in an act of violence that Tulsa has never seen before — Ruth Sheldon was seen at his funeral, in a black veil that hid her grief stricken face —- Jennifer and Darrel Curtis were killed just this January in an automotive accident, leaving behind three sons — and how each one just felt sour in the back of his mouth.

He wants to concentrate on their plates, on cleaning them, and he tries as much as he can as he scrubs at them. Almost everyone had come around for dinner, even if it had been quiet. Dallas had come in later, taking his place on the couch but wasn't much to do today. He'd settled in, finished his food and was now dozing off while Two-Bit and Steve knocked their heads together, apparently thinking of a way to piss him off.

His thoughts turn around in his head: what was it going to be like when he got up there? What was it going to be like when Cherry got up there? It was going to be her, Johnny, or Ponyboy next. There was little chance that she would actually keep to her word.

That thought makes his head throb more than anything. When they'd talked that night, he'd thought maybe she could be a friend, someone to talk to. Right up until the end, when she'd said Ponyboy . . . I mean . . . if I see you in the hall at school or someplace and don’t say hi, well, it’s not personal or anything, but . . .

The sensation of his stomach dropping remains the same, that feeling of wanting the ground to swallow him as he puts another dish up. She'd said he was a nice boy, and yet. She'd still said that. She'd still gotten upset when he even suggested he see Johnny.

He wants to hate her. Ponyboy wants to hate her desperately in that moment, with as much hatred as Dallas could muster up for Socs, with as much hatred Tim Shepard could grip in his fist. Sure they saw the same sunset, but her view was different than his, wasn't it? It was one with lacy curtains and a full family, with a car she could get into and drive at any moment. One where she had money, where she didn't have to worry about a social worker tearing everyone apart or —

Water flicks his face and startled, Ponyboy jumps. In his vision, Soda materializes, all sunny blonde and big grin. "I see that finally got your attention!"

"Sorry," Ponyboy wishes he could muster up more for Soda, looking around. "I – what's going on? Who's calling for me?"

"Just me, is all," Soda picks up one of the drying cloths, pulling at one of the still soaking wet plates to clean it. "I was wondering what you were looking at so intense in the sink." He imitates Ponyboy then, his eyebrows working together, a concentrated expression on his face that Ponyboy can't help but smile a little bit at. "You looking at a book in there? Some sorta sudsy movie?"

Of course Soda was the one to be able to reassure Ponyboy then and there. A warm feeling of love courses through Ponyboy and he smiles wider. The only two people who could comfort him right now were Soda and Dallas, and he glances towards the couch where Dallas is dozing, then back at Soda. "I'm — I just can't stop thinking about everything is all. We got so much longer, and...."

Ponyboy doesn't want to go further. Doesn't want to see the way the silly expression slips away from Soda's face, replaced by what he sees for a moment is wide eyed, genuine fright. Things have such a hard time getting through to Soda at times, and in this moment, Ponyboy doesn't want to be the one to pierce through it all.

Except the words are already there, Soda's expression already changing — only instead of his face freezing in that mode of genuine fright, of that paralyzed fear Ponyboy knew only all too well at this point, something in him is different. The expression on his face is warmer, like their mother and it makes Ponyboy's chest ache seeing such a serious, such a firm expression on Soda's face as he reaches out to grasp Ponyboy's hand.

"Don't you worry," Soda's hand is warm on his, his voice firmer than what Ponyboy has ever seen before, "You're gonna be alright, honey. No matter what happens."

Soda can't guarantee. Ponyboy knows that now, that he can't guarantee the future. Still.

He squeezes his hand back. He smiles for Soda. "Okay, Soda."

"I mean it," Soda's voice shakes, and then he clears his throat. "I know — I know we've been having problems. And we- we fixed them. We're trying. And well — we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves, if something happened to you, you know? We went a whole week worrying about you, about if you were okay and I promise you, honey," his hand squeezes Ponyboy's, the way it had squeezes his hand when their parents had died and the caskets had come out. "We're gonna be here for you. You're gonna be okay."

Ponyboy can feel the urge to cry, his eyes and cheeks getting warm. "But Soda, what if – what it doesn't — If we get broken up, we –"

Darry would hate himself for what he'd done. Soda would break, be devastated. And Dallas —

Soda's arms come around him. Ponyboy wants to say I'm sorry I came in so late. I should've come right in with Johnny and slept and never gotten in trouble. I'm sorry I made you worry.

Instead, he holds Soda, thinking of his mother. Wishing he was hugging her.

Then there's a crash in the living room and both of them look up to see Dallas awake and annoyed, Steve smirking. Then Dallas gets up, shoves Steve back, and Soda shakes his head. "C'mon, let's finish these dishes, okay? You get all your homework done?"

Ponyboy walks back to the sink and sighs. "No. I still need to finish my algebra homework." He huffs. "Wish you used your head more for growing out all that hair — could use a math whiz around here that ain't Darry."

"I'll have you know," Soda tossed his still long, tough hair that Ponyboy envies so much more now, "My hair is the best in Tulsa. And I know plenty about math! I got enough to bring in money!" He grins and Ponyboy rolls his eyes. "Sides, my little brother's smart, you'll do okay."

Ponyboy washes up the dishes, watching as Dallas stalks over to the spare room. He wonders what he's doing, glancing over to Soda. There's an urge to lean into the cheer, but...

He keeps his voice low. "The Socs been trying to pick at me," Ponyboy keeps his voice low as they work, watching as Darry goes to the back of the house, probably to iron their suits now that the dining room was clean. Two-Bit and Steve are watching the television, Ponyboy resolutely keeping his eyes on the dishes in front of him, not wanting to look at Soda's face as he talks. "They uhm — left stuff on my locker and stuff. Taunting me."

There's a sound of a towel being used too hard on a dish. "Ponyboy. What did they leave?" A slight tremor runs through Soda's voice.

"Dumb comics about Johnny in the electric chair," the words come rushing out, Ponyboy sticking his hands into the dishwater faster, the suds splashing up. The bottom can't be seen clearly now, and neither can his face, "They left them there, all pinned up. It's not – It's not a big deal."

This time, Soda's hand wraps around his elbow. Ponyboy looks over to him, and there's an anger there he's rarely ever seen on Soda's face — and one he's clearly seen on their mother's face. "Don't you dare let them know that you're upset. Don't say or do nothing, they're just trying to get you in trouble." Soda squeezes on his arm. "You hear me, Pony? They're chickens, and you're – you're braver than them. Don't you forget that."

Soda's gaze is so lively, so determined, so like their mother that Ponyboy can feel the ache for her expand for the first time in months. "I won't. I promise."

He thinks Soda will hug him again but this time, he looks a little more defeated, a little sadder. "Okay, honey. You're safe. You got friends at school, and you got the whole pack looking after you."

"And Dally," Ponyboy adds softly. "Dally's always looking out for me."

"Yeah. Dally too," Soda says.

In dreams, there's rarely any sound or color there for Dallas. He knows it's more of a memory than a dream this time, being able to see the dark brown of his father's eyes, able to hear his voice as he talks. It's not in English — the dream muddles the words together, what he does and doesn't understand, turning syllables and consonants on each other into something unintelligible.

The meaning, though, isn't lost even in dreams.

This is a memory he's inhabited for a long time now. It's hard not to; he was eight years old at the time, right before he'd lost his hearing in his left ear. There was no way he could've heard it any other time, crouched at the door, peering into the table ringed with men in suits, smoking, counting money.

His father speaks, finger wagging, and even though the words are mangled, Dallas remembers. That's what happens when you got a mate. You get sloppy, you get slow. Mates aren't for anyone to have. The derision is clear in any language, any form.

The men around him don't disagree. Half are wearing wedding rings, much of them smoking, nodding along. Their faces are blurry, indistinct here in the dream. Someone says Wives, husbands. You can work with that. Mates? I had a cousin get lured in a podunk down, and get killed over a mate. I told him not to, and he did it anyway.

No mates. No mates, his father shakes his head again. The wedding ring he has himself, glints and Dallas looks at it, at how bright it is. When he'd been so young, it had been something tantalizing.

The dream shifts as it always does when he focuses on the brightness of the ring. The bright, sunny day that had illuminated the kitchen before vanishes, replaced by a dark one. There is no no one else there except him, watching his mother with her pregnant belly making food for his father. His jaw smarts from earlier, his stomach is twisted up with need for a meal yet it's now what she's making that he focuses on.

It's his father's face he concentrates on: the sharpness of those dark eyes, the relaxed set to his face, the open want and need for her. Dallas soaks up the intensity of it, the love there that's never been directed at himself yet is so open, so hungry for his mother.

What's more surprising is the way his mother returns it: the smile on her face that's drenched in warmth, the softness of her touch when she playfully shoves at her husband's shoulder, the pleasure she has in carrying his child.

Dallas looks and looks, wanting that. Wanting what it would feel like to have someone else's hand in his, wanting the happy smile of someone he loved, wanting the happiness they carried together, wanting the love that existed between them as his mother takes his father's hand, to help her sit better.

That is what love is, between them. A love that he didn't have at that age, yet as the dream loses color, as the focus gets more muddled, he knows he has now. He has it, in Ponyboy's hazel eyes, in his smile that he gives him, in his hand in his. He can give him, wants to give him all of these things, yet the dream reminds him of what's at stake, with Ponyboy's fingers slipping out of his hand, with the sudden appearance of cops, waiting to take him away.

Even though Ponyboy begs him for help, even though Dallas knows he has a gun, that he can yell, he can scream, he's rooted to the spot in the dream. He can't hear Ponyboy yelling for help, can't do anything except to watch as he's dragged away.

It's an unpleasant way to wake up: his eyelids snapping open, grasping for Ponyboy desperately in front of him. There's nothing solid to grasp on to — just the open air of the space beside him in the bed. Dallas sits up, pushing his hand against his forehead, able to hear the television still.

It must not have been long, he'd been out. Those memories weren't new, yet....

Thinking about his father has never been good. His father was imposing for many, many reasons and there was no way that Dallas could even consider going back to him in New York. The first reason being he wasn't even allowed to and the second reason being that going back would be costly, especially now.

Thinking of reaching out to him of all people for help, was laughable.

But....

Dallas had read that newspaper that had come out. He can still recite bits of it to himself: While the defense has been pushing a story of so-called 'self-defense' it seems unlikely that the Judge Cross will see it that way. While the story of Bob Sheldon has emerged of a boy who has taken in some common vices, there is still no reason to believe that the delinquents — so adamantly defended — have a leg to stand on with self defense. Testimony points to the idea that both sides of this teen-age argument were at fault, with no clear winner. It seems likely that charges of manslaughter will be laid and prosecuted, given the loss of life.

Given the loss of life.

As if Bob Sheldon was worth a goddamn thing. Dallas thinks bitterly of him, that image of him in the newspaper, smiling. As if he hadn't gotten off on threatening and hurting kids, as if he was worth more than any of them because he was born with a silver spoon up his ass and the dynamic to go with it.

Dallas breathes in the pillow beside him, filling up with Ponyboy's scent.

He needed to stop thinking of things going even remotely well. Reassurances were one thing — to go through with it, was another.

Dallas considers his father's face, those mob men around him, the connections he could have. He weighs the risk of going back to New York against what it would be like to see Ponyboy, being forced away from him for years and years.

Ponyboy weighs more heavily, in his head. His mating mark throbs on his neck and Dallas bites the inside of his cheek, unable to sink them into Ponyboy's tender neck.

Whose hair styles are out of this world / Whether it's straight or bouffant or it's curled / My baby my baby my baby

The Temptations spills out over the radio, Ponyboy turning the dial up as Dallas drives down the main road to the courthouse. Dallas doesn't mind it; Ponyboy has a pretty good taste in music he doesn't mind indulging at all.

They'd left earlier than everyone else, piling into the car with their breakfast and in Dallas' case, a thermos of too hot coffee. The car drives well down the streets, people coming out of their houses or already on the road for work. Dallas hears Ponyboy tap his foot against the car, reading over his assignment. The mating mark on his neck is far too pale for Dallas' liking, and as much as he wants to lean over, sink his teeth into it, he can't. Not with how things were going now.

It would be a bad, stupid idea for Ponyboy to come to the courthouse like that and Dallas has to remind himself of that as they make their way down the street. "You talk to Johnny about this at all?"

Not that he knew what they talked about at all. They both were so damn quiet, Ponyboy always prone to talk for Johnny. It was cute, the way Ponyboy always tried to help. But hell, as far as Dallas knew, they were talking in just hand gestures or telepathy.

"Not much," Ponyboy admits, his voice low. "It's — it's a lot to think about now." He turns the page, peeking up to look at Dallas through his still too blonde hair. "I don't know what to say half the time. Or... I guess I know Johnny understands me. We don't have to talk about everything yet." He looks like he wants to say more, thinks better of it and shrugs. "I talked to Soda last night. That was it."

That made sense. A little relieving actually, Dallas turning sharply into the courthouse parking lot. Ponyboy swears — really, it wasn't that harsh of a turn — as the car gets in, his book falling between his legs.

Grinning, Dallas guides the car down the small mostly gravel parking lot. Already standing there is Ivy Ueda and her second in command, Mimi. Both of them wave, Ivy sharply moving her head to the right in a clear signal. Trusting her, Dallas turns his head to the direction and almost slams on the brake in reflex.

Standing there was one of the cops he'd bumped into the most around town: The Captain. Most everyone just called him that, as he was a tall alpha with sandy-reddish hair and probably one of the friendlier ones. He'd been a vet, always had something to say about it and hence, just the name the Captain.

And apparently, it had slipped Dallas' mind what his last name was. Because he was helping what appeared to be his teenage daughter out of his car: Cherry.

He'd never thought about her last name or her hair until now. Seeing things now, with how she resembled him as she stepped out in a coat, her red hair whipping around, it feels obvious. Of course she talked about calling the fucking cops at a movie theater. She was a cop kid's daughter.

"No way," Ponyboy breathes out, having come to the same conclusion. The Captain was usually fair, even though Dallas had run into him countless times at the county jail. Realizing that Cherry was his kid, that raised the stakes higher than what Dallas liked.

The Captain doesn't notice, helping Cherry inside, his arm over her shoulders.

Chapter Text

Dread pools in Ponyboy's stomach so solidly that he thinks he can taste bologna in the back of his mouth as he walks into the courtroom pushing Johnny's wheelchair in front of him. The wheels squeak and whine as they go, his hands clammy around the handlebars.

In front of him, he can see Johnny's nails are like claws on the tops of his thighs. He doesn't have to look very far to see where his eyes are focused: Cherry Valance, sitting on the other side of the courtroom, her red hair cascading down her back, her back ramrod straight in front of him. There's no indication from her stiff back that she knows that they're approaching, and when he and Johnny take their seats, she sits still as a statue, as if she had always existed in the court room and never anywhere else.

How had he never known she was the Captain's daughter? How had they never connected the dots?

Ponyboy thinks back to what she'd said at the movie theater, about calling the cops. His palms sweat more, and he wipes them at the top of his slacks desperately to try and be calmer.

It just isn't working, as they go through the usual rounds, his heart hammering in his chest. It feels as if he's both glued to the bench of the court house, forced to watch something he doesn't want to see and as if he wasn't in the room at all, staring at something unreal as Cherry stands up in a black dress, making her way to the stand.

It's a dress that doesn't suit her, he can see that —- something about it should be for someone older than her, twice her age. The dress is pitch black, with a slightly flared skirt that makes her look dourly serious as she walks up. Her father sits there, her mother absent from the bench. The Sheldons are there too, Mrs. Sheldon wiping at her pale face, and Ponyboy avoids her eyes, not wanting to see the daggers she always has for him.

If it wasn't her, it'd be Dick Sheldon who's mercifully absent.

Beside him, he can see Johnny's eyes are glued to Cherry as she puts her hand on the Bible, swearing to tell the truth. He can see his scar pulsing on his skin, both of them watching Cherry ascend the steps and take a seat.

She looks both too old and too young, Ponyboy realizes. The dress isn't suited for her, makes her look too much like a widow, and yet the puff of her cheeks, the way her hair is styled seems too young on her too, too doll-like in an odd way.

Her eyes connect with his.

He stiffens, the way he had in the movie theater when she'd said, What’s a nice, smart kid like you running around with trash like that for?

Trash. She'd called Dallas trash.

The same Dallas she'd said she'd fall in love with.

Ponyboy holds onto that as tight as he can.

At Bob's funeral, Cherry had felt something inside of her she couldn't describe sitting there, a black veil over her face, her hands balled up in front of her. She supposes it was grief inside of her, an odd sort of grief that didn't match the sorrow her mother wore around the house whenever she talked about her dead brother or the way Bob's mother had with her face pinched and pale beneath her veil. It was something that made her choke up, thinking of how beautiful he looked smiling at her, and made her sick to her stomach at times when she remembered how that beautiful face could transform into anger in the car whenever they fought over his drinking.

As she steps into the stand in front of the courtroom, she feels caught between the raw anguish that kept her up some nights, thinking of how he'd always opened doors for her, always held her hand in the hallways, mixing up with the many times he'd been stabbed over and over again, the pale face resting in his coffin and the version of him that has been talked about in court now, the kind of Bob that had chased the two greasers sitting at the bench, dressed in ill fitting suits, one of them seated in a wheelchair.

She can feel her heart hammering in her chest as Mr. Shaw stands up, adjusting his belt buckle, his facial expression respectfully cautious. "Your name, for the record, is Sherri Valance?"

"Yessir," she looks at him, her fingers balled up in her lap, her nails digging into her palm, her mouth forming words slowly, as if she were underwater, her body taut. "All my friends and family call me Cherry, though."

"Would it be alright to call you Cherry, then, Miss?" She nods mutely. Shaw continues with, "Thank you, Cherry. My first question for you is what is your relation to this case?"

"Bob — Bob was my boyfriend," Cherry answers, trying to keep her eyes solely on Shaw in front of her. It's simpler to keep her eyes there, to not look behind him at Ponyboy with his still oddly blonde hair with darkened roots with brown eyes boring into hers or Johnny with his big, frightened eyes in his wheelchair. "I was — We were out on a date, at first, that night."

"Was that your first time out together?"

She thinks of Bob, how he'd approached her a summer ago. His smile, how his scent had mixed with English Leather, and how charming he'd been. How respectful he'd been. "N-No. We've been dating since last summer. We knew each other before, when I met him when we were kids. Uh, when I was twelve. That's when we were first in class with each other." She can almost envision the way he'd sat at his desk all those years ago, how she had thought something about his smile had been captivating, how she'd flushed and not known what to do with those feelings. "We've always been a grade apart or so."

Shaw nods, his face softening, having that pitying look so many adults have now. Cherry can feel a lump in her throat. "Can you tell us about Bob, when you both dated? We've heard very little about him outside of other contexts."

She swallows, her hand shaking in her lap even though she's trying to make it stop, trying to be steady here, trying to live up to her father's image of her. "Bob is — was, a great guy. He was a – a leader, almost. He had a way with words, he always just wanted to have a fun time. He used to take me out to the Ribbon, would sit down and do homework with me whenever I asked. A real gentleman." Cherry feels her throat gum up, and she fights, tries to get the words out lest she never say them at all. "He wasn't perfect, though. Sometimes he had a side to him that — that I didn't like to see. A side of him that I still loved, I guess."

Her voice falters. She thinks she can see Bob in the sunlight, thinks she can scent his English Leather against her nose and how comforting it was. She clears her throat, swallows down the feeling that she's betraying him by talking, that she's disappointing her family, disappointing his family.

Shaw looks sad, and still he presses on. "The Bob that you knew, Miss Valance, was he a boy taken to drinking?"

"He was," Cherry can feel some sweat start to spring up on her skin, can feel all the eyes from the court on her. "He used to break into his Dad's cabinet sometimes, him and Randy. They'd put water in and fill up their canteens with it." She knows that what she's saying won't look good, that people are going to be upset and she presses on. "Sometimes I'd drink with him — after awhile, though I just didn't much like it. Drink changes people, I think. It changed Bob."

"How did it change him? Was it only when he was drinking?"

Cherry looks into the stands before her. Looks at Johnny and Ponyboy's pale faces.

Memories wash over her, as if they were yesterday: Bob pinning Valentine's to her locker; Bob drinking from the flask in his car, sulking; Bob standing up in class, pushing against the teacher in front of him; Bob between her thighs, grinning at her mischievously; Bob stumbling beside her, his breath heavy with whiskey; Bob's rings glinting as he shows them off to her on a summer day; Bob yelling at a greaser as they went down the road together, his laugh bright; his mother looking at her, her eyes the same as Bob's, demanding that Cherry do what she needed to do.

More recent memories surface up: the ones of greasers stiffening, glaring at her as she followed Marcia into the dark of the bonfire she'd only ever heard tales about. Her mother at the kitchen table, urging her with soft words, You can't let those animals win this, Sherri. You know that. You know that Bob was a good boy.

Her father's voice inside of her head, the one she's always looked up to. You're a good girl, Sherri. I've always raised you to be a good girl, to do the right thing. No matter what.

Randy's voice, the disbelief in it, the shame washes over her.

She has to tell the truth. She has to.

Cherry can't make herself look up from her hands.

Her eyes blur with tears. "I'm sorry — can I take a break?"

Normally by now, Dallas would be off on a job or he'd be pacing around, waiting for all of this to end. Instead, he's on his third Kool of the morning, looking at the courthouse with a sort of nervousness he rarely ever felt. It wasn't as if the emotion wasn't a real one – just one he'd never allowed to distract or grip him the way it does now. Almost every nerve was primed in fight or flight, aware that the odds had changed drastically.

Of all things he'd considered in the years, the Captain being Cherry's father hadn't been a true possibility. There's a bitter, potent contrast he thinks of: his father, always a lifelong criminal in suits and a haughty, terrifying demeanor who only raised a hand to hit him up against the image of Captain Valance, the man who Dallas had once thought of as not one of the bad cops, one of the ones who wouldn't just throw you into the jail without a real reason. He'd been the type of cop willing to look the other way, willing to at least listen to an excuse or an explanation. He'd never drawn his gun, and the few times he'd arrested Dallas, he'd been almost reluctant to do so, as if he thought Dallas was somehow different or a time or two, as if he'd rather laugh at Two-Bit's jokes rather than arrest him.

Cops were never friends — reluctant allies maybe, someone who you could use if the threat was large enough. Being Cherry's father was a whole other ball game.

Thinking about all those genial times makes the Kool taste bigger in his mouth, Dallas' body tensing up. It brings back all those memories of his father's iron gaze, Steve's father and the ugly expressions he always wore, of Mr. Cade and his grim face. With them, there was always that singular feeling of deep, abiding distrust inside of him that always cropped up when it came to fathers, men in positions they shouldn't have. Men who had power that they could hold over him in a way he never considered before.

He leans against the courthouse wall, his mind buzzing with the knowledge, with a sense of deepening dread in him. All Dallas wanted to do was go in there, grab Ponyboy and Johnny and get them out of there. Get them away from the skewed testimony of a cop's daughter who was certainly going to say and do anything to please him, to make sure he came out on top.

If only the fucking church hadn't burned down. If only he had money to get them on a plane somewhere, far away from Tulsa. Just thinking about it is crazy; Johnny still cared about his damn parents for some reason and Ponyboy's brothers would be devastated if he were gone. Their families still gave a damn —- even if Dallas, when it got down to it, wanted Ponyboy most of all.

The door to the side of the courthouse opens, and Dallas glances over, expecting it to be a lawyer or a greaser or something else.

Not, to his anger and surprise, Captain Valance. He's still dressed to the nines, in a suit that looks like it was an expensive, custom cut. Now that Dallas knows who he's connected to now, he can see how much of Cherry is in him, from the way he walks, to the red hair, to the way he looks around. It's similar to how Cherry had done when they were at the movie theater, determined.

Dallas remains where he is, taking another drag off of his Kool as the Captain walks further into the cold morning. The breeze picks up his hair, and scent and Dallas thinks of all the times he'd felt somewhat grateful that he'd shown up to something. All the times where he thought maybe he wasn't so bad and it makes him feel angrier and angrier.

Not enough to move, not enough to directly speak to the Captain as he seems to pause, consider something. Then he turns, his eyes locking onto Dallas' form and the smile he usually gave to signal himself as one of the friendlier cops feels off to Dallas for the first time ever. It reeks of something fake — and Dallas doesn't move from his spot as the Captain walks over to him with long strides he's seen on Cherry. "Dallas. It's been awhile since I've seen you."

No joke leaves Dallas' lips this time, no jibe that could be mistaken as vaguely friendly. "Haven't given you reason to, have I?"

The look on his face isn't nearly as genial as it used to be as the Captain gets closer, almost at arm's length. Dallas can scent the cologne he wears, not at all covering up the alpha scent he has. "No, I suppose you haven't. You've been keeping your nose cleaner than I ever expected you to." He raises his eyebrows at Dallas, still attempting to be nice, disarming. "I didn't keep up with Ed as much as I wanted to this year; I'm shocked he allowed your friends to be initiated at such young ages."

God, the reminder of Ed makes Dallas almost see red with anger. "Ed's got his business and you've got yours, don't you?" He blows smoke in the man's direction, not willing to play this game too much more. "They're greasers. That's what we all do, eventually."

The Captain takes another step. "Ed and I haven't talked in awhile. Not after I realized that he knew you were involved in all of this." He thumbs towards the courthouse, and Dallas knows what's coming before maybe even he does. There were too many times when his father would wind up like this, and it always ended in Dallas in pain or fighting back and Dallas wasn't a little kid — he has inches on the Captain now. "I can tell you, it wasn't pleasant hearing about how you were bothering my little girl that night."

Dallas sneers at him. "Oh, she wasn't a little girl when I sat down next to her that night."

It's just like provoking his father. Getting it over with and Valance like Cherry takes the bait with how quickly he strides over, blocking Dallas' sight as best he can. A hand hits the brick on Dallas' left side and it doesn't bother him from the force or the arm barring an escape that way out. It's not like the Captain knew he couldn't hear on that side anyway.

"Now Dallas," his voice is hardly wearing a veneer of politeness, his scent angry, and Dallas can see him fighting the urge to bare his fangs at him like any other greaser would. "We are outside of a courthouse and as much as I wouldn't mind showing you how to behave, I don't think my friend, Judge Cross, would appreciate it."

That gets Dallas' attention, makes his body tense in a way he wasn't anticipating it would. Now it's him fighting not to bare his teeth and Valance who's got the upperhand. "See, that's the Dallas I know," Valance continues, his voice dropping, "Uncivilized like the rest of you. I know what Cherry is going to say on that stand better than you. Unlike you, she has a family that gives a goddamn about her future, about her well-being as a good girl." Valance's voice is pure venom and Dallas hates how his heart is starting to beat faster and faster in his chest. "I know you're kind, I've arrested and jailed so many of you that it would make your headspin. I know you looked at her the way all of your greasy no-good hoods have — you wanted to bite her before you ever bit that kid, didn't you? String her out, make her want you while you played with that kid?"

Spit hits Dallas' face. He blows smoke into the man's face, refusing to appear afraid, refusing to give him anything except defiance. "You're just pissed off she was acting like one of us! She's the one —"

The Captain presses his arm against Dallas' neck faster than what Dallas expects and Dallas snarls, trying to push him off. The Captain keeps pressing, his voice lower. "Sherri isn't like you, isn't like the rest of you greasers. She has a family that gives a good goddamn about her future! All you have are those drunks I'm always having to pick off the streets, the ones who just beat you instead of saying a word or they're dead because they didn't have the sense to get out of the way of a train!" Anger surges up hotly in Dallas' mind, his vision almost going white and he hates how much he can't move, with his neck pinned like this, clawing at the Captain's arm for release, trying to shove him off. "But you're not really like them, are you? See, when your face made the paper, I thought maybe you weren't like the rest of them —"

"I ain't you fucking —"

" — maybe you rescued those kids cause you had some sense," The Captain is really pinning him, "Until I got a call from someone in New York. Someone who said they knew exactly who you were and even over the phone I could tell they was a guinea."

It feels like a hunk of ice just dropped into Dallas' belly at the words. Not at the swear, not at what he thinks Valance wanted it to do. The vicious way he smiles, Valance has no clue what it really meant to have had someone from New York call, and Dallas feels as if he's going to get sick as Valance continues on. "You think someone wouldn't find out? Did you think —"

"Charlie?" A separate voice breaks over them, a woman's that's reedy and concerned.

Dallas doesn't look. The Captain does, and he pulls away, finally granting Dallas air. He coughs, tries to suck it in, his cigarette forgotten. He keeps his eyes averted, as he hears those boots click on the ground and the creak of a door closing.

None of that matters. None of that fucking matters.

A voice he hasn't thought about in years washes over him and he's ten years old: Your father's decided that you are exiled, not just from his home but from New York entirely for ten years. From this moment, this minute.

Blindly, he stumbles onto his feet, moving as quickly as he can to his car, his fingers fumbling for the keys, and then he's hitting the road, his palms sweating, his breath shallow, feeling a different kind of fear than what he had in a long, long time.

The past could catch up to him in a way he'd never expected, and if it did, there was no telling how badly this could go.

Cherry knows that her cheeks are splotchy, and that she looks paler than ever as she takes her seat back in the court room. She looks at her family — her father's patient face, her mother's pinched one — and back to the lawyer in front of her. Her eyes still feel wet, her cheeks still swollen as everyone takes their places again.

"Could you ask me the question again, please?" She holds her head up high.

"We were speaking about Bob," Shaw stands up again. "We spoke about the alcohol he had — did his demeanor only change when he was drinking? Or was this something you witnessed in other ways?"

Cherry thinks about her father, about how he'd raised her to be a good person, to do the right thing. She considers Randy's fears, how her classmates would respond to her in this moment, thinks of Bob's family.

Would they hate her, no matter what she said or did?

Could she live with herself, if she didn't say the truth?

Cherry clenches her fist. "When Bob drank, I'd like to say that he – he became an entirely different person. It felt like he did sometimes, sir. He would get real rowdy, he'd pick fights with me and Randy, he used to always insist on getting his own way no matter what that way was. I used to get into it with him, about his drinking. I always thought it made Bob less of who he was." She takes a deep breath. "He wasn't just like that with the drinking, though. Not always. Sometimes, he'd make mean comments about greasers, about our classmates even if I'd heard him say or do something that was the opposite of that minutes before." She can feel sweat breaking out on her brow, as she continues on. "I can't say that it was only the drink, sir. I think — I think there was something about him, sometimes that was – wasn't pleasant. That maybe drinking brought out of him more than anything else." Heat washes over her face — shame, guilt that at one point she had ignored it, that she had pretended it wasn't there.

She can't tell if Shaw is wanting that answer. Not with the way his mouth works, his mustache shifting as he listens.

Cherry can't make herself look at Johnny or Ponyboy, her eyes dropping back to her hands. Shaw inhales, and follows up with, "Do you think that those moments where you say Bob was not on his best behavior — do you think those moments were ever violent?"

"Are you asking me if Bob ever hurt me?"

Shaw looks to the judge, then back at her. "I'm asking if you ever thought he was capable of violence, Ms. Valance."

"Not until that night," she says softly, feeling shame on her shoulders. "I never thought Bob would really hurt anyone, hurt a fly. I always thought maybe he was just – just trying to show off or boast. I never thought he'd actually hurt someone until I saw how angry he was when the boys tried to walk me home that night. I hate – I hate fighting, you know? I just hate it and – and when that bottle got broken, I knew, something in me knew that he wasn't bluffing when he said he'd fight that night."

Tears blur her vision again. Cherry fights them off, lapsing into silence.

She didn't know who or what she was mourning in that moment: Bob, the idea of Bob, her relationship with him, or what this would do to all of that. What anyone else would think of her.

The rest of the questions blur together until they're finally dismissed, done for the day. She never dares to look at Ponyboy or Johnny or their lawyer, mutely walking behind her parents to the car.

She takes a seat in the back, the car silent for a few moments, as everyone files out. Her eyes are glued to her lap, even as her father softly says in that loving, reassuring voice of his, "You did great up there, Sherri."

When she looks up to see his eyes on her in the mirror, she sees something like pride there and the dam breaks on her tears all over again.

Chapter Text

The night is cold, and Ponyboy thinks of the church on Jay Mountain in the eerily quiet house. Not for the first time, he wants to go back to Jay Mountain, wants to go retreat into the little church where he used to think no one would find them ever again. Once upon a time, that had been a terrifying prospect, to be forgotten by everyone, to be up there alone where only he and Johnny could find each other, where if something happened to Dallas, no one would know they were there.

Now, that doesn't seem so bad to go back to that place, away from civilization, away from Bob Sheldon's dead body, away from a courthouse where Cherry Valance cried, away from Soc's pinning things to his locker, away from prying eyes and the fear that maybe these would be his last days free. He wants to bring everyone up there with him, wants to just curl up there with his pack there and sleep.

It would be better than being awake right now, watching Dallas sleep beside him as lights from the neon signs outside of Buck's glowed, washing over his skin in blue and then red and then pink and red again. They shouldn't be here; Darry was clear about that.

Ponyboy hadn't questioned it — he was too exhausted and too distracted with how oddly Dallas had been acting after that day in court. There was no way he knew the specifics, and when Ponyboy had said a few words about it, his jaw had clenched, his fist had clenched the clutch so hard that his fingers had turned white. At the time, Ponyboy had just been resigned to the usual anger.

Except it hadn't let up: his scent was still aggravated, off when he'd picked up Ponyboy from school that day, and he'd been distracted, overprotective the rest of the time. His hands kept coming to scent Ponyboy when they had driven to Buck's, came to touch the inside of his wrist when they had shared dinner, had been brushing against the mating mark the entire time they had kissed each other, the entire time he had fingered Ponyboy to a needy, throaty orgasm.

It hadn't been like normal, when they had collided together with need. This had been different: the flash of Dallas' fangs was stark, the grip on Ponyboy's neck had been tight, fingernails digging into the skin, and he'd kissed Ponyboy over and and over again with such fervor, Ponyboy was sure he might've passed out from need. It was need against need against need in that moment — a need he didn't know Dallas needed so much, didn't understand where the desperation was so much that he hadn't done anymore more than rock into Ponyboy after, shuddering in the dark as Ponyboy held him.

There had been no words exchanged beyond the I love you Ponyboy said, accentuated by every shiver Dallas gave, his arms wrapping tighter around Ponyboy in the darkness. He'd wanted to ask, wanted to pry, but it had been Dallas who had dropped to sleep first, and Ponyboy was...

He was scared to ask. What could scare Dallas like that? What could make him so desperate like this?

Exhausted, scared, Ponyboy hadn't asked.

Even now, in sleep, Dallas has Ponyboy pulled close to him, his arms wrapped around him, his nose buried in his hair, his immense back facing the door. It was just overprotective in ways that Ponyboy had never seen before.

It scares him almost out of his mind as much as it comforts him, that Dallas is this close. He needs him here, needs Dallas here to ground him, remind him of where he was. That he wasn't in a courthouse watching Cherry sob talking about how Bob was good one moment and the next saying that maybe he wasn't perfect. He needed to have Dallas close to him, needs to have his scent around him and on him instead of thinking about when he'd passed her earlier that day in the high school. It anchors him better than when they'd locked eyes and Cherry had said Congratulations.

Ponyboy doesn't push Dallas away. He doesn't question him. Just wraps his arms around him too, worrying about him, about all of this. Worrying about how he'd watched Johnny say almost nothing for the rest of the day, except to shred what was left of his nails.

Times like these, Ponyboy wishes he was good at lying to himself. Wishes he could lie and lie to himself that everything would be okay, that everything would work out, that things were assured.

He tries his damndest to. Tries to lie himself back to the church, back to a time where Johnny didn't have a beam hitting his back. Tries to lie that Dallas was there too, and they were all safe in a church that could never burn down, a church that could keep them hidden away for the rest of their lives.

And if he could lie like that? Ponyboy lies more, lies about his parents being alive, lies about the pack being together. He lies and lies until he's dreaming of Soda on his ornery Mickey Mouse, until he's dreaming about his mother being alive, picking him up like he did as a kid, his arms around her, back in her golden warmth.

Some time in the night he wakes up to Dallas saying something in his ear. The words are muddled, mixed up and Ponyboy doesn't understand what he's saying. All he can murmur out, sleep thick and heavy, is, "Love you, Dally."

It hangs thickly in the air between them, his hands finding Dallas' own. They tangle up together more, and their breathing matches, going slower and slower until they're both asleep again and in dreams, Ponyboy is beneath him, the expanse of Dallas' body covering the stars. His eyes are dark in his face, and his hands are gripping Ponyboy's face as he strokes into him, as he tells him over and over in dreams that they're safe.

He believes him.

The morning is dark, with little noise to it, and Ponyboy doesn't want to move away from the safe warmth of Dallas' body, doesn't want to pull himself out of the covers or Dallas' scent. There is no part of him that wishes to put on the suit he has, to go back to that court room and keep on this journey to the inevitable end.

That's all that they can do though, moving around the bedroom, getting washed, dressed and making their way to Dallas' car in the darkness. It's fully autumn now, and Ponyboy hates how many of these dark mornings now lie before him. There's so much more ahead of him, making every step more tiring than the last, slumping into the car seat just a moment before Dallas can.

The car's lights fall upon a familiar car housing a familiar hump. Ponyboy is too tired to feel anything except a small, dull spark of anger in him at the realization that it's Irene Cade. He just turns his head away, preferring to watch Dallas chug down some water, turning on the car with a growl. Warm air gusts over them both, Ponyboy shutting his eyes against it, wishing this suit was gone.

"D'you think Johnny's okay?" Slips out of his mouth, not wanting to see Dallas' face when he says the words. "With everything?"

"You two ain't exchanging conversation with each other the usual way, with smoke signals and grunts?" The reply is said with a lace of humor, just enough to let Ponyboy know that Dallas is sort of back to normal. That has him easing into his seat as Dallas waits for the car to warm up a little more, the air warming his legs.

He thinks about it: about all the times they've been in class together or the court room or just alone. "No," the word is said slowly, thoughtfully, "We ain't. We just — everytime we get some breathing room it's like — it's like that's all we can do. Breathe." The engine turns over, the car gliding out of the parking lot to the street, the lights glowing distantly against the black of Ponyboy's eyelids. "We've talked about everything just... once or twice, maybe." Ponyboy cracks open his right eye, watching Dallas turn the wheel with a look of concentration, his brown jacket back on him for once.

The black stain from the fire on it looks smaller when the jacket is on his shoulders and not Ponyboy's. "I ain't talk to him about it either." Dallas shrugs, "I ain't much one for conversation but..." His thumb taps against the wheel. "Maybe you should go on, talk to him today more than just breathing like cavemen."

"Oh shut up," Ponyboy grumbles, turning his head on the seat. It's not enough, Ponyboy moving across the car to put his head on Dallas' lap. There's warmth, comfort there, and he shuts his eye again. "Just drive, okay?"

As an answer, Dallas' hand tugs against his ear, then settles into his hair, rubbing at his scalp. A wave of calm works it's way from that spot, down his body as Dallas rubs in small circles. Time seems to stretch out, trapping them in this moment of comfort. There is no court case, there are no scars on his body, there is no thinking of Is Johnny okay? in his mind. There's just him and Dallas and the ease of the car as they move through the streets.

Until it's not, the car coming to a steadier halt than what Ponyboy is used to.

And with it, goes the semblance of peace.

Her dress feels as uncomfortable as ever as Cherry takes the stand again. She'd hand washed it, as soon as she had gotten home and it had gone into the dryer soon after. The shower she had, the sleep she'd taken that afternoon before school had been as refreshing as Cherry had gotten.

Ponyboy and Johnny both look at her from their positions at the courtroom, dressed in suits again, their hair done in a way that is entirely like other greasers. Cherry can't keep her eyes on them for long, not when she can see the mottled dark look of the mating mark on Ponyboy's neck he failed to cover up or how Johnny sits awkwardly in the wheelchair he has, that squeaks with tiny movements.

Instead, she keeps her eyes on their lawyer, with his close cut black hair, his rimmed glasses and the nice, wine red dark suit he has on him as he walks up to her. "Good morning, Ms. Valance. I'm Eugene Hall, and I'll be speaking to you today." Cherry nods mutely in acknowledgement. "Yesterday, you spoke about Mr. Sheldon's behavior, and the propensity for violence he displayed. Were you entirely unaware of any violence he might've committed before that night?"

Cherry takes a breath. "I was. The only — the only time I knew that Bob had been violent to anyone was when... when Ponyboy talked to me that night in the popcorn line." Her voice fades, able to see people focus in on her in a way they haven't before. Sweat starts to dart her face, and her cheeks flush. "We spoke in the line together, when I wanted to get a Coke and popcorn. He told me how his friend, Johnny, had been jumped a few weeks before and how he'd been — been beaten badly." She can't bear to look in Johnny's direction, has to swallow the urge to cry. "He didn't say it was Bob when he told me. Just said that it had been someone who had been in Bob's car, and wearing Bob's rings."

"Rings? What rings, Miss Valance?"

"Bob had big rings on him, from his sports," Cherry can see them again, how they'd looked glittering on his hand as he'd driven her home, weaving on the way. "Two varsity rings and a senior ring. He's the only person I ever knew that had rings like that and that was his car. He was so proud of his car." The smile on his face, the brash pride he'd had in having it... Cherry feels as if she can see him there in the front row, beaming at her. "It couldn't be anyone except him."

Eugene nods. "And did you tell this to Ponyboy, that night?"

Her hand shakes. "No, I didn't."

"Did it cross your mind that you needed to have warned them about him, once you heard this story?"

Her hand shakes more. "No. It didn't occur to me to warn them."

"Even if you knew that he might get angry at you for speaking to them? There was no need for you to have told them?" Eugene's voice feels as if it's piercing her chest, one word at a time.

"No," Cherry says, unable to keep her gaze on anything except her pale, wringing hands.

"No further questions, you honor."

"Shaw? Any further questions?" Judge Cross asks, and when Shaw shakes his head, she turns her head to look at Cherry. "You are dismissed."

Cherry stands up, her legs shaking, her head focused on her side of the courtroom. Her father sits there, his back proud as ever, his face openly sympathetic. Bob's family are absent today, and she can't blame them.

She walks over to her father, hearing papers shuffle, people breathing, moving. Scents wash over her, and Cherry all but collapses against her husband's side. His arm comes around her, and Cherry keeps her head buried there as they call the next witness: Johnny Cade.

Having a room full of people staring at him, all at once, has always been unnerving for Johnny whether it be friendly gazes from the pack or hostile ones from Socs who are prowling the streets. It's worse, somehow, when adults are mixed into it, like whenever doctors and nurses pour into a room and start asking him questions and poking at him and only ever have neutral expressions on their faces even when they're about to deliver bad news.

A room full of people, only this time mixed with judges and cops and reporters and some of the pack is his worst nightmare come true in a horrible way. It's both everyone who's absolutely ignored him mixed with the only people who have cared about him, all to witness him struggle to sit down for this court session.

What always makes it sting is that no matter the day, his parents are never there. Every time he searches for their faces, hopes that maybe they'll come to the door, do something, anything at all, Johnny is disappointed.

Here on a day where he might seal his fate for the electric chair, they aren't here either. The lack of them feels like just another sign that this might not all go well, and Johnny has to force himself not to bite at his nails to focus on the lawyer in front of him.

Shaw has intimidated him from the beginning, and it's worse now as he offers a smile that reminds him of a snake. "Thank you for coming here today, Mr. Cade. I understand it was difficult for you to be here."

Johnny only gives a stiff nod, trying not to sweat. For one of the first times ever, he's a little grateful his scent glands have been so damaged that he can't detect anything. Being able to scent the other man would make this more intimidating than ever, and he clenches his thigh as Shaw continues, "I understand it that you had a very unique experience with both Mr. Sheldon and Miss Valance. Could we walk through those, and to the night of the altercation?"

"Yessir," the words are croaked up from his throat, not as loud as he wants them to be in the room, not as strong as he needs them to be. Sweat seems to pour in from his palms in a way he's never experienced before, even with his father staring at him, ready to belt him across the face in anger.

"Could you please tell us, if you ever met the deceased Mr. Sheldon before the events that took place in September of 1965?" Shaw is pleasant, to a T as he speaks. "We have heard a mention of it before, and would like some clarification."

He wets his lips, leans forward, remembering it. "It – I saw Bob around school before, usually cause he's a senior and I'm a sophomore. We never, uh, had any classes together or nothing, but I just knew who he was." Johnny tries to unclench his sweaty palm from his thigh, finding it difficult to do so. "He was a Soc, and I didn't talk to him. We don't do that, talk often. And uhm, he and his buddies.... they chased me a couple of times like other greasers. A lot of Socs — kids on the other side, they do that. Chase us, pick on us."

As he speaks, he finds his voice getting stronger, steadier, even though the memories come up in sharp fragments of his mind, each moment frozen in time. "In August, a few weeks before everything, they found me in the neighborhood lot, alone." Alone is where he breaks a little, his voice wavering just enough to remind him of just how bad it had been there.

To have seen that car pull up beside him, and feeling his heart going a thousand miles a moment in his chest. The wind picking up, the knowledge that he was alone in the lot, that no one was going to be able to help him as Bob had climbed out of the car with his hair bobbing in the wind, his rings glinting on his hands, the flask shining in the sunlight with how expensive it was.

Johnny tries not to think too hard about Bob's face, even as his throat dries out, his words said slower now, carefully, trying to protect the part of himself that had gone unprotected that day. "He — He and his buddies found me at the lot. They were — I think they were drunk when they got there —"

"Why do you think they were drunk?" Shaw interrupts, voice booming.

"'Cause I seen him drinking from the flask he had," Johnny pushes ever so slightly, trying not to shrink in the face of that booming voice. "He-he always carried it around with him, and you could smell something in it. I could smell it," his voice shakes again, the smell of rum suddenly assaulting his nostrils, making his stomach, "When he was getting closer. It was him, Randy, David, and some other people I didn't recognize. They all were stumbling, scented of the drink they had and they – they all were mad at me. I tried to tell them they weren't in their own territory, and they didn't listen."

Two-Bit looks grimly at him from where he's sitting, Mrs. Mathews looking pale, her red hair adding to the pallor. Steve isn't looking at anyone except the floor, Soda is clearly just as frozen as Mrs. Mathews, and Darry looks deeply uncomfortable in his suit.

On the front bench, Eugene is taking down notes, and Ponyboy looks about as sick as he had been when Johnny had stabbed Bob. Shame sweeps through him, turns his limbs to jelly as he keeps on speaking, "I - I tried to fight them. They ain't care, just one of me and four or five of them."

"So you struck first?"

"No," he shakes his head, looking at Shaw and his stark white suit again. "No, I just- just told them they were on the wrong side of town. I tried to run, and it wasn't worth nothing. They caught up with me," he talks, tasting grass and mud the way he had that day, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, the terror flooding him. "They just – they beat me, real bad. Wouldn't stop for nothing, no matter what I said. I tried- tried to fight back and they just kept kicking. Kept punching me, threw the alcohol on me, too."

The impact of the ground. The way the rum had hit his open mouth. The punches. The kicks.

Johnny feels his hand shaking more as he clenches his legs, his voice faltering in the mic. "They threatened me. Told me — told me if they caught me again, they'd treat me like an omega. Hunt me down, chase me down the streets until they'd kill me or – or do worse. Told me if I went to the cops, nothing would happen to them. All sorts of f– messed up stuff. Until I just, I blacked out. I woke up hurt real bad and the gang found me."

He feels like the way he had that day: vulnerable, scared, alone. Terrified of what was going to happen next, as people in the court shift uncomfortably, as people look sick or disgusted.

In Shaw's case, he has none of those reactions. His face is calm, his gaze steady, nodding. "Was there any attempt made to inform anyone that you had been hurt?"

"Just the pack," Johnny answers, trying to stop tasting mud or smelling alcohol. "I didn't have no one else to tell."

"Your parents weren't available at all? Did they know that you were in the lot by yourself at that time of day?"

Hot, unwanted shame and embarrassment washes over Johnny. If there was a mirror here, he'd be red as a tomato with the emotions filling him, with how awful it feels to admit in that moment that his parents didn't give a good goddamn about him.

Shaw didn't know what it had been like to limp home, and to see his mother washing her mouth out with alcohol and ignoring him as he'd groaned coming him, and he would never understand how Johnny had felt when her eyes had pinned themselves to him and she had barked out, Don't you dare get that blood on my carpet, you good for nothing hood.

"They don't care about where I sleep, long as I don't get the house dirty," Johnny says, the shame on his face so bad that he feels as if he's just radiating heat from his cheeks. "My mom didn't care about it when I got home, and my pops wasn't home for another week."

Shaw's boots click softly as he walks, the spurs glinting like Bob's rings had. "So, you told no adult? No police, no hospitals, no clinics were notified of this incident?"

"Nosir. I knew who'd done it but I didn't... no one else was there," it feels smart not to point out the obvious, that cops didn't believe greasers as a whole. Johnny doesn't even dare look towards Cherry Valance and her father, sitting there pressed so close together. "I only had the pack to talk about it. They took care of me."

Shaw paces back and forth before him. Mrs. Mathews gives Johnny a warm smile, encouraging him. "That incident, that one weeks before the events at the theater, sounded harrowing. It also seems that put you on the map for Mr. Sheldon and his friends. Did you think, at all, about retaliating towards them for their actions?"

Johnny answers without thinking, "Yeah. Sometimes." Eugene seems to tap his pencil in his pad, and Shaw hums.

"Did you do anything to try to retaliate?"

"I started carrying a blade," Johnny admits, his hand letting go of his thigh this time. "I – I couldn't walk down the street anymore, without protection. I didn't want them to jump me again, hurt me like before."

A half smile flitters on Shaw's face. "When you say a blade, could you specify what kind of blade it was?"

"A switchblade. A short one, that I found at school," he can still remember his hand wrapping around it, shoving it in his pocket. Still remembers flicking it out and putting it back in over and over again in the backseat of Steve's car.

Still remembers reaching for it when he'd been kicked to the ground, hearing Ponyboy scream for help.

"So, you took measures, after your alleged attack. You thought about taking revenge, and you got a weapon to ensure your own safety," Shaw continues, filling the room with his words. "Did you have a concrete plan, Mr. Cade, in case you actually saw them? What were your exact plans for retaliation, if you saw those boys again?"

There's a trap here, Johnny can sense. The way he's talking, the way he's wording things, this is a trap but Johnny isn't sure how it is. "I ain't. All I thought about was I didn't want them to hurt me again. I never wanted to get hurt by them again. A blade was all I could think of."

Something tells him, as Shaw considers him, that perhaps was the wrong thing to say.

Chapter Text

Dallas considers the phone in front of him, with trepidation filling him deeper than what it ever has before. There are numbers filling his head that he has known by heart since he was maybe three years old, ones that he hasn't dialed in almost ten years — if he lifts his hand, punches in the numbers, he is almost sure that the people on the other side would pick up just as they had before he had been exiled.

If Ponyboy knew, if he heard the word exiled, Dallas is very sure that he'd question it. How can someone be exiled?

The memory still is as sharp as it ever was in Dallas' mind.

His uncle's one remaining eye is fixed on Dallas, rain lashing at the windows of his aunt's house. The doors are still swinging from where she had departed her own kitchen, and his uncle takes a seat at the table. The kitchen, like all things in his aunt's house, is beautifully arranged, with white floors, gold for every knob and knocker, dishes carefully put away. A kitchen meant to be displayed more than eaten in and certainly not meant for her ten year old nephew who'd just presented in a jail cell almost a day ago.

Even in fresh clothes, Dallas is aware he doesn't quite belong: his hair is too long, his limbs skinny and getting too big for him, and the defiance on his face even in front of the remaining family members he had who were talking to him.

In front of Dallas, the tin of soup that had been opened for him remains tepid, untouched as Dallas says, "Where am I supposed to go?" The new deepness to his voice is odder still, echoing around the kitchen: go, go, go...

His uncle's face, usually round and ruddy, looks just pale and drawn as he runs his hand through his curly dark hair. It makes him seem older, weary as he tries to compose himself. The pinky ring on his finger glints golden beneath the kitchen lights, and his shoulders slump in a way that Dallas has never seen before. His omega scent is so much stronger than what Dallas had detected before, and so much more textured now. Textured enough to tell Dallas that he was well and truly upset.

"Nipote," he starts out, his voice lower than usual, "What you've done is — it's a violation. You didn't intend on it, I know. It still happened. There are people who are now dead, and their families wanted proper recourse." His uncle rubs his hand over his chin. "They wanted — it was worse, what they asked for, and I didn't think it would have been right to give an eye for an eye."

They wanted him dead, too. Dallas isn't a baby, he understands it. He doesn't open his mouth, though, shame washing over him with how much he both agreed with what those parents wanted and still relieved that he wouldn't be killed. Even if a part of him thinks he deserves it.

"So the deal is this. You don't come into New York City for the next ten years," his uncle's voice doesn't shake, doesn't even shiver. "Your father, Texas, has agreed to it as the Don. If you step foot into New York City before you turn twenty, if you reach out to anyone here, he'll do worse than allow a cop to throw you in a jail cell. You'll be sent away to a distant cousin, and they'll look after you. Once you turn twenty, you are allowed to come back — provided that you come back in full service of your father."

That icy feeling in his stomach grows as his uncle talks. "Why? Why's that the only way I can come back?"

"It's the only way he would accept you coming back without killing you," his uncle's voice says, his eye lowering. His false one stares back at Dallas. "It was all I could do. I'm sorry, nipote."

His hand reaches out for Dallas' own.

Dallas snatches his hand away.

Even at ten years old, Dallas knew that his father had been firm. That stormy, cruel face of his, the anger that had been held there since the moment Dallas had taken a breath had never changed.

Everyone knew what happened in their circles. The boys he had dragged into his scheme, the boys who got killed. There had been no way for him to stay there, after that, and when he'd made the choice not to meet with that distant relative, Dallas had chosen a further, deeper exile.

Now, it was clear that someone had tracked him down whether they'd seen his photo in the newspaper or God fucking forbid, some television special. Someone who knew enough to reach out to Captain Valance. To do what, to offer what was the question?

Was it his father, trying to make contact to force Dallas to come back home lest he spill secrets he didn't even have anymore? Was it his aunt, trying to check up on him? His uncle, trying to verify it was really him after all these years?

Whoever it was, whatever they wanted he didn't know. If he reached over, to call one of them, he could find out for better or worse what they wanted.

To what fucking end, though? If he tried to come back now, they would treat him worse.

"Mates are a weakness," his father's voice is as crystal clear in his head as it had been when he'd spoken at the table filled with all of his other lieutenants, unforgiving as he goes on, "If any of you brought back a mate, I'd kill you rather than keep you."

The mating mark on Dallas' throat is still a dark crescent on his skin, still so shockingly fresh and new in his eyes, even if it was distorted by the telephone booth's reflection. Weeks later and there never had been anything close to the feeling of regret in him, and every time he thinks of his father's stormy angry face, everytime he thinks of how angry he'd be if Dallas showed back up at his door with Ponyboy, not once does he consider that his father is right. What could measure up to the feeling of Ponyboy's small omegan teeth breaching his throat? What could surpass how good he'd felt waking up with Ponyboy after, what could be better than Ponyboy's smile at him, Dallas' knot inside of him, their smiles reflecting on each other's faces?

In Ponyboy he could consider a future, and if he goes back to New York, there is only so little there and all of it was doomed to be spent at his father's feet, forced to be at his beck and call no matter what.

Dallas doesn't want that.

Worse, though, as his hand reaches for the phone, wrapping his hand around the cold plastic, is the idea that there might not be enough options anymore. Every day this trial went on, chances were dimming that things would work out. Captain Valance's words, intimating that he and the judge knew each other, only makes the options slimmer.

More and more, Dallas was starting to see that they were getting impossibly cornered. Johnny getting the chair was looking more and more likely, and Ponyboy would be separated from the pack, from him.

There was only one place Dallas could turn to if things went South, and the idea of his father helping a mate was laughable.

It still doesn't make him draw his hand away from the phone. He starts to dial the number, and when it rings out, Dallas glances around him. His mind goes back to the apartment, how small it was, and the view of his parents, together. Goes back to what it was like to feel deep hunger pains, all the while he watched his siblings eat together. Goes back to his father's last, angry look at him and the blood blooming on his face from where Dallas had hit him back.

The line clicks.

A voice comes out over the line he recognizes.

Dallas slams the phone down. He breathes in, breathes out, wishing he had Ponyboy close to him, that he could tell him what was going on.

But...

He can't know. Not now.

There was something else that Dallas could do, though, fingers pushing the door to the booth to open it. The click of his cowboy boots against the pavement blends in with the sound of oncoming cars, the sound of a horn, and the bus coming down the street.

The sunlight is weaker as he gets in his car, knowing that Ponyboy might be upset if he wasn't at the courthouse. That was fine; they'd meet up again that night, as usual.

Dallas revvs up his car, throws the gear into drive and makes his way across town, away from the phone booth towards the nice government offices. There's only one stop made between, getting a burger to eat, devouring it in the parking lot of the burger joint, and then he was parking himself outside of a familiar government building.

No one pays him much mind as he walks inside, entering the elevator next to a business man in a suit who clearly doesn't want to share with a hood. Ignoring him, Dallas punches in the usual floor level, keeping his hands in his pockets until he gets there, shoving past the besuited man.

The floor is quiet, his boots clicking against the polished floor until he reaches Eugene's office. There was no way he'd be done by now at the courthouse and that suits Dallas fine. The bench is where it's always been, Dallas sinking into a seat, stretching his long legs out.

Right now, he had nothing except patience.

The questions come right after the other, relentlessly from Shaw:

Did you, at any point, consider an adult stepping into the situation?

Did you have any further contact with Mr. Sheldon before the incident in September at the fountain?

Was there any thought given to the idea that you could have further contact with Mr. Sheldon?

The questions keep hammering in and as they go on, Johnny feels as if he can grasp at the line of thinking they want from him. It's a slow, fumbling grasping as Shaw presses on, coming closer and closer like a dog hunting for prey. With every question that gets closer and closer to Bob's murder, he drills deep and deeper into what Johnny meant to do.

He tries his best.

I couldn't have anyone come into this.

No. I ain't — didn't see him again until that night at the movies.

I thought about it sometimes. What I'd do if he tried to hurt me or my friends again. I just didn't want to get hurt.

Shaw finally draws back at that last one, his mustache trembling as he says, "You said you didn't want to get hurt. You said that you took up a weapon in preference to speaking to adults. Are these the only things that you considered, should you have come into contact with Mr. Sheldon again?"

Johnny feels as if he's stepping into a trap if he answers. His eyes flick from Shaw to Eugene to Ponyboy and then back to Shaw. "I didn't mean it like — I didn't mean it like I was just thinking about hurting him. I just didn't want to get hurt. That's all."

Shaw strokes at his mustache, eyes flicking to the spot above the judge, where the clock is and back to Johnny. "I have one more question, Mr. Cade. When you stated earlier that they would 'treat you like an omega', did they specifically state the would, in your words, 'hunt you' — did they use that exact language or was that inferred?"

"Inferred?" Johnny asks, frowning.

"I'm sorry, I mean did they say those words exactly or did you assume that's what they meant?"

Their faces crowd Johnny's memory for a moment: Bob's grinning, grotesque face, the scent of blood in his nostrils, those glinting rings, the smell of aftershave. "They said – they just said like an omega. That's all."

Shaw bobs his head. "No further questions today."

Judge Cross bangs her gavel and Johnny feels his limbs loosen, like a puppet finally released from its strings. For all he's been up here, talking, his heart feels like it's been going a mile a minute, sweat coating his forehead and his fingers, and his whole body feeling less and less like it was his.

All Johnny wants to do is leave, and he gets it in what feels like a blur. One moment he's being helped down from the stand and the next, he and Ponyboy are in the back of Steve's car, on the way to school.

Johnny can tell Ponyboy wants to talk to him in depth about everything. The pallor on his face, the quietness around him is more than enough of a signal and Johnny wishes he had the words or the courage to talk.

There's none of that though, as they wind their way down the streets to the school. All he can think about is the row of faces looking at him, listening to him as he had detailed what had happened to him at Bob's hands. The shame lives deep in his chest, constricting around him as they move along, all of them trying to pick a conversation that wasn't going to be humiliating in nature.

All of them had come to him, when he'd been between consciousness and unconsciousness, blood on his mouth, bruises blooming everywhere, on the verge of tears. For years, he'd fought so hard to not let them see him at his weakest moments with his family, to not let them know how bad he had it at home.

Before Ponyboy, he was the smallest, the least remarkable and it had been the one thing he could control in his life. They never got whole stories, never gave him pity because Johnny didn't want it.

Now, though, everyone would have a public record of the most humiliating moment in his life, the most terrified he'd ever been. Those moments where he'd been sobbing in terror, threatened by Bob and with a sinking, dreading feeling, Johnny knows that he'll have to do this tomorrow, too. Eugene will ask, and he'll have to say more about it, about how small he was, about how terrified he was, that no adult could come and help him.

All he would do was feel helpless all over again, exposed, and Johnny can't talk about that in front of Ponyboy or Steve or anyone else in the pack right now.

So he doesn't respond to Ponyboy in more than one or two words.

Greasers all had their pride. Except Johnny, stripped bare in front of everyone in a way he'd never wanted to before.

It wasn't enough that Johnny had to live with it on his own; now everyone knew and he can't help how upset it makes him. He'd learned to stop complaining when he was a child, learned to keep in the tears and hurt as soon as six even though he'd never been all that successful in practice.

It's a touch of bitterness, anger, mixing with the overwhelming amount of shame that keeps nipping at his heels as the day wears on. Ponyboy is notably absent when Two-Bit picks him up from school, and even Two-Bit's half hearted jokes can't fix things.

Not when they pass by his parent's house, on the way back. Those windows still contain familiar shadows, and if he shuts his eyes, the phantom scent of alcohol comes back to him, mixing with blood and metal. Memories cascade of the times when his father would look through him and not at him, of the times when his mother had belted him across the face for looking at her incorrectly, of the times when his father did recognize him and the intense fear that had melted away into careful indifference, only at times penetrated by despair.

They still didn't care about him. Even when there was no bottom to it all, his parents still disappointed him in their absence, their indifference.

That he still yearns for them, still wishes he could have them as real parent just makes everything more bitter, more shameful and Johnny swallows down the poison the way he always has.

The letter he'd written to Ponyboy, still unsent in the Gone with the Wind pages, is able to be seen when he gets to his room at the Mathews house. Johnny reaches over to it, running his thumb over the letter the nurse wrote for him in handwriting that was so much neater than his.

He'd implored Ponyboy to reach out to Dallas, to implore him to look at sunsets and to not be so bitter.

And here he was, turning against that very notion.

Once again, he feels himself failing, feels that shame and embarrassment overtake him again, the anger, and he shuts the door so no one can see how pathetic he is.

Not for nothing, Ponyboy tries to draw Johnny into a conversation with no luck for the entire afternoon. He tries at lunch with Steve, he tries during their study hall, and he all but quits after Johnny just gives a half hearted response to a joke.

All in all, Ponyboy can't blame him. Only an idiot could think that after what Johnny had said that day, that he'd be alright. All morning had been uncomfortable, from Cherry on the stand making his chest clench and his hands shake to Johnny having to respond to every question from Shaw as quick as he could despite the clear distress in his scent and his obvious sweating as questions were asked.

There had been so much focus on what Johnny did and didn't do, about the attack and what he thought about it. It's enough to rattle Ponyboy, able to follow along with Shaw, how he kept pressing on and on about how Johnny thought, felt.

It made him angry, too. Why wouldn't Johnny be upset, why wouldn't he have a blade? Why the hell wouldn't he have done what he'd done?

Ponyboy wants to press again, but one glance to Johnny's bitten down fingernails is enough to make him abandon the idea, shutting his mouth with a snap as they get their things from their lockers. It was better to leave well enough alone, and Ponyboy just watches Johnny make his way to his last class.

For his part, Ponyboy looks at his last class, down the hallway.

Cutting class was dumb, it would get him in a lot of trouble and still, he decides he'd rather cut class and take the early bus home. Ponyboy slings his backpack over his shoulder, going to the gravel pit and walking to the main bus stop. The sky is already starting to turn a little warmer, towards sunset — in an hour or two, sunset would come. A gust of wind picks up, his eyes focused on the horizon.

The bus would be there soon, to pick him up. The landscape around him is beautiful, the Tulsa landscape starting to tip towards a full bore autumn with leaves already turning, cold getting sharper and sharper. Ponyboy is pretty sure that Thanksgiving is coming soon, and he tries not to think too hard about who and what would be missing from it.

Or worse, what families beside his own wouldn't be able to have loved ones there.

There's a sudden, wild urge to look up Bob Sheldon in one of his brother's old yearbooks, to look at the version of Bob Sheldon that Cherry insisted had existed. Every time she spoke of him on the stand, Ponyboy had difficulty trying to imagine a bob Sheldon that people liked, that they followed. A Bob Sheldon that she loved enough to sob as if they'd been married or planning on marrying after school, a Bob Sheldon that people wanted to follow to... somewhere, anywhere.

Where did he fit, in the end, with the Bob Sheldon that Johnny had met on that day? How did that Bob Sheldon fit into the Bob Sheldon who menaced Johnny, who threatened to treat him like an omega.

How could they be the same person, a Prince Charming that had some tarnish to his armor and also a bully, cruel enough to threaten someone smaller, weaker than him? And more than once?

The bus rounds the corner, and Ponyboy almost doesn't see it, he's so lost in thought. It's only the honking of the horn that pulls his eyes away from the horizon and gets him to walk towards it, money in hand.

It isn't as if Ponyboy didn't know that people had different faces for different people. It's not that he hasn't seen flashes of goodness in the bad and flashes of badness in those that were good.

There was just no way he could reconcile the two Bob Sheldon's, so distant from each other, both equally false in who they were and what they did. No way to do it, and Ponyboy wonders what it means, that he can't find it, that he can't understand it.

Chapter Text

There is one good thing waiting for Ponyboy when he gets home early, walking inside of the door expecting to be questioned.

He isn't, not when Darry and Dallas are occupied with moving a mattress down from the attic together. Ponyboy leans against the door, keeping quiet as they move it down bit by bit, Darry grumbling when he finally hits the bottom step. Dallas comes down awkwardly with the rest of the mattress, his voice booming out, "You're home early!"

"Didn't have anything else to do," Ponyboy looks at the mattress and back to them, interested in just what possessed them to bring that down. "What're you taking that out for?"

"It's for you two," Darry grunts out, propping the mattress on the wall as Dallas finally clears the attic steps. The brown, wooden steps to the attic squeak as he pushes it back up, folding it in and pushing it up until it naturally snaps shut. There's a fine coat of dust on both him and Darry, Ponyboy wrinkling his nose in distaste despite the curious look on his face. "I decided you two need to stop bothering Soda so much, have your own room to be private in." There's a mild grimace on his face, excitement blooming in Ponyboy's chest. "I'm only doing this cause — you're having heats now, and you're mated. I don't want Soda — or me — to have to," he fumbles around his words, awkwardly in the space between parent and brother.

"Understood," ears flushing red, Ponyboy knows what he means. "You don't have to spell it out."

Relief spreads on Darry's face, nodding in awkward agreement. "That's the only spare we had, so you two can... do whatever. Just close the damn door, alright?"

Dallas grins like the cat that got the canary, right at Ponyboy and Ponyboy sort of wishes he wouldn't — if his ears burn any redder, they might fall right off. "Yeah, don't worry about the door. We'll get it closed!"

Darry pulls a face that clearly says that he'd rather have the subject changed quick, fast, and in a hurry — so Ponyboy decides now would be the time to pitch in to help.

For both their sakes.

Not with the mattress — he walks into the old room, the room that used to be Sodapop's and had been regulated to mostly junk when Soda had decided Ponyboy's nightmares were bad enough. The bed frame had been tucked into a corner, with Soda's old dresser drawers emptied of most everything. Ponyboy's old bookshelf had been placed in here, with Soda's bigger one being put in their room.

The irony has never been lost on Ponyboy as he goes to the shelves, looking over the books that were there. There's a copy of The Old Man and the Sea with a slightly frayed spine that he thinks probably had belonged to their mother if Ponyboy had to guess, two old Bibles with their red edges propped up, some photos that had been put there of Soda when he was younger, and to his surprise a copy of Treasure Island.

He pulls it from the shelf, not expecting the sudden memory it brings back to his senses: sitting in Dad's lap while he read it to him, his voice animated. It was Christmas and Ponyboy was seven years old. It was just them — Soda and Darry were out with their Mama to pick up some groceries, and Ponyboy had been itching to be read to. Dad's voice was warm, and Ponyboy hung onto every sentence.

They'd read it through twice together over the years and when Ponyboy flips it open to the last page, he can see his drawing of himself and Dad, that he'd done when he was ten. It had been done in the cheapest crayons, and his eyes feel warm from the tears that threaten to overtake him.

His Dad wouldn't be here ever again to read it with him. He'd been dead for almost ten months now — in a few weeks it would be eleven. He'd never, ever be here again and Ponyboy is reminded that the grief never, ever goes away.

Not really.

He places the book back on the shelf, looking around at the rest of the room. It was tucked into the back of the house, with the windows facing the backyard. He'd used to come here, even before the nightmares, to talk with Soda or to get him out of his room to go play with him. Darry and Dallas both seem to be going back into the attic to look for something else, leaving the mattress propped up on the wall.

Ponyboy decides that he should at least pitch in instead of thinking about Dad, and the lump in his throat whenever he thinks of his smile and his kindness or how good he smelled whenever he hugged Ponyboy or scented him.

He grabs a rag from the linen closet, and begins to help get rid of the dust.

"Well," Dallas leans against the door frame of his and Ponyboy's room, hours later, looking around. "I think it's better than Buck's by a long shot."

"You live in a matchbox at Buck's," Ponyboy replies, without much heat in his voice as he leans on the other side, taking a look. They'd transformed the room; gone were the knickknacks, the dusty, the old books and little toys from before. In it's place was the bed on the frame, the bookshelf arranged with most of Ponyboy's books, fresh curtains up to keep the sunlight out, the mirror had been cleaned, and there were blankets on the bed, ready to be shaped into a nest.

There was very little of Dallas in the room — not like he had very much in the first place, as it was. Some of the clothes he already had were shoved into a hamper in one corner, his cigarettes and car keys on the dresser beside Ponyboy's textbooks. The small desk Ponyboy had just didn't fit, having been moved out into the living room.

That left a good bit of room for them, and Dallas has to grin to himself in victory; he'd moved in now comfortably, and Darry had more or less given permission, if by permission Dallas meant had succumbed to the inevitable.

Not that Darry knew what he was playing into, by allowing Dallas in.

Dallas thinks of Eugene's pensive face that afternoon, considers his answers he turns to Ponyboy, voice low, "Go on, go make a nest. I'll get us food."

Ponyboy's shoulders move up and down in a shrug. "I ain't hungry. Not really." He glances towards the nest. "You can get something if you want."

The only way someone couldn't see that Ponyboy was bothered about something was if they were deaf and blind — and didn't have a working nose. There's a disturbed, upset element to his scent that Ponyboy isn't addressing as he pulls away from the door to the blankets and pillows on the bed. Dallas struggles to keep his mouth shut, to pluck at the need to figure it out.

We're mates. You can tell me. Dallas sinks his teeth into his tongue instead of saying that, forcing himself to be rooted to the floor, watching Ponyboy move around the room. We're mates. We're supposed to!

His teeth cleave deeper into his tongue, only because he knows more than Ponyboy, about what they had to do in these upcoming weeks. He knows that they have to get through this somehow, and that Ponyboy was going to have to get up on that stand before the week was out to defend himself, to say something.

What good would it do to force his feelings up now, to argue with him? What was he gonna get out of it?

He hates how mature he sounds, how much like Eugene in that moment, echoing their earlier meeting. Impatience, anger laces around him with how much he wanted Ponyboy to just tell him, to spill out his guts and Dallas turns away, going to the kitchen where Darry is already putting the usual baked chicken into the oven.

The anger isn't at Ponyboy, not really. It's at the circumstances, that had Dallas thinking about the burn scars on him, on himself. It's anger towards the Socs who were still strutting around sometimes like they owned the place, it's anger towards everything that wasn't them right now.

Darry throws him a quizzical look. Dallas ignores it, grabbing one of the potatoes they have to start washing it beneath the sink water. Ponyboy may not want to eat now, but he'd want to eat later, he'd bet on.

"I was gonna make mashed potatoes out of those —"

"Kid said he wants 'em roasted," He sticks the potato under the cold water, teeth flashing at Darry warningly, two alphas in a kitchen together, crammed in there. An alpha that Dallas didn't particularly enjoy sometimes, and a part of him is spoiling for another fight with Darry.

The more rational part of his brain knows that would be stupid and goes back to washing the potatoes, cutting them up and seasoning them in a half remembered way from New York City. No one had ever taught him how to cook so Dallas had done his part and watched, trying to pick up what they were doing.

They work around each other until Soda barges in with Steve trailing close behind. Dallas tunes out whatever dumb tiff they're having now, just concentrating on the plate he's putting together for Ponyboy.

Slowly, the noise in the house begins to amplify, as Two-Bit wedges his way in with Johnny coming behind him. The television gets dialed up, the door bangs. Cards are put on the table, and there's already a fight breaking out over some cards. The chicken gets done well enough, and Dallas is the one pulling it out to put on the stove.

A cut here, a yank there and he's got a plate ready for him and Ponyboy both before Darry or Soda can squeeze their way inside. He holds up the plate above them, snapping at them, making his way past the living room and to their new room together.

Dallas slams the door behind himself, and to his surprise, Ponyboy is asleep in the bed. The blankets are already arranged well enough in a nest, with pillows lining the sides, one of his older shirts that barely kept together was tucked on one side and to his pleasure, Ponyboy's head is placed on his brown jacket. The blonde hair sticks out more than usual, and Dallas puts their food down on the dresser as he hears Steve loudly accuse Johnny of cheating in the living room.

He hesitates only for a second, watching Ponyboy doze off, his back towards the door. Even though he'd been back home for months now and had a heat, he still was skinnier than he should be, in a way that digs against Dallas' alpha instincts. It digs enough at him that he walks over, shaking Ponyboy's shoulder insistently, grumbling out, "Kid, you can't afford to skip a meal. C'mon."

Ponyboy grumbles back, rolling over. "Lemme alone. M'tired." He jumps when Dallas pinches his side instead, jolting up in the sheets, aiming a sleepy glare at Dallas. If he were about twenty pounds heavier and maybe ten inches taller he'd resemble something close to a threat to Dallas.

As is, annoyance and concern for how little he's eating, Ponyboy is still himself, still cute to Dallas, still not the least bit of a threat to him. Maybe those Soccy kids thought Ponyboy was going to kill them in their sleep or turn into a feral, rabid omega at any moment. Dallas knows better; Ponyboy is no angel, but he's not Dallas either.

Something in him knows that Ponyboy will always have that soft center in him, soft enough that he's the one who kissed Dallas back, that had seen Dallas' jacket and pulled it into the bed to lay on. That's what he sees even as Ponyboy huffs out, "Can I just get five minutes, Dally? I'm exhausted."

"No," is Dallas' stubborn reply, standing up to go get the plate. "You look so skinny I might break you in half the next time you have a heat. You need to eat something, and I ain't got shit else to do all night except make you eat." He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to intrude on the nest that Ponyboy has carefully constructed. The dark, unhappy expression on Ponyboy's face feels personal with how it's aimed at Dallas, like he's trying to punish him. "I ain't trying to make you eat a feast. Just enough that you ain't gonna pass out in that court room in the next few days."

The plate is shoved towards Ponyboy again. Ponyboy glances at it and then at Dallas. "You ain't kidding, are you?"

"Why would I kid about trying to take care of my mate?" This time he does growl, starting to get impatient, the need to help, to get Ponyboy to care for himself beginning to really bother him. "Eat. It ain't bologna."

A dark look crosses Ponyboy's face and Dallas wonders if they're heading towards a fight or if Ponyboy will take a bite at the reminder.

It seems to working, Ponyboy grabbing a chicken thigh and taking a bite, chewing slowly and sullenly.

Dallas relaxes. His own stomach growls, and he ignores it as Ponyboy takes another bite, and then another. They sit like that, as more of the pack shouts and laughs or quibbles until Ponyboy finally has eaten the entire chicken thigh.

That's when Dallas picks up the chicken breast on his own and bites into it.

Darry isn't the best cook; it's likely he just remembered how to cook it from his days playing football, trying to bulk up well enough. Like any food given to him, Dallas doesn't remark on how good or bad it is; it's food and he's always been lucky to even have any. He takes his time with it as Ponyboy eats the potatoes with much more gusto, one after the other until the plate is clean from them both.

And despite the protests, there seems to be a little more color in Ponyboy, yawning. "Happy now?"

"Sure am," Dallas smirks.

For his efforts, he gets pinched right back in his side, harder than what he'd done for Ponyboy. He swears, and Ponyboy sticks out his tongue petulantly.

Stupidly, really. He should've known that's an invitation for Dallas to snake out his arm, grab his hair and drag him out of his nest. It's a good kiss for all of three seconds before they crash headlong into the floor together, both of them landing in a tangle of limbs and swearing at each other.

They flail on the floor, play fighting each other and for a few minutes, everything's forgiven. At least after Dallas pins Ponyboy to the floor, a too wide wolf like smile on his face, hips meeting hips, Ponyboy's pale neck stretched out beneath him marred only by the mating mark he possesses.

The mating mark he leans down, Ponyboy's wrists pinned beneath his, to bite down on the way he knows Ponyboy loves.

"Shit, we better start getting home," Two-Bit says, looking at the clock. It's almost midnight and he has two suits to iron and needed to talk to his mother before bed. He picks up the beer he brought over, looking over towards Johnny. "You ready, champ?"

Johnny looks up from his poker cards to look at Two-Bit in a way he's been seeing a lot lately: lost, and clearly with something on his mind, distracting him from really being in the moment.

It wasn't as if they weren't all thinking about the future, though. There was no one in this damn neighborhood who wasn't thinking about what would happen after all of this whether it was his mother who'd picked up chain smoking again or Ed who Two-Bit noticed was a little more strict at the bonfires to even dumb hoods like Curly Shepard all understood that something more was going to happen no matter what the outcome was.

Whatever that outcome was, they'd all be feeling it for the rest of their days.

For Two-Bit, he can't look down that tunnel that long. Not if he wanted to stay sane, and he gives Johnny a wink, saying in a stage whisper, "C'mon, we should get outta here before Soda and Steve start up again!"

That gets a shifty glance from Johnny to Steve and Soda who both were locked in some battle of wills over their own game of poker. Darry was off to the side, half asleep in his chair and Two-Bit sort of wishes he could see whatever fall out of what was going on with them now. Instead, Johnny nods quickly, and they both stand up as best they can.

Even with the ongoing treatments, Johnny wobbles, grasping for the crutches. They'd been advised that the treatments he'd had were experimental, still delicate and the wheelchair should be used over the crutches.

Thing was, the wheelchair wasn't all that new, and Johnny seemed to avoid it for the crutches whenever he could. Two-Bit doesn't interfere as Johnny orients himself, even though he wants to do so. It would be so easy to come over there, to pick up the crutches.

What stops him is that his mother had been there for every treatment so far. She had been the one to pull him aside one morning, her red hair half pinned up, her eyes serious.

You've got to let him do some of this on his own, Keith, she'd said, in the garage, the cigarette in her hand glowing at the end, the smoke rising up in the quiet, If you keep offering to do every little thing for him, it'll hurt him, you know? He'll feel like you're treatin' him like Katie or a baby. If he asks, you give him help. But you gotta let him ask you.

It hadn't sat right with him — maybe it was the alpha instincts in him, how his biology teacher (the second one) had said one day, in class about how some alphas worked. Some of them liked to provide for their pack and mates by doing as much as they could for them even at their own expense, some of them like to protect their packs at any and all costs to the point where it could hurt them, and the third alpha type he'd been told of was that there were predators, alphas who couldn't function in a pack, who turned their lone tendencies into hurting others as much as they could as often as they could.

He'd never really considered which one he was, and it's odd for him to realize that he was becoming more of the protector type around Johnny ever since the fire. Not in the same way he felt around the rest of the pack. This feeling was more insistent, more opinionated.

It didn't rise to the level where he and Johnny would be heatbirds the way Dallas and Ponyboy had attached themselves to each other, but it was strong enough that he can feel some tension in his neck as Johnny struggles with the crutches, getting them all together until he's nodding, making his way to the door.

Two-Bit opens the door for him, the cool air wafting in. Dogs bark at one end of the neighborhood, and he shivers as Johnny takes his time getting down with every squeak and thump of the crutches. "See ya'll tomorrow!"

"See you, Two!"

"Bye, Two!"

The door snaps shut, Two-Bit following Johnny down the steps. The bonfire is going on, and as much as he wants to go see Marcia there, discover just how much fun it'd be to get with a Soccy alpha girl, Johnny's more important as they make their way down the road to Two-Bit's house.

The beer goes down pretty okay with a pull of it, Two-Bit offering it to Johnny. "Nah, I'm okay. Don't need to be gettin' all buzzed before I go back to the courthouse," Johnny's hair wafts in the wind, moving along the sidewalk as well as he can. The moon is a sliver in the sky as they go, and Two-Bit takes another pull.

Normally he'd be filling up the silence with the gossip he'd been hearing, with the thoughts he was having, but silence simply fills up the air as they go. Even once they get to Johnny's house, where the lights are on and two shadows are moving, they don't talk.

Not that Johnny has to. He can see how Johnny tenses up, the way his jaw ticks as he resolutely makes his way past the house, not looking towards them.

Two-Bit does though, looking at those moving shadows, at the way the trees dance in the high wind. It's not until they're a few steps past it that he says, "You still worried how you did with that lawyer today?"

A thump. "Yeah. I don't — I'm not sure what I did. Just know I said what I could." Johnny keeps moving forward, and Two-Bit sees his arm flexing as he grips the crutches. "Just don't know if what I said was enough."

Two-Bit considers it as they finally spot his driveway in the distance. "I reckon that it don't matter much what we really say in the end." He doesn't want to be a pessimist, yet can't help himself. "I think what matters is that the judge doesn't believe those Socs more than she actually believes us."

There's another few beats of silence, only interrupted by Johnny's crutches and the sound of Two-Bit's boots. "You know I — I used to...." Johnny's voice trails off, and the sound of his crutches stops.

Two-Bit turns around, and sees Johnny standing there, with his crutches and his old shirt and Two-Bit can sense that he wants to say something he's been holding in for a time, a long time. Something serious, so lethally serious that he knows if Johnny says it, here and now, it can't be taken back, can't be ignored.

A mild panic rises in him. It's like a movie he'd seen once, where someone had confessed something right before something awful happened, right before their fates were sealed.

Two-Bit speaks first, his voice a little high, "Used to what? C'mon, can't dwell in the past, Johnny. Not when we got so much going on now." He backtracks, throwing an arm around Johnny, trying to choke down whatever awful thing Johnny was going to say. "We can't look back on whatever it was. We gotta focus on how we're gonna get through this week first."

Johnny's eyes look huge, vulnerable. "No, Two-Bit. I gotta — Before all this, I was – I was thinking about kil—"

The dreadful sentence, the awful thing he almost says gets spooked right out of him when the sound of a car horn crashes through. It muffles up the words, silences whatever awful thing Johnny was going to say as they both almost jump out of their skin at how loud the car horn is.

Instinctively, Two-Bit moves to shield Johnny, hand going for his switchblade, his scent up, the hair on the back of his neck and arm standing at attention the way it had during the week they were gone and he'd been jumped by three Socs.

There are no Socs here, they realize. Just see two greasers flying past in their cars, laughing and racing each other, slamming on the horn as much as they could.

The terror, the adrenaline subsides enough for Two-Bit to catch his breath, to move his hand away from where he kept his blade.

He can feel Johnny's anxiety though, can almost see the way the terror infects his face, and worse of all, he realizes with a sick feeling that one of Johnny's crutches is on the ground. In his hand is a switchblade that Two-Bit has never seen before, one that was a little newer than the one he'd had previously.

Not once has he ever seen Johnny draw a blade before.

They stare at each other for a moment, breathing hard, weapon in hand for Johnny. If Johnny still had a scent, Two-Bit was sure he'd be agitated, was sure he'd be terrified.

Slowly, Johnny puts his switchblade away, avoiding Two-Bit's eyes. There's a strange sense of shame in his expression as he does it, his hands shaking. Two-Bit averts his eyes as he goes for his crutches, instead polishing off the beer he'd had, then tossing the bottle once he was done.

Johnny rights himself and they don't say anything after that. They just head towards the Mathews house together, as fast as they can.

He never hears what Johnny says and Johnny never brings it up again.

Chapter Text

Johnny wishes he had a cigarette to smoke as he gingerly sits down before the courtroom.

A weed fiend like Ponyboy he wasn't, and still he wanted it, wanted to calm his nerves, wanted anything to make this moment less terrifying for him as he looks at everyone. The Valances aren't there this time, just the Addersons and Sheldons on one side, reporters a few seats behind them. The other side is populated mainly by other greasers, though Dallas is absent as usual.

The night before still lingers in his mind, how he'd gotten so close to confessing to Two-Bit what he'd told Ponyboy in the lot, about wanting to kill himself, about the future and how hard it had been to grasp before all of this.

Close enough wasn't hitting the mark, and the words had crawled right back into him. They feel heavy in him as Eugene straightens out his suit and approaches Johnny with sure, confident steps. "Mr. Cade, you previously stated to this court that you and the deceased, Bob Sheldon had a previous altercation before that night in September. You stated that you were attacked by him, and that you did not reach out to an adult for help in the aftermath. Is that correct?"

"Yessir," there's a scratch in his throat, just saying those words.

"Can you clarify that detail for me, Mr. Cade, why did you not reach out to an adult for assistance in this?"

Johnny shifts in his seat, palms cold, clammy as they press together. For once he appreciates what the fire had done, dulling his sense out so he couldn't even tell himself just how nervous and scared he was, even as his voice squeak out, "I don't — I didn't live at home much. My parents aren't around much, and they'd never... they'd never help out. They ain't really the type," he resists the urge to bite at his nail at the honesty. "'Sides I didn't know their names til that movie theater, so I couldn't say who they really were. Just.... Socs."

If that answer satisfies, he doesn't know from Eugene's neutral facial expression. "Thank you. We've heard in this courtroom as well that you carried a weapon as a means of protection. Did you intentionally have any other plans to use that switchblade for anything other than a means for protection, Mr. Cade? Did you ever, in fact, use it for anything else before that night?"

"No, I didn't," Johnny leans into the mic, rubbing his hand on his thighs. "I only had it for about two weeks. Most I did before that was use it to try and open a bottle of pop when we couldn't find nothing else and my teeth ain't so good." There's a laugh that ripples through the court and he feels embarrassment wash over him again in a cold wave. "After — after everything, I just used it to cut Ponyboy's hair when we was — were hiding."

"Do you still have that switchblade with you today, Mr. Cade?"

"No. It got left in the church up on Jay Mountain," Johnny says as if he can't feel the weight of the new one he'd gotten, shoved into his pocket, the new one he'd drawn the night before. "When that church burned down, I lost everything 'cept the clothes on my back."

Eugene nods, walking confidently in front of Johnny. Maybe he was doing good. "Could we talk about the night of the killing, Mr. Cade? We have not heard those details yet in this court." He rocks on his feet a little, and there's a glint to his eyes that Johnny likes despite the cold feeling settling in himself. "Could you please explain your recollection of events of that night?"

Every time he's thought about how this would go, he's always thought he'd retreat into himself or the words wouldn't come. Now that he's here, his throat doesn't dry up, his burns don't hurt. The world feels stranger, as if his body isn't his own.

It still doesn't make it easy for him as he takes a breath, trying to put into words what he's lived in his head for weeks, months now over and over again. Trying to sort through something that kept him awake on Jay Mountain, trying to put together what it felt like, how to understand what had happened. "Me and Ponyboy, we saw them at the theater together with their girls. Our friend, Dallas, he wanted to date one of them, and she turned him down. They got into a fight, and he left. Two-Bit came and we just watched a movie with the girls."

"Could you please identify the girls by name? And your other friends as well, and point them out in the court room for us?"

Johnny nods, pointing to Two-Bit first, who stands up and gives an almost goofy wave that makes him crack a grin despite himself. "That's Two-Bit, over there. Ponyboy, over there." In his suit, Ponyboy looks smaller than ever, sitting there with that short blonde hair with dark roots. "The girls were Cherry Valance and Marcia Thomas. I knew about 'em from high school. I'm in the same grade as Ponyboy, tenth grade. Just I'm in the dumb classes and he's in the real smart ones." Ponyboy's ears grow red. It doesn't make it any less true. "Cherry and Marcia didn't have a ride after their guys, Bob and Randy took off. So we said we'd – we'd keep them company and walk 'em home that night."

The whistle of the wind, the way Ponyboy talked with Cherry swirls back in Johnny's mind. The jokes Two-Bit cracked with Marcia, and Johnny following them all, hardly chiming in. "It wasn't too long away but... they weren't really walkers. So Two-Bit offered to drive 'em. We was walking them to Two's car when the other car drove up. A big — I don't know Mustang? It was real tuff. Cool, I guess," he hastily amends. "Two of them, Randy and Bob got out of the car. I-I recognized them from the weeks before. Bob had those rings on his hand, and Randy was wearing the same shirt. Their scents matched and I – I didn't say anything. I just froze."

Eugene nods in encouragement. Johnny feels like he's going throw up, his mouth filling up with saliva, his limbs shaking, remembering the feeling of fear just sluicing over him, the instinct to hide when he saw Bob's body in those headlights, when his scent was clear as day with it's hostility, the flash of his sharp alpha teeth, the glint of his rings in the headlights and the overpowering layer of alcohol on it all. He'd been half cocked already, stumbling and angry and Johnny never did well with alphas this aggressive.

And seeing Bob, seeing him flash those teeth? Johnny can almost see his shadow materialize in the back of the court house like an awful ghost.

How many times had he thought about that smile on Bob? How many times had he thought of those rings, with bloodstains on them?

"I watched, I guess. They argued, wanted to get into a fight with us 'til Cherry and Marcia agreed to go with them. So they left. We walked home after that, and Pony and I went to the lot." The more he talks, the more the details come and go. "Pony and I talked there, and then he went home. I stayed out cause my folks don't really care if I ever get home or not."

More embarrassment, more humiliation to say it out loud. It makes him feel all the more pathetic and alone, yet no one stops him from continuing. "We fell asleep and Ponyboy went home later when we woke up again. It was real late, maybe two or three o'clock. It — I don't know what happened, 'cept he came out just a few minutes later. He and Darry had a fight and Ponyboy was all hacked off at him. So we walked around for a bit, trying to cool off. That's — that's when they showed up. We were in the park, and their car was there. The same car from– from the movie theater."

This is the worst part, he knows. The part that makes him breathe a little harder, makes sweat break out on his neck, makes him start to swallow and beg for air. "I – Everything happened real fast. We told them to leave. It's – it was our territory. They ain't listen, and Ponyboy swore at Bob. Called him white trash." Two-Bit's eyebrows pop upward at that, as does most of the greasers, some of them making a commotion in response. That's almost soothing as Johnny goes on, unable to stop, "That's when they chased us in the park. I don't know what they did, you know? They just chased us and I hit the ground." He blinks, tries to get a hold of himself, keep himself calm even though his teeth are chattering and his stomach is doing somersaults and he's almost gasping out the words. "I got kicked, and they told me not to move. I just, I heard Ponyboy screaming. He was telling me to run, and I kept hearing splashes and I – I put my head up and Bob and Randy was shoving Ponyboy in the fountain. Over and over again. I knew, I guess that they were gonna – they were gonna kill him. Even if they didn't mean to.

"I just thought I didn't want him to die. I wasn't gonna let him," Johnny feels as if every light is turned on too brightly, as if the air is shimmering with the memory of that night. It feels too hot and too cold all at once, the words spilling out of him endlessly. "I took out my blade and I don't — I don't know I just had to make 'em stop. All I had to stop 'em with was my blade and I just – I started — I stabbed him once and I thought it would be enough to make him let Ponyboy go and it wasn't. So kept – I kept doing it. I kept doing it until he stopped."

The courtroom is deathly quiet. Johnny's heart pounds in his chest, his hands shake. "I killed him. I killed that boy, and I — I had to. He was drowning Ponyboy. I pulled him out of the – the water and he wasn't breathing. He wasn't breathing and I thought he was dead til he started coughing. He started — and I just. I sat there. I didn't know what else to do 'cause Ponyboy was breathing again and he – Bob was just dead."

His voice goes silent. His eyes drop to his own hands, hands that have killed another human being, hands that have never quite felt right afterwards. Hands that used the dirt to get Bob's blood off of it, hands that had used that same blade to cut Ponyboy's hair up on Jay Mountain.

Hands that had gripped a blade again.

The silence on the court is thick, and Johnny wants someone to interrupt it. Someone not himself. It feels like the longest few seconds, his eyes glued to his hands in his lap, Eugene's voice breaking out, "You never considered that you would kill someone with that blade, Mr. Cade?"

"No," his voice cracks again, "I didn't wanna kill no one, sir. I just — I just didn't want them to drown Ponyboy. Just wanted them to stop hurting him. I never want to hurt nobody, not on purpose. I- I mean it."

"After this occurred, you ran with Ponyboy, did you not?"

"Yessir. I didn't think anyone else could help us get out of there, 'cept a buddy of ours, Dallas. He did get us out of there," Johnny rubs at his nose, trying to push back the urge to cry. "We were gone for a week. All I could think about was – was turning myself in. Going home. I kept thinking about what I'd do, and how s-sorry I was. I never wanted to kill nobody. I mean it. I k-killed a kid and no one would wanna live with what I'm livin' with. Nobody," Johnny draws a shaking breath, trying to keep himself from crying. "I think about it all the time, what I done. I can't stand it sometimes."

Eugene gives a small smile. "Thank you, Mr. Cade. No further questions." He retreats out of Johnny's limited vision, back to the bench. Johnny keeps staring at his hands, a killer's hands, and he listens to someone shuffle paper.

The judge's voice carries, "Mr. Shaw, do you have any further questions?"

"I do, ma'am," the clink of his heavy spurs seem louder than usual, his voice booming, "During this altercation, did you ever try to think of saying stop? Did you consider going for help to prevent having to draw your knife?"

Johnny lifts his head, shaking it vehemently. He blinks through the slight blur of tears, clenching his fists. "No. There wasn't no time to run for anyone. Ponyboy kept hollering and it was getting weaker. I knew if I didn't do nothing, he'd have died there."

The white of Shaw's mustache bristles and shakes. "You stated you ran away from the scene of the crime and yet, you wanted to turn yourselves in. You've also stated several times you thought of revenge on Mr. Sheldon repeatedly. Both of those statements are true, are they not?"

"Y-Yeah, but — who could I have run to? The cops would've blamed us," Johnny finds himself arguing weakly back. "They wouldn't have listened."

"Do you know that for a fact, Mr. Cade? By the way you've described it, you could have argued that what you had done was to preserve someone else's life. Yet," his form advances, "you didn't! You ran, at first blush."

For a moment, Johnny struggles, seeing why, seeing the logic. "I didn't think there was anything else we could do. I thought — I thought about it later, about that. Just then – Bob was dead. Ponyboy was shaking and I just — We just ran."

Shaw barks out, "No further questions."

The judge shuffles her papers again and Johnny can't look at anyone or anything. "Thank you, Mr. Cade. Five minute break session, and then we will call our last witness."

Johnny lets out a breath, and when he looks at the courtroom before him he can see that Ponyboy's pale and looks so small in his suit. Eugene looks to be saying something to him, and Two-Bit is standing at the back with a pensive look on his face. Steve looks troubled, even from here and the splotchy pink of Soda's face says that he's been crying. Soda at the least manages to give him an encouraging smile, and Two-Bit does too. Steve looks at him and then away, as if he doesn't like what he sees.

Mrs. Mathews is talking to Darry, both of them half huddled together. Johnny can see them exchanging words together, Darry gesturing and Mrs. Mathews shaking her head. Did they have an idea of what was going on? Were they debating what had gone on? Were they upset his parents wouldn't be waiting there for him, for the small break they had even though every greaser from the neighborhood would be there, wondering what had happened?

Johnny feels lonelier than ever in this moment with only a dead boy's ghost at the edge of his vision. Only an uncertain future was waiting for him, even with his pack there.

Chapter Text

The chair isn't very comfortable when Ponyboy sits down, facing everyone in the courtroom. The suit he's wearing feels too big in places, and too small in others, as if it's responding to how tense he feels, as if it knows how dire this moment is as he breathes, his fingers stiff. The urge to bite his nails rises in him, or to bite the soft crook of Dallas' neck even though he's not here.

He wants to be anywhere at all now: at home, in bed on a Saturday morning hearing his brothers cook and Soda coming in to tickle him awake and Darry joining him; in the lot with Johnny smoking and looking at the stars; listening to Two-Bit and Steve squabble at the DX until Steve got annoyed and Two-Bit got bored; wrapped up in Dallas' arms at Buck's, sated and sweaty, watching an episode of Bewitched together, with Dallas' mouth pressed against his neck, his hand playing with Ponyboy's waistband.

Hell, he'd even take a geometry test at school he hadn't studied for over this, as Shaw stands up from his place, buttoning up his suit. Ponyboy looks at the rings glinting on his fingers, the pressed angles of his suit, the way the light falls on his cowboy boots. There's a gentle clink of his boots as he walks towards Ponyboy, as if the spurs were hooked up to some cowboy in the middle of a square and not a lawyer who was going to dictate the rest of his life.

A western, he could handle a western. Ponyboy could imagine all of this like a duel, two fighters with pistols at their hips, trying to aim correctly to win. A western had rules he understood; here in the courtroom, it's not the same. He can hardly handle Shaw saying, "Could you please state your name for the court?"

"Ponyboy Michael Curtis," he swallows, clenching and unclenching his hands, "That's my real name — it's on my birth certificate." There's a small smatter of laughter, and he tries to keep himself from looking. "I was with Johnny and Two-Bit that night."

"For the record — what is your dynamic?"

"I'm an omega. I presented in February or March, after my parents died in January this year," he doesn't know if that's going to be relevant, and still keeps his voice firm.

"Could you please tell us about the movie theater, when you were there that night and how you met Ms. Valance and Mr. Sheldon?"

Ponyboy takes a deep breath. "We went there with our friend, Dallas. After we hung out earlier, we just went there. He'd promised to take us there, and we didn't know what we were gonna see that night. We uh — we slipped beneath the fence, to get in, and just picked something that was on. Just a – a beach movie." Ponyboy remembers it, how they had a fun time pretending like the milkshakes they'd gotten were bad, going to the diner, messing with the omega waitress, Dallas pretending he hadn't been involved, ordering the coffee, joking with Ponyboy with Ponyboy, be a good boy, will ya? over the table, unaware of how the day was going to go. Ponyboy himself, not knowing how things would turn out as he joked himself, Sorry, pop.

The air had felt so good on their faces as they'd raced down the hill after those kids. For a few seconds, he and Dallas had been matching strides, leaving Johnny behind for a moment. The wildflowers had been tall, the kids had run so far and he and Dallas had both come to a halt, grinning at each other before Johnny had caught up.

Things had seemed so much simpler then.

"We weren't looking to mess with nobody, including anyone's girls," Ponyboy goes on, his mind summoning up the cold of the night, the kids all there, the cars coming by, the greasers mixing with the Socs, the alphas who were everywhere, the few betas that stuck out. He'd finally fully adjusted to taking in other people's scents, was starting to learn that being an omega made everything so different as he'd walked in the drive-in with everyone else. Without a jacket, there was no masking him, and Ponyboy had tried to avoid the prying eyes or the alphas who clearly wanted to get closer — yet hadn't, due to Dallas' presence, his body shielding Ponyboy.

The memory of Dallas' warm body, of the protection makes him remember to sit up straight, to put a little more of Dallas' attitude in his voice. "We just wanted to watch a movie. We sat there first, just waiting for the movie to start. It was right in front of the concession stand, real cold, and I wasn't thinking about anything except seeing the movie. I'd gotten jumped the day before so I just — wanted to forget about it all I guess." Just how honest did he have to be? Unsure, Ponyboy continues on. "The girls sat there in front of us — Cherry was upset, she said she came there to see a movie and that she'd see a movie. That's when Dallas started kinda, hitting on her. Cherry didn't like it, and we didn't either. Johnny was the one who told him to stop, and after Dallas tried again, Cherry threw her Coke on him, so he left after that. It was just us and Two-Bit, who came over later with them at the theater."

Shaw nods, his spurs clinking again as he moves about again. Ponyboy watches him, his body almost like an owl, watching a rat at the bottom of the forest, poised to pounce. His scent can't really be detangled from the strong cologne he has on, and Ponyboy is glad it's not English Leather. "Did Mrs. Valance or Ms. Thomas mention their boyfriends at that time?"

I don’t care if they did. It’s not my idea of a good time to sit in a drive-in and watch people get drunk. Cherry's old words come back to Ponyboy in that moment, loud and clear. "After Dallas left, yeah. We asked why they didn't have a ride and they said that their boyfriends had left them there after they argued."

"Argued about what?"

"Drinking," behind Shaw, Eugene writes down something on his notepad. "They – sorry, Cherry said that she didn't like coming to a drive-in and get drunk. Their boyfriends got pissed and left them there so they needed rides home. Two-Bit had his car, and we'd walk with them to the car and then back home. Or just walk there, I can't remember."

Shaw seems satisfied with that answer, pacing around again. "Did you know who their boyfriends were?"

"No. Not — not exactly," Ponyboy frowns, unsure of how to answer. "I mean, they never said their names. I guessed they were alphas, and I didn't know that Bob had jumped Johnny weeks ago, he ain't tell us a name. He just told us what he looked like. He told us about the rings, his flask. He has that cut on his face from the rings, too."

Shaws eyes glint. Ponyboy doesn't like that, wondering if he's said something wrong. "When you walked the girls, and Mr. Sheldon and Mr. Adderson got out of their cars, did you suspect that they were involved in your friend's jumping?"

The headlights washing over them in bright yellow. Johnny's face going white in terror, his scent hitting such a distinct note of panic that Ponyboy had been confused at how a beta could react so sharply. "Not at first. I was wondering why Johnny was acting real nervous. He's never that jumpy, ever. I figured it might just be 'cause the Mustang was so close. When they got out they reeked of alcohol. It was real strong, even where we were standing. I could barely tell they were alphas. It wasn't 'til I put together that Johnny had seen a blue Mustang, those rings on Bob's fingers, and when he started breathing funny that I thought it was Bob who jumped him out there. I ain't say nothing, I just kept my guard up."

"Why was it necessary to keep your guard up?"

"You ain't ever get scared when a bunch of guys in a car come up, pissed before?" The words come out of Ponyboy before he can think better of it in a flat annoyed deadpan. His ears burn red, when Shaw looks surprised, and he tries to reel himself in. "I'm sorry — there were more guys in the car. Johnny looked scared, and I ain't big. It was just us and Two-Bit and they weren't standing on their feet well. You could scent the alcohol, you could feel how mad they were, and they told us that there were four more in the backseat, waiting on us. They wanted a fight, and we were cornered." Some of the anger he's been holding onto, to keep himself together seeps into his words.

Shaw wasn't the one thinking of the high wind or the sudden taste flooding his mouth that was bitter and tainted by the increasingly angry alphas pheromones slipping down on everyone like a heavy brick or Cherry's cries to not fight or Two-Bit busting a bottle and handing it to Ponyboy. He wasn't the one who had to relive the What if of it all, what if they had fought there instead, what if they had been able to leave then, what if what if what if.

He gets to stand there, his mustache twitching and moving, trying to formulate his next sentence. It comes out, the words said faster than before, "As Mr. Mathews said, you all did not get into a physical altercation. Ms. Valance prevented the fight."

"Yeah, that's right," Ponyboy shrugs, trying to keep his anger in check again, trying to stop circling the memory of him and Johnny walking to the lot. The desperation in his words at the fire, the strange way he'd spoken and Ponyboy realizing what Johnny had meant. "Johnny and I walked away together while Two-Bit said he'd go and get drunk. We just sat outside the lot for a little while, talking. I fell asleep and then woke up. I went home and Johnny said he might come over."

Shaw clears his throat. "I want to go back for a moment, Mr. Curtis. When you saw Mr. Sheldon, you said that Mr. Mathews gave you a weapon, is that correct?"

"Yeah," Ponyboy nods, unsure of where he's going with this. "He broke a bottle from the ground and told me to use it."

"Did you have any intent of getting into a fight when you were instructed to? Would you have used the weapon Mr. Mathews had given you, Mr. Curtis?" Shaw takes a step closer, and the spurs of his are so loud, so singular. "Did you do anything, Mr. Curtis, to prevent a fight from breaking out?"

The words have Ponyboy's throat drying up. It's as if the bottle is in his hand again, cold in the wind as he looks at Bob's menacing form, Randy's swaying one and Johnny's terrified face. Two-Bit's words echo in his head too: I don’t know why I handed you that busted bottle. You’d never use it.

That night, he'd said: Maybe I would have.

"What time was this, rather late, Mr. Curtis?"

"I think it was one-thirty or two," Ponyboy keeps his eyes on Shaw, not wanting to look at his brothers. He thinks he knows the next question coming up, a question that he really doesn't want to answer in front of everyone else yet he knows he needs to. "It was past my curfew when I went home."

Shaw cocks his head. "You went home about then, and then you were back out later? How old are you, Mr. Curtis?"

"I'm fourteen. Been fourteen since July," Ponyboy says, uncomfortable at where this was leading. "I know it's November now and it was September then."

"Your parents, they died in January, isn't that right?" Shaw looks around the courtroom. "I am sorry for your loss. That does spur the question, Mr. Curtis: where and who are you living with now?"

An unexpected feeling of coldness washes over Ponyboy. "I- I live with my two brothers, Darry and Sodapop. That's their real names too." There's no laughter this time.

"Your brothers, how old are they?"

"Twenty and seventeen. Soda had his birthday a couple weeks ago," he winces internally. They hadn't even talked about Soda's birthday, much less celebrated it in all the chaos. "Soda was still sixteen then."

Shaw looks Ponyboy in the eye, in a way that feels just as piercing as his next question, "And why would they let you be outside so late at night?"

Ponyboy swallows, trying not to let his hands shake. "They didn't let me. I just — I slept outside too long. That's all."

The lawyer hums. "Oh, I understand the first time. This is still an hour or so before Mr. Sheldon's body was found. So, I should restate that: how did you get back outside that night if you had come in once already?" Ponyboy can feel his words lodge themselves in his throat. "You're an omega, who's particularly young and unmated. How did you wind up back outside?"

Where the heck have you been? Do you know what time it is?

Well, it’s two in the morning, kiddo. Another hour and I would have had the police out after you. Where were you, Ponyboy? Where in the almighty universe were you?

"I — I got home and Darry was upset with me," in his own ears, Ponyboy sounds oddly robotic, as if he's reciting something he's repeated to himself dozens of times. "He reminded me about it, and we just yelled at each other. Then he yelled at Soda and I got — I got real mad."

I didn’t mean to! I didn’t think! I forgot! That’s all I hear out of you! Can’t you think of anything?

Darry—

You keep your trap shut! I’m sick and tired of hearin’ you stick up for him!

You don't yell at him!

Ponyboy's fingers dig into his palm, remembering the violence that had come next. Darry hitting him, the feeling of the floor rushing up, the pain, the sudden deathly quiet of the house.

"He got mad back at me and I just — I decided I was gonna just leave for the night," the lie slides out of him cleanly, as if it were the real truth of the matter. "So I ran out of the house, found Johnny. I told him what happened and we decided to walk to the park from the lot to just cool off."

Behind Shaw, he can see Darry's impassive face and Soda's pale one, sitting beside each other.

That's when the Judge speaks, "We've reached our limit for the day."

Something big must've happened in the court. Soda has the most subdued scent Dallas has ever caught when he walks into the diner where they're all eating, and Darry is conspicuously absent. Dallas narrows his eyes as he walks towards Ponyboy, who's looking a little pale and Johnny who outright is only picking at his French fries.

Whatever it is, it isn't preventing Steve from stuffing his fucking face or Two-Bit from sharing a beer with his mother. Eugene looks up and gives him a warm smile, "Dallas. I take it you've been doing well?"

As promised, Eugene doesn't mention their little meeting in front of everyone, Dallas nodding. "Yeah, been doing good. C'mon kid, you're gonna be late."

Soda seems to startle himself back from his head, turning around to say, "It's okay, Dally. I got him today."

Something really big must've happened for Soda to volunteer. Dallas looks between them. "Sure. I'll see you after then." He reaches over to scent Ponyboy's neck, and fuck there's so much tension there that Dallas is concerned. "I'll pick you up after school."

Ponyboy looks at him with those sweet eyes of his, with that blonde hair he's still growing up and gives him a smile that's so relieved that Dallas has to fight the urge to lean over and bite him again. "See you later, Dally."

Dallas looks back at Eugene and taps his shoulder. "Can I just get a few minutes?"

Eugene stands up, using his napkin to dab at his face. "Of course. We can talk outside, since it's a private matter." Dallas nods, waving to Ponyboy and walking back through the door. He passes Ivy with a nod, the November air cool against his skin. The parking lot is mostly filled up with cars and very few people — given the joint was new, it was probably a good sign.

Eugene follows him to his car, and once Dallas is sure no one is listening, he takes a better look at Eugene and his well done blue suit, his close cropped hair and the warmth of his look. He doesn't seem like he was concerned about what was going on, didn't seem like all this was going to go tits up at any moment.

"What we talked about — you still think that could work out for me and Ponyboy if I do it?"

"Remember what I gave you wasn't legal advice," Eugene states again, before nodding. "If you still want to do what you suggested, it will legally be fine. The State of Oklahoma would have to honor it. I suggest having only one person with you that you trust if you don't intend to have everyone immediately knowing what you plan on doing."

"Right, right," Dallas huffs, running his hands through his hair. "I think I got enough money to do it and I went looking through the library and some other places for the information you gave me. Tomorrow is gonna be Pony's last day in court, and then what?"

"Closing arguments on Monday. After that, the judge will rule. Her ruling won't be instant — it could take some time before she comes to a ruling. Anywhere from two weeks to two months, seeing as this isn't a normal trial but a hearing," Eugene emphasizes for probably the dozenth time, even though he knows damn well they're calling it a trial with how much was at stake. "I think that gives you both plenty of time."

"Sure fucking does," Dallas sighs. "Alright. Thanks, Eugene. I'll do it best I can." He offers his hand, and Eugene takes it, giving him a firm pump before withdrawing it. "Do you — "

Eugene shakes his head. "Don't ask me that right now. I can't give you anything concrete, only that I am trying my hardest to win for everyone here. Ponyboy did good on the stand today, as did Johnny. Those questions aren't going to get any easier, though. Please understand that and do what you can to support Ponyboy and Johnny both."

They're pack. Dallas doesn't have to say that. "I will."

Eugene nods again. "I'll see you later, Dallas."

Dallas watches him leave, and he's grateful at least someone gives a damn around here.

Chapter Text

Darry has made Ponyboy a liar.

Soda has never felt bad about little white lies told here and there. He feels differently about what Ponyboy's said as they walk to Ponyboy's school together, both of them in jackets against the cold. Johnny had gone off with Mrs. Mathews for another appointment at the doctor's office, dropping them off a little ways from the school.

It's one thing to lie about small, no sweat stuff. It was another altogether to have Ponyboy tell everyone that it had just been a normal fight between them all, just words and yelling, that hadn't resulted in Darry hitting Ponyboy. For a week, Soda had lived with that memory, of Darry hitting him, of the sound he'd made when he hit the floor, the shock it had sent through his entire body.

No one in that house had ever laid a hand on Ponyboy, ever. Once or twice, they'd been smacked on the hand, but Dad had never been a spanker. He'd always been upset when he talked about his own father beating him black and blue after he'd presented as an omega — it was one of the first things he'd told Soda when he presented how his father hated it, that his big, strong son had been an omega. How wrong he'd felt about it, and how awful it was to have someone so much bigger than him scream at him, hurt him, beat him over and over.

Dad had always been loud and clear: you don't hit anyone in this house.

Darry had violated that when he'd hit Ponyboy. He'd done what Steve's father had, what Mr. Shepard did to Tim, what Mr. Cade did to Johnny all the fucking time. Darry, who had yelled at Steve's father before, Darry who hated what happened to Johnny as much as the rest of them, Darry who knew better.

Ponyboy had lied for him, and he'd lied so well that it would be chilling if Soda didn't know the truth he was attempting to cover up. It was as if it all really had happened the way he'd said in court, so smoothly he told it.

"Hey," he walks closer to Ponyboy, unsure of how to start, of what to say, "How are you doing?"

A shrug. "I dunno. I just — I want it all to be over." Ponyboy mumbles out the words, looking at Soda beneath that weird looking blonde hair he has. It still looks like someone else had painted over his real hair, even with his darker roots showing more and more, a good inch or two there of auburn. "I'm tired of having to go up there so much and seeing everyone so scared." His voice grows a little louder, straining, "I just — I just wish none of it happened. I was up there — I just wish they'd left us alone."

Soda wraps an arm around Ponyboy, squeezing him closer. "I know, honey. None of this is fair to you and Johnny." His hand runs against Ponyboy's neck, trying to scent him the way Dad used to do for him. "Wish we could just snap our fingers and make sure all of this just is over."

"Yeah. Go back before everything, and just — I don't know. Maybe just go back to Mom and Dad being back. If they were here, none of this would've happened," the sad tones of Ponyboy's voice tug at Soda's heart, at the pain they both have. "D'you think – I mean I know Darry —"

Soda pulls him into a hug. Ponyboy falls quiet. They're close enough to hear the bell at the school and Soda wants to say more, wants to comfort his little brother as best he can.

So he hugs him a little longer, just to give him more comfort.

It's all he can offer right now. He knows he's too dumb to be able to say anything about the court case. He's not smart enough to understand entirely what the lawyers or the judge thinks or to see the future.

What he can do is this, hugging his little brother to him.

The tension in the Curtis house is so thick that a butter knife wouldn't be enough to cut through it. Dallas can feel it the moment he walks in from his latest job, grateful he found it right when he needed it.

The first tip off is that Soda smiles a little too widely when he sees him. There's a stretch to his smile that feels artificial, his voice too chipper, "Hey, Dal! Buck let you off early tonight?"

"Yeah, I guess," Dallas glances around, shrugging off his jean jacket. The whole place is cleaner than it normally is, the air of a well made dinner in the air, and with a look he can see that the table is half set with dishes almost overflowing with food. Food that was lacking in that stupid dye Soda always put in there whenever he helped out. For years, Dallas had avoided any sort of food Soda liked to dye and it was strange to see how normal it all appears as he sets things on the table. "You made those, right?"

"With Pony's help," the odd tone on Soda matches the weirdness of his scent; it's too sickly sweet, too pleasing, like he's trying to smooth things over from an argument. An argument that doesn't seem to exist, as far as Dallas can tell when he pokes his head in the kitchen. Darry doesn't have that sort of pissed off scent or attitude he always has when something's gone wrong or he's had to admonish someone in the pack. No, it's more cautious as he gives Ponyboy an unnecessarily wide berth as he moves around with the food for the table. There's no real reason for him to be over an arm's length away from Ponyboy at every moment of him getting food on plates, or when they come to set them down on the table.

Dallas puts up with it, going to his and Ponyboy's newly made up room to put the money away he'd just earned. In the next week or so, that money was going to be necessary, and he couldn't let a single bill get out of place. The tin he'd found for it is already brimming with money, and he adds in what he'd earned and some of what he'd simply taken from Buck to the pile. Once it's securely hidden again, he goes to the dining room where the television is on, and everyone's at their spots: Darry at the head of the table, Soda on one side, Pony at the other.

Except that odd feeling keeps on: usually if Ponyboy has an appetite after a day in court, he'll eat okay — he's just staring at his food as if he can't remember how to eat it; Darry's attacking his chicken a little too hard, and Soda's tone is a little still off, his voice high, "Was school okay, honey?"

"It was okay," Ponyboy replies, moving his green beans on his plate more than eating them. There's no look directed Dallas' way when he sits down, no kick to his leg, nothing. It's annoying — he was here, with his mate, and Ponyboy was too bothered by something to acknowledge him.

Dallas is the one who kicks him when the silence stretches too long. Ponyboy looks up, and then at Dallas' plate, and his ears tip red.

Apparently, Darry doesn't notice, Ponyboy shoving some of the mashed potatoes in his mouth. Dallas watches intently as Darry speaks, "You get all your homework?"

A shrug from Ponyboy, and a swallow of the mashed potatoes is what Dallas has been waiting for. "Yeah. I did most of it during last period. It wasn't too much." Ponyboy kicks Dallas this time, and he gets the message, picking up his fork to eat his green beans. "Need you to look at the math, though."

The green beans are like most of Darry's version of it: a little dry compared to Mrs. Curtis' ones, and some parts not cooked through. Dallas has never been one to complain about food, not when he could barely ever get any food in the first place. He just chews down on it, allowing another stretch of silence to fill the room. He thinks that Darry is trying to choose his words carefully, and it's not helped with the way Darry's jaw works, clenching and unclenching before he speaks.

"I'll look over your homework after dinner. You can just leave it on the fridge," Darry gives a weird grimace to Ponyboy that Dallas isn't sure is supposed to be encouraging or just.... nice. It doesn't seem like either.

"Sure," Ponyboy goes back to his plate, still mostly moving his food around than actually eating it. "I need to clean my clothes, too. For tomorrow."

Darry nods again, robotically. Soda seems to eat his food a little more, his eyes darting between them, as if he's waiting for something to happen. What that was, he wouldn't say.

Dallas fights the urge to just tell them all to act fucking normal, as they keep up the little odd moments betewen them whether it be Darry's stiff form as they wash dishes or Ponyboy seemingly not finding the ability to say more than five words at a time or Soda's scent lingering on cowering whenever he glanced between them like a bomb was going to go off at any second.

It all feels suspicious to him, and makes his hackles rise — just what the fuck was going on?

The silence, the unease is only broken when Soda turns the television up, the news bulletin droning on about the Vietnam War, about a blackout in New York. The sounds of their forks and knives on plates continues, and Dallas decides it's better to talk to Ponyboy about all this later than to force it.

He does his part, though, not complaining about Darry's undercooked beans or the sort of dry chicken he's made. He doesn't snap at Steve when he barges in, apparently talking to Soda again in some capacity and he doesn't nag Ponyboy when he barely eats his food.

They all agreed they'd behave as a pack for all of this. More importantly, Dallas promised Ponyboy he wouldn't fuck this up, and Dallas is a man of his word when it comes to his mate. There's no one else out there he cares about the way he does for Ponyboy as he watches him pull the chocolate cake out of the fridge that somehow had gotten there during the day. Dallas doesn't tell him he probably should've eaten more dinner, just gets a glass down and puts it in front of Ponyboy along with the milk.

The smile he earns from Ponyboy hits him right in the chest with how sweet it is, with how appreciative it is. Dallas knows he's done the right thing for him and that's all that matters.

That's his future, as far as he can figure it: earning that smile from Ponyboy over something small, having Ponyboy trust him, having Ponyboy with him. That's the future he's working towards, the future he wants. Even if there was tension, thick in the air that no one wanted to pick into except for Dallas.

A tension that he knew better than to pluck at now. Not with Soda and Steve getting along, not with Two-Bit coming in with some new cards and Johnny in crutches. Dallas decides to let it all stay as it is, cleaning up the dishes, watching Darry talk to Johnny about his latest treatments, listening to Two-Bit, Soda and Steve at their game and taking Ponyboy's plate and glass when he finishes his dessert.

He makes sure Ponyboy knows that, tugging him closer as Soda accuses Two-Bit of cheating, his finger wrapping around the St. Christopher glimmering around Ponyboy's neck. There's no resistance from Ponyboy when Dallas tugs him closer, to kiss his chocolate stained mouth. As always, the chocolate, the cake tastes all too sweet — and Ponyboy's sigh into his mouth is the perfect counter to it, his tongue following.

No one's going to notice them kissing here in the kitchen over the sink with the television up loud, with the card game going. No one's going to care as Dallas pulls Ponyboy closer, his fingers slipping into Ponyboy's hair, his tongue slipping into his mouth.

He tastes like chocolate and cigarettes and Dallas thinks that it suits his mate. It suits him more than the still blonde hair, more than the tension in the room, more than the streak of dread in him that he's been carrying for weeks now.

Dallas wants to put some of that to rest as best he can. The din from the television, from someone else barging in fades to nothing as he kisses Ponyboy — the taste of cigarettes, the taste of chocolate, fading bit by bit. It becomes easier to shut his eyes, parting only for a moment to get some air, and then to meet again. Ponyboy's not unadventurous, pushing Dallas against the kitchen counter, his hand fisting Dallas' shirt. The press of his body is so sure, so warm and Dallas can't help but think back to the heat hotel, think of how Ponyboy had smiled at him, think of how he had asked him to mate him.

It was intense then and it feels different now as he pulls back, looking at Ponyboy's flushed face, at the brightness in his eyes, at the swell of his lips and his half-dazed, wanting expression on his face. The want there is not as ferociously hungry and needy; there's some kind of contentment there, some kind of assurance that beneath his hands, Dallas won't disappear into the ether, that Dallas won't leave him, that there is something solid, trusting with him here.

A trust, and what Dallas knows is love when Ponyboy's mouth curves into a bigger, more authentic smile as he says, "You wanna go to bed before Darry catches us?" His fingers trail against Dallas' back and waistband, and there's no denying that there's the smell of slick in the air, coming only for one person.

Dallas' mouth floods with saliva, with need to have a taste of his mate.

No one, indeed, watches them as they make their way to their room now. No one cares about the door being shut, and Dallas doesn't bother to think about anything except for Ponyboy as soon as that door is shut.

Nothing in the universe matters more now than pushing Ponyboy into bed, climbing over to him and kissing him — while his other hand goes for Ponyboy's fly. There's only a need to keep that look in Ponyboy's face, to make sure that he's not swimming in that tension, and all that worry from the outside world.

Even if he can't say those words, Dallas wants to make sure Ponyboy knows. Even if the knowing is through this, pulling his jeans off, his boxers. Kissing him, dragging his fangs over Ponyboy's mating mark until his pulse flutters and he's whining for more.

Sometimes, it's better than talking. Sometimes, the only way to express something correctly was through action: and Dallas chooses this, to slowly ease his fingers into Ponyboy's tight, slicked hole and to bite at Ponyboy's mating mark in tandem.

Blood and slick follow, soon enough, twisted up in Ponyboy's words of, I love you Dally, I love you, I love you.

The heaviness of Dallas' body makes it hard for Ponyboy to wake up despite the emergency his bladder clearly is having. It's hard to fumble up through sleep, pushing Dallas off and stumbling out of the bed, across the hallway and to the bathroom. He almost walks into his old room, turns and finally makes it to the bathroom to piss in peace, throwing his head back with relief amid the sleepiness.

The whole house is dark and quiet, Ponyboy slowly getting more and more aware. By the time he's done washing his hands beneath the faucet, he can tell that there's no one sleeping on their couch and there's no one outside. He wipes at his eyes, stumbling back out as quietly as he can.

Sleep at least, had been good. Getting about rocked to sleep on Dallas' fingers, with his mating mark being bitten every few seconds helped a lot, he had to admit. There had been no time to think or breathe beyond Dallas' body, his touch, the safety there — and of course the orgasms. It felt a little bit like the heat hotel with how Dallas had been fingering him and biting him relentlessly. Every time Ponyboy felt his head might have cleared up a bit, Dallas would pump his fingers or bite down hard and he'd be spiraling off into another orgasm.

It was good, really good. Enough that his neck was now throbbing a little bit from the pain. It radiated down his shoulder, his back, and even though it really, really should make him uncomfortable...

His fingers touch it, as he walks to the kitchen, getting himself some water. With the cold weather coming in, it's just as cold as he wants it to be from the tap. Ponyboy drinks it slowly, his mind just turning over on itself now that he is alone. It's hard not to notice certain things: the bright moonlight coming through the window, the semi-empty streets, the bonfire that was still going on on the hill. A bonfire he wishes he could go to, and knows he can't with how late it is, and with everything still going on. Tomorrow was hopefully the last day to finally get all of this through, the last fucking day to get up in front of a judge and plead not just for his own life — but for Johnny's too.

The sourness of it all rises in his throat. The judge's face was always impassive, with her dark hair and green eyes. There had never been any ability to gauge her, and as usual now, when he'd gotten to school after Soda had talked to him there had been Socs there to remind Ponyboy of what this all was about. A doll had been at his locker this time, a noose around it. Two-Bit had seen it, and had been trying to take it down when Ponyboy had come in, and he had looked furious about it. There had been more taunts in classes, and he'd almost lost his temper over a classmate mocking Johnny in his wheelchair behind his back.

That didn't even compare to the newspaper he'd come across when he'd gone to get snacks after school. The headlines had been sensational, there had been speculation printed about their parents and where they were — someone had even tried to track down Mrs. Cade.

It makes his stomach turn thinking about it, about her humped form at Buck's and Ponyboy can feel his hand starting to shake. Her appearance at the hospital had been — well. It hadn't really left his mind.

Her dark eyes, her ramrod straight black hair that resembles Johnny so much, turned hard and cruel. He’d rather see those no-count hoodlums than his own folks! It was your fault. Always running around in the middle of the night getting jailed and heaven knows what else!

Where was she now? How — how was Johnny now? The thought is thunderous inside his mind, insistent in a way it hadn't been in the previous days.

At least, well. He'd been with Johnny, trying to talk to him. And Johnny hadn't wanted to talk to him then.

Now though, remembering her words, it grips Ponyboy tightly. He had to know where Johnny was, had to know if he'd seen those papers? Did he know? Was he just walking around here, like Ponyboy was, a raw nerve? He had to have been with how he'd been avoiding him and the thought just drowns Ponyboy. The silences between them, the future looming, and all he needs to do is find Johnny, talk to him. To finally, finally at least —

"Kid," Dallas's voice washes over him, Ponyboy's head snapping up to look at him, frowning from the hallway. His hair is a tousled mess, tugging his jeans up, some scratch marks from Ponyboy visible on his shoulders. "What the hell is going on?"

"I need to find Johnny," he tries not to wake up Darry and Soda, his voice urgent, "We need to talk. Really talk."

"No more smoke signals? Good," Dallas flicks his eyes down. "You're not gonna go outside naked, are you? Think they got laws about that even before you're lookin' to freeze your pecker off." He cocks his eyebrows and Ponyboy's face colors red with the realization he'd stumbled out like that. Dallas lets out a half laugh, Ponyboy moving away from the counter towards the bedroom.

In no time, Ponyboy is walking out of the front door with Dallas coming up behind him to carefully shut the door. Dallas' brown jacket is around Ponyboy's shoulders, his jeans are on and he's tugging on his tennis shoes as best as he can. The wind is a cold, stinging, Ponyboy waiting on Dallas to catch up to him.

Against the black-blue night sky, illuminated by the moon, the trees remain dark as ever as they sway with the wind. Most of the brightness comes from the moon and the streetlights, with the stars' bright pinpoints above. If he had a pencil or some charcoal, Ponyboy knows he could sit out here for an hour or two, trying to get down the landscape as best he could. It almost resembles that night weeks ago, when he and Johnny were in the lot together.

Just like then, Ponyboy looks at the stars, searching out for the Big Dipper just for a moment.

He locates it, squinting up at it the way his Dad had taught him to when he was a kid, lifting his hand to it — and then dropping his hand when Dallas catches up to him, rolling cigarettes into the sleeve of his shirt. "Where d'you think he is?"

"The lot," Ponyboy replies, moving in tandem with Dallas, going to the front yard and through the fence, shutting the gate behind him. "I don't think he's at Two's right now." It feels like instinct to know where Johnny would be. Of anyone, he wouldn't want to be there in the Mathews' home, stewing. He'd want to be outside, and Ponyboy grips Dallas' hand without thinking, leading him towards the lot as if he didn't know exactly where it was.

If he minds, he never says, keeping his hand in Ponyboy's as they walk. There's no one out here to be tough for anyway, and Ponyboy appreciates it with every surge of cold that seeps in. The streets are empty of people, the wind the only thing really carrying with the sound that isn't their footsteps. Only on occasion is it disturbed by the sound of a far away car or a plane overhead. It gives the night a strange quality to it, as if they'd gone back in time to when things were easier, simpler. Just where things were a little different too, a time where Dallas' hand in his was a reassurance, where maybe turning back, looking at home with Darry and Soda felt like it might be one of the last times he'd see it.

Ponyboy grips Dallas' hand the entire time, knowing exactly where to go and how to go even in the strange darkness. They're at a half jog when Dallas says, "Ah, you're right. He's over there, with a fire going."

Leave it to Dallas' ability to scent damn well to work out. Ponyboy keeps moving until he sees the familiar fire, and the form beside it in the old car chair. Ponyboy lets go of Dallas' hand, breaking into a half run, until he's finally in Johnny's sight. "Johnny! Johnny, I knew you'd be out here!"

There's a startled look on Johnny's face. His eyes overbright, like he'd been about to cry and Ponyboy wonders if he's remembering what he told him here a lifetime ago: I can’t take much more of this, Pony. I'll kill myself or something.

So much more has happened since then. So much worse and so much better, and Ponyboy can't believe that they've let it all fester so long as he approaches Johnny. His wheelchair is there, by the tree, and in his hand is a beer can he must've swiped from the Mathews' place. Another is already beside him, clearly drained.

For a second, Ponyboy feels gripped by fright, and worry. Johnny was never much of a drinker. "Can I get a sip?" Ponyboy asks, taking a seat beside him, hoping Johnny can't sense how fearful he is.

"Sure, I guess," the beer is heavy in his hand; Johnny must not have had a lot, and when Ponyboy swallows, that horrible bitter beer taste makes him gag. Dallas gives a half laugh, staying where he is beside the tree. Ponyboy doesn't opt to glare at him, just handing it back to Johnny.

Johnny takes it, mutely, and takes his own swig. The fire crackles, and Ponyboy doesn't know where to start. For all that he'd been seized to go see Johnny — just how was he supposed to approach this? What could he say that could make any of this.... better? His eyes drift over to Johnny's space, where he can see newspapers that Johnny sometimes used to sleep beneath, to shield himself from the cold.

A face looks up at him from the newspaper. "You've been reading about Bob, huh?"

A shiver runs through Johnny. "Yeah. You haven't?"

"...No. Kinda hard to read it since half the time, someone's drawn on it," Johnny passes the beer to Ponyboy at that, and he takes another swig of the stuff. This time he doesn't gag as much, and when he passes it back, he keeps his eyes on the fire. "Why're you reading about him?"

"Cause — Cause he was a person too," Johnny's voice is soft, the way it had been in the church. "We saw his family up there, in the court. They were — They looked —"

"Normal?"

Johnny takes a swig. "Yeah. Normal." He sniffs, and Ponyboy moves closer. "I mean — I always — I always thought we could go someplace without greasers or Socs. Be plain, ordinary people. And we're back here. We're stuck and we might never get un-stuck. We might not even make it to bein' adults." He sniffs. "Bob at least got to be eighteen. We might not even see that."

A shiver runs through Ponyboy, his throat drying up at the reminder. He doesn't interrupt when Johnny goes on, "All the papers talk about him going to college, about him with all — all these awards and people who liked him. How him and Cherry were together — and it just –"

"They still call us hoods," bitterness seeps into Ponyboy's voice, "How bad we were. And not much else. Guess we weren't heroes for that long, huh?"

Johnny takes another drink of the beer, and Ponyboy wants the bitter taste on his tongue too. The fire crackles, and he can hear Dallas shift against the tree.

"Everyone keeps looking at us, and poking us and taunting us, about when we might get the chair." It feels painful to say it, to feel it, and Ponyboy doesn't avert his gaze, doesn't say no to the offer of beer again. "And we don't even know if they care about a damn thing we're saying, neither."

They both give laughs then, bitter and — and —

"I'm scared," Johnny admits, his voice shaking, "I'm so damn scared, Pony. I shouldn't have let you go to that park, I should've walked you home!"

"It's not your fault," Ponyboy rebuffs, rougher now, even though he can feel his own voice wavering and tears starting to well up. "They were trying to kill us that night. You protected me."

"How was it protecting you if it still ends up with one or both of us dead?" Johnny's frustration wells up and over, turning to Ponyboy, tears streaking down his face, "What does it matter if someone's still dead? I killed him, I killed him and there ain't no way around that! I think all the time about what it felt like, the blood and — and I don't even know if I should feel upset or not!" Johnny's face crumples, and Ponyboy puts the beer down to wrap his arms around Johnny's shaking, upset form.

It's not the same as the church, with Dallas watching and the fire going and the distant sounds of the bonfire. It still feels like they're some kind of safe as Johnny cries, and Ponyboy holds him. He doesn't know when he starts crying or how, except at some point they are. At some point it's all they can do.

It doesn't fix anything, as they wipe at their faces, sit on the other end of the car seat, and it doesn't help much. Some of this is what they'd already talked about in the church together, over and over. Some of it, though, lands heavier than before, the reality closer than it was.

Oddly, it does loosen things, brings Ponyboy to be with Johnny here and now. It allows them to finally talk — about the courtroom (I can't stand going there every day), about Randy's words (You think he meant it?), about what it felt like every day under so many eyes (I feel like they keep staring through me). Ponyboy finds himself talking about the spurs on Shaw's boots, Johnny talking about what he'd felt when he'd been questioned over and over again.

The fire keeps crackling on, the wind gets a little less, and it's Johnny who's voice comes out, wavering, "I don't know what — what to do if this all works out. I never thought about what I'd do. If I'd have a future."

Ponyboy clenches his knees. He knows that isn't the same for him; there had always been a vague sense of a future for him, involving college, involving more. Hearing Johnny say this now, it makes him feel so old and so young all of a sudden. He looks into the fire, and then back at Johnny and his dark eyes. "Even with the doctors? Even with what they say?"

"They said I'll probably have a bad back rest of my life," Johnny sniffs again, "Said I needed a wheelchair earlier, but with what cash?" Johnny wipes at his face. "Can't get that in prison, can you?"

Ponyboy flinches. "At least — at least we'd go together, wouldn't we?" The look he gives is weak, flimsy in its optimism, even if he's trying. Trying to be stronger for Johnny, trying to be stronger for himself, for Dallas behind them who's still not said a word. He just smokes silently as Ponyboy goes on, "Shouldn't we just think about that? That no matter what, we'd still be friends?"

He reaches over and Johnny squeezes his hand. "Yeah. Even in the jailhouse. We'd still be friends, we'd be pack, I guess." A bitter, scared laugh leaves his lips. "And still greasers to them." The way he says greasers is down-trodden, angry. As if it was bad. "My parents, they don't say nothing, but I know they're still angry I'm one. Why else wouldn't they come around when I might die?" His voice is strangled, distraught.

Even as Johnny says the words, Ponyboy finds for the first time that he's disagreeing. Not when he looks at the wheelchair, not when he looks at the jacket he's wearing. He remembers how they talked here, and how he had hated being a greaser then.

"It ain't so bad being a greaser, Johnny." He knows that he's younger than Johnny, that he's going through this too, and that things aren't simple. It still feels worth it for Ponyboy to say, "Jay Mountain — I wanna go back all the time. But we only had each other there. The pack here — being a greaser here, it ain't a bad thing. They've been there every step of the way, they put up money for us. Even if we go in — if we go in, I know they'd be there for us. That they wouldn't forget it." Saying it makes it feel real, worth fighting for. "We got them. We got other greasers here — like Ivy, the River Kings, even the Shepards and Mrs. Mathews. Greasers look out for each other and we'll figure something out. Together."

He doesn't say: if we get the chair or not.

He doesn't know if it's possible, in all of this that the pack can do everything for them. He doesn't know if Johnny will stop thinking about killing Bob or if Ponyboy will stop dreaming about the blood. But it feels good to say it, to at least give Johnny some kind of future to look forward to, to remind him and Ponyboy what they had. "Nobody on this block would just let us go to the chair without a fight. Or without trying to help." He turns to Dallas, who's still been smoking in silence. "Right, Dal?"

Dallas nods. "Right. We're a pack, and Socs ain't." He flicks his eyes between them both, and Ponyboy believes him. There's a look on Johnny's face that is almost hopeful, and Ponyboy hopes Johnny won't forget this. Dallas steps into the firelight more, looking between them both. "C'mon. Let's get you two home — It's late and we can't have Pone falling asleep in front of that asshole."

They both stand up, Pony helping Johnny into his wheelchair. Dallas finishes off the last of the beer, allowing Ponyboy and Johnny to have a few feet of privacy. "Have you and Mrs. Mathews talked about what might happen?"

"Yeah," Johnny sighs, exhaustion plain on his face, "She said she might look into getting a lawyer. Fighting to be my legal guardian since my parents ain't interested if — if I get sentenced." He gives a hopeful smile and Ponyboy feels warmth in his chest that someone was finally going to fight for Johnny. "What about you? You talked about the pack and all but no one's mated like you two are. It's different for you."

Ponyboy glances behind, where Dallas remains a few steps back to give them their own privacy. He can see Dallas lighting a cigarette beneath a streetlight, looking as tough and wild as ever. "I don't know. I think Dallas has an idea but he just — he doesn't wanna think things'll go badly."

The look Johnny gives him is a little odd in how his eyes seem to glow and the admiration there. It makes Ponyboy want to squirm, saying, "What?"

"You got lucky," he smiles at Ponyboy, "I never thought you two would be something. I dunno, I think — I think it's good you have him. Real lucky to have someone like Dallas."

"He ain't got no more manners than you or me," he jokes, remembering what Johnny had said about Dallas being gallant. That joke though, doesn't feel right. Not when he looks at Dallas and wants him closer, not when he's already done so much, and Ponyboy smiles too. "I — I love him, and he loves me too. I think. He ain't ever said it — I just know." He reaches up to touch the St. Christopher. "If he's got something, he ain't telling me."

"But you trust him, don't you?"

It's so easy to answer. "Yeah. Every bit of him."

Johnny smiles back. "C'mon. Wanna race me to Two's?"

In answer, Ponyboy gives himself a few seconds of a head start, knowing Johnny was going to follow him.

Chapter Text

The house is quiet when Dallas and Ponyboy creep back inside. It's eerily similar to the night when Bob had died, only somehow in reverse. Ponyboy isn't slowly sneaking in through the front door, knowing he's going to be yelled at, dreading Darry's words. Instead, he's cracking open the back window, slowly pushing it up and then slipping inside of his bedroom.

The shadows he and Dallas make mingle against the moonlight, both of them getting inside with minimal amounts of noise. Johnny had gotten to the Mathews' house just fine, and now it was time for them to get rest.

That might be difficult, though, with how keyed up he feels when he sits on the bed. Even with talking everything out with Johnny, it didn't feel as if everything had gotten entirely resolved. How could it, really? There was still everything looming in front of them, still no resolution to be found until he finished speaking in that courtroom.

Dallas shuts the window, his eyes flicking towards Ponyboy. "You gettin' to bed, Pone?"

"I guess," he replies with a shrug, looking at the mostly bare walls, the shelf of books they'd put together, the suit that was hanging on a hook waiting for him, the bowl with Dallas' car keys glinting there in the moonlight. "I just — I don't know about — about the rest of this. Any of this."

There was relief to be had with Johnny. A temporary relief, and he knows it even as his body sags into the bed more. It just wasn't all gone — there's a dread feeling in his chest, thinking about the next day, about what he had to wear, about what he had to do, what he could say. The vague scent of chlorine surfaces, strong in his nostrils, the distant memory of Bob's voice, the smell of alcohol at the very edge of his senses.

Dallas stands up, crossing over to the bed, his expression serious with how downsloped his eyebrows are, the shadows falling over his face. Ponyboy can't see the pinpricks of his dark eyes nor can he tell where they're looking or how intensely; even the shadows his cheekbones cast are cast in inky black as he looks over at Ponyboy.

He wants Dallas to say something comforting, to say that things will be okay, that all of this will be done soon and they'll have their whole lives ahead of them in an easy road from here on out — and too, Ponyboy knows that isn't Dallas. He's not that kind of person, not a liar about the future, and he's not that kind of a mate even though Ponyboy wishes fleetingly he could be. All that talking he did on Jay Mountain with Johnny about Dallas floats up in his mind, how Johnny always saw him as gallant and Ponyboy never could see that golden hued veneer that Johnny does.

It's darkness he sees, in Dallas — a darkness that feels unlike a weapon so much as a comfort as Dallas drops between his legs. A darkness that feels as natural as night, that wasn't malicious in nature; it just was, and that darkness is a comfort in Dallas when directed at Ponyboy.

"You know I ain't gonna let them just take you if something happens," Dallas' voice rumbles out, lifting his head enough that his eyes are caught by the moonlight, illuminating the brownness of them, the almost bovine nature of them.

All at once he remembers a summer where his Dad had to help get steers ready for a competition. There had been one that had been ornery, cruel no matter who attempted to work with it. Ponyboy hadn't listened to his Dad, gotten too close to the pen to watch the cowboys. He'd gotten distracted, and had fallen in the pen, all of eight years old.

The steer had spotted him, and Ponyboy hadn't thought. He'd tried to run away from it, the steer barrelling towards him, his Dad yelling. It had gotten over Ponyboy so quickly that he'd been terrified he'd be gored by its enormous horns, and he'd seen its huge, dark eyes, and how there had been a brown there, too, an intelligence. An intelligence enough that once it had gotten Ponyboy flat on his back, terrified and panting, it seemed to realize that Ponyboy was a child, not a threat.

Instead of goring him that day, it had nuzzled him, sank to its knees to pin Ponyboy there with its weight. As terrified as Ponyboy had been, it had taken a few moments for him to realize that the steer was submitting to him, allowing him to take comfort.

His Dad had snatched him away the moment the steer had lifted up, and as terrified as they'd felt, Ponyboy had begged him to not hurt the animal. His Dad had never told him what happened to it.

Right now, Dallas' eyes look like that, huge, dark, intelligent — and devoted to him in this moment. Utterly devoted to him in a way he's never seen before, feeling Dallas' hands wrap around his own. "I know it sounds like bullshit, Pony. I've bullshitted before, but I ain't bullshitting you here. I can't tell you what I got planned, yet. Just trust me, okay? Do whatever you want, say whatever you want up there tomorrow. No matter how that verdict comes out, I already talked to Eugene. We got at least two, three weeks before we get a ruling and by the time it comes down, ain't nobody gonna try and drag you nowhere without my say so."

Something about the way he talks makes Ponyboy more curious than ever, and more sure than ever that Dallas really did have something concrete, that the plan really is happening. There's something really there and for as many times as Dallas has reassured Ponyboy, has tried to do it before, it's different now.

A small suspicion creeps into his mind. Eugene. He'd spoken to Eugene. The possibility of what Dallas had in mind glimmers up. "What did Eugene say to you?" He keeps his tones hushed, as if Soda or Darry could come in at any moment and hear them.

His eyes search Dallas' dark ones, and Dallas doesn't look away, nor does he blink. Silence hangs in the air for a long moment, as if Dallas really was considering answering him, as if he might actually say it. Then he's shaking his head, voice a quiet rumble in the darkness, "I can't tell you, kid. Not 'til I know that everything's gonna work out the way I need it to."

"You can't give a hint, nothing?" Ponyboy knows the answer even as he says the words, Dallas always good at keeping his mouth shut even in the face of his own brothers months ago. "Just — something, Dally? Anything?"

Dallas shakes his head. "I'm sorry, kid," and that's startling in and of itself for Dallas to be apologizing to him like this, sincere, "I wish I could. I just — I can't risk it. Can't risk you." The rough hands he has squeeze Ponyboy's own, the coolness of his skull ring pressing into Ponyboy's warm skin, anchoring him to this moment in the darkness. "You trusted me to mate you, and you gotta just trust me on this one too. Please, Ponyboy. Please."

What choice does Ponyboy have, except to nod, accepting his mate's words.

If he had no one else, he had Dallas.

The cold is sharper than ever when Ponyboy steps out of Dallas' car at the courthouse. His breath materializes in front of him, his eyes sweeping over the parking lot. Greasers are there, assembled in that solemn sight of support he'd gotten the first day and Ponyboy can't help himself with how emotional it makes him, to see so many greasers there to show support to them.

A pack. They were a great pack, and Ponyboy keeps his head up as he walks up with Dallas beside him. Dallas' hair lifts a bit in the wind, opening the door for Ponyboy. Ivy waves to him, and Bear pumps his fist for Ponyboy, and all he wants to do is go to the bonfire with them, have a drink, be a kid.

Instead, he's walking to the doors of the courtroom, sitting on the bench provided for them. Soda and Darry follow behind Dallas, Soda sitting on one side of him, Dallas on the other. Soda for his part looks the most relaxed he has all week, cracking a small joke with Darry, and nudging Ponyboy encouragingly when he seems to slump a little. "You'll be okay, honey."

"Thanks," Ponyboy cracks a smile, never one to really be able to deny Soda's sunnier moments. "I hope this is the last time I have to come here for the rest of my life."

"You got that right," Steve strides in, pushing Johnny's wheelchair in front of him. Evie walks beside him, to Ponyboy's surprise. He hasn't seen her in weeks, and for the life of him he still can't understand what she sees in Steve. Whether they're here as friends or not, he isn't sure. Evie's presence, though is a welcome one, Ponyboy standing up to greet her.

She hugs him the way she always has done, her alpha scent probably the one he'd select as being most like an omegas: it's a little cloying, not overly strong and almost maternal like as she squeezes him. He pulls back, looking at her sharp outfit, from the nice capris to the bright pink shirt. "Looks like we both changed our hair, huh Ponyboy?" The words are a little teasing, and Ponyboy's ears tip a little red. "I finally got an afro going and you're a cute little blonde."

He huffs, shrugging, "It only looks okay now. I've been trying to make it look tuff again." It's not the same as her hair; her afro looked good on her, framing her slightly cherubic face nicely. He was still pretty confident he looked like Dumbo half the time.

Evie wrinkles her nose a little, "Well, maybe once I get my license, we can see about giving you your old color."

Two-Bit chimes in, bringing up the rear with his mother, "You gonna turn his hair pink? I'd love to see that." He snickers, Evie wheeling on him immediately. "We can start singing Pink Elephants—" He laughs when Evie throws him the middle finger and Ponyboy shares a laugh with him. They all knew Evie could sometimes be hit or miss, and Ponyboy tries not to laugh too hard when he catches Steve's pinched face.

They all remember the last time she'd experimented on his hair.

Dallas beside him doesn't laugh, tugging at Ponyboy's shirt. "I'm gonna go talk to Two-Bit — after that, I'll see you tomorrow."

Ponyboy frowns at him, his heart speeding up in his chest. "Tomorrow? You got a job to do?" Dallas gives him a sharp nod, and Ponyboy can feel his shoulders slump a little bit, even though Dallas' hand runs soothingly against his neck, running across his mating mark. Some of the fear he feels gets muted down with every stroke. "Okay, just — you promise to be back tomorrow in time for the bonfire?"

"Promise," he dips down, kissing Ponyboy in a way that's almost gentle for him, Ponyboy pressing against him desperately. So much of him wants Dallas to just drag him away with him, away from here. Ponyboy's fingers reach up to grasp at his shirt, and just as he thinks he can make Dallas linger a little, he hears the familiar footfalls from Eugene and worse, the clink clink clink of Shaw's boots.

That has Ponyboy pulling away, his cheeks reddening, and Dallas' dark eyes stay focused on him, his voice low, "I'm taking Two-Bit with me. Don't worry. Just say what you need to say up there, kid. Don't think about what else is gonna happen, just remember to —"

"Trust you," Ponyboy finishes for him, pulling away. Dallas' fingers touch the chain on his neck, tugging out the St. Christopher medal so it can be seen. "I do. I will."

All he can do after that is watch Dallas nod, turning away to bark at Two-Bit, "Hey, Two. C'mere, I gotta talk to you."

Two-Bit looks surprised, still teasing Evie, and flicks his eyes from Dallas to Ponyboy. "You got a lovebird dispute I gotta fix?"

Ponyboy rolls his eyes, trying to get his breathing, his emotions under control. Johnny comes beside him, his hair combed neatly, his suit pressed and there's something a little more loose about him now that they've talked. Eugene is engrossed talking to Soda about something, in a finely tailored red suit, and Ponyboy looks at Darry, in their father's suit again, quiet and concerned.

One more time. This was going to be one last time.

Two-Bit leans against the wall of the court house, squinting at Dallas in curiosity. "You need me for a job with Buck's? Not that I ain't flattered, I do a damn good job outrunnin' cops — just wouldn't you want Shepard for this kind of thing? This is you twos sorta thing more than it is mine."

"Not for this," Dallas says dismissively, rolling his shoulders. "Buck needs me to make a delivery out in Louisiana, and I need to leave in the next two hours. He's giving me extra money to do it and all, and it'll be overnight. Shepard's good for most shit, but not this. Sometimes, he's about as discreet as a chicken in a whorehouse." Two-Bit snickers at that. "He's also paying me double to do it — you need the money more than him. So are you in on this or not?"

There's something odd here that Two-Bit can't quite put his finger on as Dallas waits for an answer. Something... Well. "You sure you wanna take an overnight trip when Ponyboy's about to make his last stand up there? I ain't an expert in relationships or nothing, just seems like maybe he'll need you today more than he'll need Johnny or his brothers."

The wind picks up, making Two-Bit wrap his jacket around himself tighter, looking at Dallas' slightly pink face, his dark eyebrows in a furrowed line. It makes him look a little cartoonish as his jaw works. "The money Buck is supposed to pay me on this is enough that if shit goes wrong here, we could keep Eugene on ourselves and maybe more." There's a tight, sharp inflection to his voice, one that Two-Bit understands. "You need it too — no matter what's gonna happen to Johnny, he's gonna need care, ain't he? Those crutches ain't great for him and we know damn well your Mom's barely cutting it paycheck to paycheck."

All truthful, to a painful degree. It'd be a little funny if Two-Bit hadn't caught his mother praying that morning to herself, hunched over the sink. She hardly ever prayed, and whenever she did he always knew something was wrong. The last time he'd caught her was when Katie caught pneumonia when she was six and she'd been in the hospital, terrified she might not make it — and when their father had walked out of the door, leaving everything in a disarray.

He'd caught her praying to herself, trying to will into existence a job, a mercy of some kind.

There was never anything said between them, the times he'd seen her. Just an acknowledgement from himself to turn around, to pretend he hadn't seen it.

To have her praying like that, before they had to go to court...

Two-Bit nods. "Alright. Let me go get my lucky boots —"

"Those boots ain't lucky —"

" — and we can go. You drivin' me home?" Two-Bit cocks his eyebrows and Dallas huffs, muttering out, Bum.

He gives one look back to the courthouse, and then they're walking to Dallas' car.

Shaw's boots click as he approaches Ponyboy. He seems hell bent on appearing like a legal John Wayne before Ponyboy, with a too tall hat on his head and a toothy smile beneath his white and gray whiskers. "When we last spoke, Mr. Curtis, you had just gone to the park with Mr. Cade, is that right?"

"Yessir," Ponyboy shifts in his seat, wishing that Dallas' jacket could actually be on him, not in Soda's lap at the moment. Soda's staring at him, white as sheet, from his place in the galley. Darry is beside him, not as pale or terrified looking, yet still frozen, as if he isn't sure what to make of what Ponyboy is about to say. "We walked to the park together, to try and cool off. It was real cold, and we knew we couldn't be out much longer. We were fixin' to go home when we saw headlights coming on the street. We could tell that it wasn't a greaser — no one in the neighborhood is ever out that late and that car was real tuff and new."

Shaw frowns. "Tuff?"

"Cool. Real cool, nice looking car," Ponyboy clarifies for Shaw, watching as he squints.

"How did you know that it was him?"

"Ain't — Greasers don't drive new Mustangs. Can't afford it, and I knew it cause we'd seen it earlier that night, at the moviehouse — a blue Mustang. The one that came out this year," he tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone as he speaks. He'd seen that car on a commercial while he and Dallas had been in the heat hotel. The television had been on briefly, Ponyboy recognizing it as they'd shared a sandwich together.

He could sink right into that memory, Dallas' arms wrapped around him, the television playing, the warm, feeling of being newly mated surrounding them. It takes work to pull him out of it, to keep talking, "When we realized who it was — we just froze, I guess. They all stumbled out drunk. Drunker than they had been before — you could smell how drunk they were."

The memory is so easy to go back to: the sight of all five of them, reeling around drunk, staggering with it. The way their limbs slung around them, and the reservation Ponyboy had felt and the creeping fear. The alcohol mixing with the alpha scents, heightened and clearly prime to be whipped up in a frenzy.

Ponyboy can practically feel the monkey bars beneath his hands, the reluctance he'd felt there: to stay up there, out of reach or to climb down and have the chance to run in case they tugged at his legs anyway and something worse could happen. His throat goes dry as he describes it to Shaw, the slow way they had climbed down, his hand gripping the monkey bars, looking at Bob's drunk grinning face, the moonlight glinting off of Bob's rings, the hugeness of Johnny's eyes, the beta scent strong with terror — and worse was Ponyboy's own, thickly omega against a bunch of alphas who didn't even respect their own alpha girlfriends.

"So instead of staying up out of reach, you climbed down?"

"Had to. Could of yanked us down, hit my head," and died almost slips out of Ponyboy's lips and he holds it in at the last moment. "Bob recognized us — he said so. Johnny told him that they were out of their territory, and Randy — he swore at us, and Bob told us to pick our own kind. Called 'em dirt."

If Bob materialized right then, his face in a jeer, Ponyboy wouldn't be surprised. He can still recall the words verbating: Next time you want a broad, pick up yer own kind—dirt.

"We wanted to go and I just — I got mad. Not when he threw his alcohol on me. Not when he said that greasers are white trash with long hair," each word is starting to get rushed out, as if he can't keep a lid on the memory anymore, "I couldn't just let him say it. I told him that Socs were white trash with Mustangs and madras and I spit on his face."

He hadn't been thinking beyond the terror and anger. Everyone had seemed surprised that Ponyboy had done it, the spit shining in the moonlight when it hit Bob's face, slunk down his cheek. Bob had bared his teeth when he'd insulted them, and now he was the one feeling insulted, the spit slipping down his face, the surprise there turning into anger on a dime, his eyes blazing.

Only it was a cold anger when he'd stepped forward.

He hates that he's saying Bob's words as if he's there with him in the room, as if he was holding a blade to his throat as he talked. "He told me, You could use a bath, greaser. And a good working over — I don't wanna fuck an omega from the other side of town without making sure he ain't gonna give me a disease. Give the dirty omega a bath, David." Ponyboy shudders recalling it, even though he'd done his best to clean it up for them.

It had been worse than that. He doesn't include that Bob had actually said omega bitch or that Randy had laughed coldly when Ponyboy had realized what was going on.

Ponyboy can feel himself starting to sweat as he goes on, his voice fighting to keep steady. "They said — they hadn't hunted an omega in awhile. That's when I bolted. Johnny told me to run and I tried. I really — I really did."

"When they said they hadn't hunted an omega in awhile, did you understand what that meant?" Shaw seemingly snaps into defense with his question.

"I –, yeah. I heard of what omega hunting was since my brother presented," he flicks his eyes for the first time to Soda and Ponyboy can't take the look of abject horror on Soda's face. His eyes are huge in his face, his face splotchy red, clearly trying to hold back tears, his hand over his mouth. A wave of trepidation washes over Ponyboy at the look, and he darts his eyes back to look at Shaw, unable to look at anyone else, shame welling up in his chest too.

"What did he say that omega hunts were?" Shaw presses.

Frustration starts to creep up too, Ponyboy clenching his fingers on his knees. "It's like Randy said: when alphas get together and hunt down whatever omega they find. They do it in cars or on foot, and they chase you around wherever they want, til you get tired or you get caught. And once you get caught, I heard that you get — that you could get hurt." Ponyboy tries to dance around the word he doesn't want to say in court.

Apparently, that's not enough for Shaw. "Hurt, as in a fight?"

"Hurt like — like they'd pin you down and do whatever they wanted with you. Even if you didn't want it," Ponyboy tries to dodge the question again, not wanting to say it, not wanting to admit to what could've happened, what almost happened.

That's the one thing he can't give to them. That for a moment, those Socs had descended on him, hands reaching out, dragging him to the ground. He'd been terrified that they'd tear at his shirt, his jeans, and they had for a moment. Worse that his body had reacted: that coil of terror had been wound up in something else, a curiosity he knew now was arousal, a want.

Except that didn't make sense at all to him, when he'd been terrified, when a blade been flashed, when it had been pressed to his neck. Why would he have wanted it? Why would he have wanted Bob, when he'd pressed it against his neck, laughing?

He doesn't tell them that he'd struggled out, that the blade had gone missing.

Instead, he jumps to the next point, "They caught me, for a second. But Bob — I guess Bob was intent on trying to — to clean me, I guess." Ponyboy wants to admonish himself, for the way his voice shakes, for the dip in his voice. "They just pulled me to the fountain. I tried, I screamed for Johnny until they just — they shoved me in. The water was cold, and I couldn't get up. I kept fighting and fighting, 'cept they were all bigger, stronger. They pushed me in and I kept wondering what happened to Johnny, and I kept sucking up water and I thought I was dying."

It's the truth, he knows it. The blasting of cold air on his skin, the terror whenever his murky vision cleared for seconds for Bob's laughing face, to see Randy's jeers. The sudden impact of ice cold water, the struggle to breathe, and then another blast of cold air, coughing, screaming for Johnny, the alcohol being splashed over him, the alpha scents mixed with English Leather, the panic, the panic, the red haze —

His hands tremble in front of him. The room swims as his mouth talks, describes it all but it's all strange. As if he's a visitor in his own body, listening to him describe the water, the terror of it all. Every twitch of his hand, every terrified syllable falls out and Ponyboy feels as if the room is expanding around him, a version of him that can't leave, that's trapped in that moment.

Shaw goes on, asks questions. Ponyboy answers, jaw working. The sound seems to have fled the room, every blink he takes feels remote, the lights too bright, too odd, humming above him, the scent of blood strong in his nose as he talks about the haze, about Bob's body, splayed in front of him, the pool of blood that seemed to stretch onward and onward. Johnny's face looks stricken beside Eugene, and behind him, Ponyboy thinks it's so strange that Soda looks like he's going to vomit and Darry seems as if he's torn between anger and disgust. Their faces loom large as he goes on, a ringing in his ear that seems to grow and grow.

He shuts his eyes, feeling overwhelmed, sick.

Bang, bang, bang.

Pony flinches, sound breaching into the world again and the Judge's voice rings out, "Five minute recess. We will be going the full day today."

There's a murmur and stiffly, Ponyboy stands up and exits the stand.

Chapter Text

Buck's eyes flick from Dallas to Two-Bit, taking in their faces suspiciously. "This ain't your usual route, is it?" He chews on the tobacco he has, his voice low, the blonde cowlick he has lifting in the slight wind. "Are you sure you wanna pull this one off?"

"I know how to drive, Buck," is the retort he gets from Dallas, reaching out, beckoning, "Just gimme the map and keys and we'll get going. We already swapped the plates, got everything in the trunk, and got the extra weapons. We're good to go."

Two-Bit watches them with interest, at the twenty-something cowboy and Dallas, who was over an inch taller than Buck — achieved in the past few months — with his sharp dark eyes and an urging. He doesn't want to get between them; anything with Buck was always mainly between him, Dallas, Tim and other real rough and tough hoods. Not greasers, hoods, the ones who were making their way through the prison system when they weren't up to smaller shit.

It was rare that he ever worked for the man on account of his own laziness and the feeling that if he worked with him too often, he'd get in trouble eventually. The last thing his mother needed was for him to get in real trouble.

This though.... there's something about Dallas' behavior that strikes Two-Bit like a dog that was determined to get a bone no matter what. Whatever it was that he needed to get out of this, he needed to get it bad and nothing was going to deter him.

Given the circumstances, Two-Bit understands he can't blame him for it. Dallas wasn't the only one thinking about the future now and how badly it could be. He wasn't going to school hearing classmates whisper about what it would be like when a greaser finally got the chair or seeing people's eyes follow Johnny around or seeing Johnny looks sad and defeated sometimes when he came back from appointments or listened to the arguments his mother had to make to try and see about anything she could legally do to keep Johnny — or, worse, the bills she'd been keeping in her drawer that were getting bigger.

That's the real draw, the money. That money that Dallas had dangled in front of him was the most important thing, the only solution out of any of this and Two-Bit wasn't a damn fool to turn his nose up in the air and refuse. To survive, Two-Bit had to do something, anything and if that meant getting in with Buck and Dallas on this? Than so be it.

Buck hands over the keys to Dallas. "Alright. You call me when you get there and you call me when you leave." For a second, Two-Bit thinks he may say something corn-pokey, or worse, Yosemite Sam-like. Instead he spits out some of his tobacco and turns back to his bar.

Dallas gestures Two-Bit to follow him. They make their way to the parked car, the one that Buck had gotten fixed up for them. It's a sleek, black 1957 Chevrolet, with a false trunk in it, loaded up with all sorts of contraband hidden in spaces. Two-Bit puts his things in the back, the bag he'd stuffed with clothes, and Dallas adds his own. The trunk shuts with a heavy snap, and Two-Bit finds himself saying, "You sure you wanna do this now? Last day of them on the stand, and all."

He's sure he sounds casual to anyone else. To Dallas, he knows he doesn't.

"Let's go," Dallas walks to the driver's side and Two-Bit goes to the passenger side.

Decision made.

Darry is saying something to Ponyboy, his hand on his shoulder a heavy thing. His lips are moving, his eyes look concerned. Whatever he is saying, Ponyboy can't tell, feeling like the only thing occurring was that his ears were ringing, his hands shaking. It's as if he's half submerged underwater, listening to Darry attempt to talk to him through it, even though he was dry as a bone now, sitting outside of the court room for their recess.

He should say something. Say anything at all to his brother's concerned face.

Ponyboy opens his mouth. Words come out. What shapes they make, what syllables they form, he is not in control of.

The heaviness of Darry's hand goes away. Stiffly, he stands up, walking towards Johnny and his petrified, ashen face. Heavily, he drops into the seat beside him, and Johnny says nothing, does nothing.

The ringing starts to go away. People move to and fro, and it's only Johnny's voice who comes in clear, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Wasn't much to tell," he says, voice strange in it's own ears with the flinty way he talks. "What could you have done?"

Nothing.

Ponyboy looks at his hands. He can see he's been clenching his knees too hard, and he thinks to at home, when he'd had a glass of water after nightmares. "You know where the water fountain is?"

There's a creak of the wheelchair. "Yeah. I'll go with you." They both go there together, Johnny at his side the entire time. The marble of the floors squeak beneath them, and when the water hits Ponyboy's mouth, for a moment the taste of chlorine rises up —

— the push of hands, shoving him downard, they need to clean him —

— then fades, the water crisp, clean in a way it didn't even taste at hit house. Ponyboy opens his mouth, gulping down more and more water, gasping for it until he feels half bloated from it all, standing up to look at Johnny. It's almost as if the world comes back into focus, with Johnny's worried face, his bitten down nails, the suit on him. Everything starts to refocus as Ponyboy blinks, breathes deeper, slower. The court house fills in: the gold plated designs on the floors, the gray and white patterns in the marble, the view of Darry whispering something to Soda who looks as pale as ever, Mrs. Mathews wringing her hand with her face pinched and red enough to clash with her hair, the sight of Eugene beckoning to them to come back inside in his immaculate suit.

Truth be told, Ponyboy wants a cigarette, wants the inhale of the tobacco, the burn of it. His fingers twitch for it as the slide of water continues down his chin, to hit the small culvert on his neck. He reaches up to wipe at his face, and he looks at Johnny again, at the worried look on his face. "I'll be okay. I promise."

Johnny looks doubtful. Ponyboy doesn't blame him in the moment. He doesn't feel okay, he doesn't feel very strong, and he certainly doesn't feel ready to walk back inside. Johnny nods anyway, his voice stronger than Ponyboy's own. "Yeah. You are." He reaches out to squeeze Ponyboy's hand, and Ponyboy squeezes it back.

It's not Dallas lending him strength right now — he wishes he were here, beside him, he wishes Dallas were with him, driving off somewhere so they could just be together, he wishes Dallas had decided to stay up on Jay Mountain with him and they'd never come down — it's Johnny giving it to him, the same way he had in the church when they'd cried after their hair was cut, it's Johnny who's here right now, who went through this with him.

No more crying for today.

Ponyboy lets go, and wipes at his face. He wonders where Dallas has gone, and a little worry festers in the back of his head.

Everyone else had gotten up when they'd been let out for recess, filing past in relative silence when there were faint murmurs. The only person who hadn't gotten up and walked away, was Soda. Even after Steve asked and Darry nudged, he shook his head, his mouth shut, until the doors shut behind them all.

That had only left Soda alone, locked into the seat, trying to wrap his head around what Ponyboy had just said. All those days, all those weeks passed and no one had known what that Soc kid had actually attempted to do to Ponyboy.

Those thoughts keep him bolted down, his hands shaking, an upset feeling in his stomach. Every word Ponyboy had spoken was scarier than the last, his eyes shining at times with tears, and his scent had such a turn to it that Soda had felt like he was going to cry too at one point. It was all the signals of his upset little brother — his little brother who —

Why hadn't Ponyboy told him? Why hadn't he said anything about it all?

A week, Soda had been terrified he'd suffered horribly and he'd come back mostly okay. In all that time, it hadn't crossed his mind that Ponyboy had been chased down like that, held down by boys so much bigger than him, threatened in a way Soda hadn't until he'd presented at sixteen.

He'd gone through that, alone.

Had kept it to himself, alone.

The shame, the anger, the fear — Ponyboy had kept it all to himself, without a hint to anyone else, without a hint to Soda. Guilt washes through him, mixing with the shock of it all. He was the brother most like him and Ponyboy had said nothing at all.

Soda hadn't been there for him, hadn't known, hadn't even considered Ponyboy might hurt like that.

All he can do is sit there with his emotions rolling over him, trying to stop a buzzing in his head. Ponyboy had never told him, he had been scared too or ashamed to tell him.

His cheeks flush, his eyes get thick with tears. Soda fights it down, scrubbing at his face.

For the few minutes they're given recess it feels like no time at all has passed, before everyone shuffles back in, one by one. Soda has to force himself out of his stiff position, standing up with everyone else, sniffling so no one could tell he'd been close to bawling. Darry and Steve flank him again, and he looks at Ponyboy, in his suit, some water glimmering on his cheek.

He wants to pull Ponyboy close to him, tell him that he's alright, that he won't be hurt again.

It doesn't focus his thoughts, doesn't keep the hurt from circling around. Why wouldn't Ponyboy come to see the one omega he knew? His one brother who would've understood? It wasn't —

There's a constriction in his chest, at the thought finishing itself: It wasn't as if their father was here to talk to. He had been the one who'd taken Soda out fishing together, and told him about what it meant to present as omega, what it meant when his father had been upset. His father had done his best to tell him about the way alphas would respond to him, what to do.

Soda feels helpless, confused, as the judge comes back inside, and they all sit down and once again, Ponyboy is called to the stand.

The wet patch of water is odd on Ponyboy's skin — the lack of chlorine in his senses, the sunlight coming in the courtroom, the faint scent of cigarette smoke works with it to pull him back into the moment, his eyes focusing on Shaw's footsteps again as he approaches him again. The spurs are their own warning, the clicks so loud in his ear, and Ponyboy feels some tension in his shoulders building up, his eyes meeting Shaw's for once, ready for him more than he had been before.

He could do this. There were too many things at stake here for Ponyboy to mess up. Eugene told him that if he wanted to win, he needed to fight.

"What I would like to do, Mr. Curtis, is to go back a little bit that day," Shaw rubs at his white mustache, tugging at the ends, almost curling the strands around his fingers. "When you saw Mr. Sheldon and Mr. Adderson initially, you stated that they all came out of the car drunk. You also stated that you climbed down from the monkey bars you were on, correct?"

"Yessir, I did." Where was he going with this? Ponyboy tries to latch onto the line of thinking, pushing down the memories, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Shaw as if he were a snake waiting to strike him if he moved wrong.

"You said that you climbed down, for safety. Now, do you really believe that they would have pulled you down from there? It seems to me, that for others, you would stay up there to attempt to keep out of the way. Why was that option not considered further?"

A thread of annoyance lances its way in Ponyboy's throat at those words, his fingers clenching down. "There were a lot of drunk guys out there. Why would I climb down —"

"Furthermore," Shaw interrupts, "You and Mr. Cade seem to have both been anticipating a fight ahead of time. Was that the reason you climbed down, Mr. Curtis, to initiate that fight? To have a cause to take revenge for your friend? You did state earlier that you knew of Mr. Cade's attack, and you had a previous altercation that night with Mr. Sheldon and Adderson." Shaw keeps going on, some sweat dotting his brow, "Are you meant to convince us that you had no thoughts towards violence yourself towards either Mr. Sheldon or Adderson?"

"They all got out of the car, drunk and stumbling," he snaps out, annoyed he'd even been interrupted. "Being around drunks, you don't know what they'll do." Pony fidgets in his seat, knowing he hasn't answered, unsure of how much to give. "I — I wasn't thinking of anything except getting away, and that they were gonna hurt us. I didn't think they'd want to talk to us, sides getting mad we were with their girls."

Shaw lifts his head up. "Did you or did not entertain thoughts of violence towards Mr. Sheldon or Adderson before they gave chase?"

"Only cause I thought they'd hurt us first, and they did," he rebuffs, "So yeah, I guess."

That brings too much of a bounce to Shaw's steps, in a way that makes Ponyboy feel tenser than ever. "You also stated after a drink was thrown on you, you got angry — and still, you did not consider running away. You spat at them, did you not?" What choice does Ponyboy have except to nod. "And you insulted him back, yes?" Another nod that makes Ponyboy tenser than before, his teeth grinding in his mouth to control himself. "You had two chances to disengage, or to attempt to stop violence before it erupted. And you chose neither, correct?"

Ponyboy huffs out his answer, hating every word Shaw has said so far. "Yeah, I guess — I guess that's true." The urge to sink to his seat flares up, and he resists it.

Another clink of those boots. Shaw's eyes meeting his own, a challenge there. "These were actions you took before either Mr. Sheldon or Adderson stated they had the intent to 'hunt' you, as it were?"

"They were," Ponyboy says, feeling a bit of coldness settle into thim, at how this looked, how it could sound. He sits up a little straighter, tries to emulate some of that cool disinterest Dallas could have when he was pissed off at someone or talking to a cop.

A nod follows from Shaw. "What did you do, when you came to, Mr. Curtis?"

Ponyboy shifts in his seat, trying to put his memories, his thoughts in order. If he had paper and pen, he knows he could say it so much more eloquently than the way it falls out of his mouth, word by word, "I felt clammy, cold. I kept spitting up water, feeling weak. I guess no one tells you how exhausting it is to keep from drowning?" A half laugh almost makes it's way out of him. "It felt like I'd run ten miles without a drink of water, my lungs were burning so bad. The wind, it just... just blasted through my shirt and hair — even my teeth were chattering. I couldn't stop 'em, even when I looked at Johnny. He wasn't — he wasn't happy." The scent of blood plays at the edge of his senses, the words flowing out, one by one, gushing like a wound, "I didn't know what I was looking at, at first. The – the blade almost blended in with the darkness. I only realized it was blood when the streetlight caught it. It was — It was so red."

Red in a way that didn't feel real. Red in a way that wasn't as bright as it was in movies whenever it splashed on screen or when he'd scraped his knees in summer and the blood welled up bright red and gushing against his pale skin. It had been a dark red, thickly coating the blade, thicker in real life than in the movies. In his minds eye, he can still picture the blood that had gotten on Johnny's shirt, his hands, even his fingers that gripped the handle so tightly that he could see the skin was near bone white. "Johnny was right next to me, his eyes were huge and — He told me that he killed that boy. And I saw Bob there, he was doubled up. Still, I guess." Ponyboy breathes deeper, the phantom scent of the blood, the dirt, the fountain around him. "There was a pool of blood there, where he was. The knife was dark to the hilt, and I couldn't look at it too long. I got sick, and he didn't look at me when I did."

The silence that fills the courtroom is uncomfortable. It settles down thickly on everyone, people shifting in their seats, and someone gave a shocked, audible gasp when he'd talked about the blood. Ponyboy can tell that his words have had an effect on everyone there in some way, even if he can't stand to look at anyone for too long.

Worse are the Sheldons who are there, who he can see much more clearly than the gang. His mother looks pale as ever, his father ramrod straight in his seat, glaring dead at Ponyboy. It's clear who Bob took after in such an angry gaze. More startling in his acidic hatred is Dick Sheldon, sitting on the end, his face blotchy with tears he clearly is hating to shed. The coldness of a Soc is still there in his face, still absolutely strange to see ignited with such anger in his eyes.

He couldn't even cry, hearing about his brother being killed. Not in a way that could help.

It makes Ponyboy sad to think about, his eyes swiveling back to Shaw before he can be seen. Shaw for his part, seems to be thinking, stroking his snow white mustache again in such a way that Ponyboy wishes he had scissors to cut them with. "What did you do, once you both realized what had happened?"

Johnny's shaking hands, the expression on his face drifts up. Ponyboy wants to look at him, and he can't, his form obscured by Shaw's on, taking up most of his view now. "I got scared. I thought, This can't be happening. Johnny — he told me that they were trying to drown me, that they had a blade themselves, and they were going to beat him to death too." Ponyboy lifts his head up, his next words clearer than the last, "Like they did to him before."

If Shaw is rattled by that, it doesn't show, and Ponyboy continues, his voice getting stronger, "He said they all ran when he stabbed Bob. After that, I just panicked, I was scared. Then Johnny said we had to get somewhere, run away. We knew we couldn't just walk away from that, and he got the idea to run."

"He mentioned someone by name, a Dallas. Did you have any idea, when he mentioned you were going to run, that you were going to this Dallas?" Shaw asks, hands on his hips.

The urge to smile almost takes over Ponyboy; he knows better, though, than to smile before you lie. He keeps his face under control when he answers, "No."

Shaw's eyes flicker, as if he knows. Ponyboy refuses to give him the satisfaction, glaring back down at him, as if Dallas was there with him then, as if he knew that he couldn't waver anymore than he had, lest Shaw try and tear his throat out.

They go back and forth a few more times, until Shaw nods. "No more questions, your honor."

The Judge makes a movement behind him, as if she's checking her watch, and Eugene stands up, and approaches him. Unlike Shaw, his suit is so finely pressed that Ponyboy feels shabby in his mostly new clothes, less than stylish at all as Eugene gives him a warm smile. "Thank you for speaking earlier, Mr. Curtis. I understand it was hard for you to disclose that information." He nods in response and Eugene takes a step closer, and for the first time Ponyboy notices that the shoes he wears are loafers. "I would like to start with this: before the incident at hand, did you ever have previous altercations with either Mr. Sheldon or Mr. Adderson or even Ms. Valance?"

"No, never," Ponyboy shakes his head. "I've been jumped by other Socs before, just none of them."

"Have you? Could you describe these incidents for the Court?"

He rubs at his nose, not hard to think of them at all. "The day before we all went to the movies, I got jumped by about five guys in a car, all of 'em Socs. They wore all the same kind of clothes — Madras shirts — drove all the same kind of cars. I'd just been walking home from the movies, and I guess I hadn't been paying attention going home. Soda and Darry — my brothers, I mean — they always talked to me about walking home alone and not paying attention. I just, did it anyway," Ponyboy shrugs, Darry's words echoing in his head: Movies and books, movies and books! You don't ever think! "I'd gone and seen a Paul Newman movie and they just followed me through town, from the moviehouse to our neighborhood. They were doing things like throwing rocks and wood at me, they'd howl at me and they'd — say things at me. Uh, sexual stuff."

Hey greaser, how much do you cost? I didn't know they had omegas on this side of town!

You charge a nickel or a penny for that mouth?

You lookin' to get claimed, sweetheart?

Ponyboy keeps his eyes on Eugene's keen face. "They caught me, tried to pin me to the ground. They told me that I needed a haircut, cause I'm a greaser. I got slugged a couple of times, real hard. You wouldn't believe how bad that hurts, some guy pinning you while you're getting the sh– crap punched outta you." A grimace crosses his face. "That's when everyone came to help me, my brothers, Johnny, Dallas, and Steve. They all got me away from them, and we walked home together."

It felt so long ago, that afternoon when he thought that was the worst he'd had it, where he thought crying after being jumped was too much. If only he'd known how many more tears he'd cry since. If only he knew how bad it really could get.

"Were you harmed during this altercation in any way?"

"Yeah. They told me the haircut they wanted to give me could start under my chin," Ponyboy cranes his neck up, pointing to the mostly healed scar on his neck. "They stuck me right there. It bled for a while, and I healed up okay."

A nod comes from Eugene. "Any other incidents?"

Ponyboy knocks them off one by one on his fingers: "One time, about three– four months ago, Soda and I got chased by a car for two blocks before we hid in an alley til they left. Before that, I had a track meet and one jumped out, swung at me. I swung back, and I ran. March, I'd been walking home from the movies, and this car chased me down until I climbed a couple of fence and ran home. Most greasers I know, they've been jumped at least once before. Not just omegas."

"To your knowledge, have those friends of yours been targeted sexually, been told they would be hunted in the same manner?"

"No. The only other omega I know is my brother, and he's the only one who's ever talked about it," Ponyboy adjusts the mic before him a little, his words coming out calmer than he thought they would be. Without the clink of the spurs, without the constant feeling he was walking into a trap, everything gets easier and easier. "I don't — I don't talk about it much with them. It's kind of just... life I guess, that they say those kinds of things to me. Cause of what I am."

Eugene nods, his dark eyes solely focused on Ponyboy. "When you went to the theater, and sat down next to Ms. Valance and Ms. Thomas, did you know immediately that they were Soc girls?"

"I did. Kinda hard to miss."

"Did you have any intention of trying to, as they said, 'get' with them at all?" Eugene paces in front of him languidly, like a big cat Ponyboy had seen at the zoo once. It's almost greaser like the feline movements he makes. Tim Shepard would be jealous at how Eugene makes it almost look like dancing. "Once you realized they were Soc girls?"

He shakes his head. "No, never. I wasn't really interested in romance and I knew they were high class girls who wouldn't want nothing to do with us. They were nice, you know, but... I knew they wouldn't wanna date a greaser. Or a fourteen year old." His ears burn a little, at the reminder. Not too much, though, not when he had someone better. "I just wanted what Cherry wanted, I guess. Just wanted to watch a movie."

Just a movie.

"Did you feel that simply talking to these girls, sitting with them, that you would be in any danger?"

Shaw frowns, looking as if he'll protest. Ponyboy pauses, and when he doesn't elaborate, he speaks. "No, not at all. I ain't afraid to talk to girls, and I knew their boyfriends just left them there. It just felt right for me to sit down and talk to them. We didn't even know if they were ever gonna come back, it's why we offered to walk them home." He tugs at his collar. "That's all we were gonna do, walk them home."

Eugene nods with him. "Did you think at any point, before the boys showed up, that they had been involved with jumping you or Mr. Cade?"

"No," the words are firm. "I didn't think they had anything to do with Johnny until I put the rings and the Mustang together."

"Previously, you stated, in your words, that they wanted a fight when they showed up. Mr. Cade and Mr. Mathews backed up this account — did you have any intent on violence when that altercation took place?"

Ponyboy shakes his head. "No. I could smell how crocked they were, and we were outnumbered. I just wanted to go home, didn't want to get in no fight. Johnny was so jumpy, and I'd never been cornered like that before. Cherry was the one who calmed them down and got them to go, and we let her since she knew 'em. They wanted a fight, we were just defending ourselves."

There's a sense of pure pleasure in Eugene's face now. He snaps his finger then, pointing at Ponyboy. "You were just defending yourselves. You didn't want that fight, and you did what you felt you had to do, didn't you?" Ponyboy nods, and Eugene smiles more. "You were asked previously if you would have fought, or used the weapon Mr. Mathews asked you to use. You shook your head — do you have any further elaboration on that?"

Squirming in his seat, Ponyboy thinks he can follow this. "Well — only if I had to. I never use bottles or carry a blade. If they would've, I'd have tried. But I've never been someone to start a fight."

The overhead lights glint off of the gold buttons on Eugene's suit. "What did you do with the weapon Mr. Mathews gave you?"

"I just left it there. It was a broken bottle," he remembers it glittering on the pavement as they'd all walked home in that windy cold. "Didn't have no use for it."

A glimpse of Darry and Soda behind Eugene is reassuring; Soda has regained some of his color back and Darry gives him a supportive grimace of sorts. It words oddly enough as Eugene presses onward, "When you were in your neighborhood again, did you feel any need at all to have a weapon when you were sleeping out there?"

Another shake of his head. "No. It's usually safe where we are most nights; you might run into another hood or greaser. Never another Soc, so wasn't any need to have nothing on you."

"In that place of safety, you needed no weapon. Was it your neighborhood that Mr. Adderson and Mr. Sheldon entered?" Ponyboy nods this time. "So, you had no weapon due to the safety. When they approached you, you said that they were drunk, and that they smelled of it. Did you at any point, when they approached you in the park, think that they would have listened to you if you attempted to de-escalate the situation, Mr. Curtis?"

That's an easy answer. "No. There was no way any of them wanted to listen to us. They told us to pick up their own kind, and they were so mad at us, they weren't gonna listen. We told them that it wasn't their territory a bunch of times and they didn't care."

All the time, Eugene is nodding, getting a little more energetic with every answer. "So, you were cornered, with several boys who were older than you, drunk, and did not take a warning into account despite it being said several times. Do I have that right?"

"Yes."

"And in their drunkenness — they threatened you with being hunted for your dynamic, and stated that they would do this together, is that correct?"

"Yessir," he sits up a little straighter for Eugene, the memory still threatening in the vast horror of it, and yet. Eugene seems to be keeping him afloat somehow. "I – I knew I couldn't run far and I knew we were cornered and they wanted me."

"And you fully understood what would happen if you were caught?" Eugene prods more, "You stated that you could be hurt? Could you please fully elaborate on what hurt means? The language thus far has been opaque, and I would like it to be fully stated, what that means."

He doesn't want to. God, he doesn't want to with his brothers, with his pack here. But...

Something in his brain is telling him that he has to say it this time. All of it. Holding back wasn't going to help anymore, and it wasn't going to be right if he didn't say it. "I knew that if you got caught by alphas in a hunt, they wouldn't just cut you up. I knew that they would try to — try to rape me if I got caught." Saying that little, four letter word feels like he's just thrown a bomb out, one he'd been juggling around, trying to not have to throw. And yet he has, now, put it out there, all what he's been dancing around. "I knew that if you get hunted, that would happen to you. And I didn't want it to. I've heard what's happened to omegas who got caught, and I just — I didn't wanna be that."

Eugene is almost rolling on the balls of his feet. "You knew what would happen. And so, you did what you could to not be caught. There was no offensive from you, simply a defense." He paces more, his voice steady as a river as he goes, and Ponyboy thinks he might be more invigorating in this moment than any episode of television he's seen with a lawyer as he goes on, "When you were pulled into that fountain, when they splashed alcohol on you — at any point, did you think about killing them?"

"I just wanted to escape, to live," the words are almost choked out of him, and Ponyboy can feel that encroachment of chlorine, the terror, and he fights against it. "I just wanted to make it back home is all."

"When you came back to see that Mr. Sheldon had died — you stated that you were sick. Why?"

Some of that more euphoric feeling, that he understood where this was going, deflates Ponyboy at that reminder. He chews the inside of his mouth as he answers, "I ain't — I've never seen that amount of blood on someone before. Ever. I was just too upset to see it. I never thought Johnny was someone who could kill anyone."

"And why is that?"

Ponyboy shrugs. "He's just — he wasn't – isn't — wasn't, that kind of person. Out of everyone else, he's always been the one who's obeyed the law the most. He isn't the one stealing all the time, he's the one who's ready to pay for things even though none of us got money at all. He only ever started carrying a blade cause he got jumped by Bob and his friends earlier. Before that, he was always too cautious about it."

He thinks of what that means: that they'd stolen so many things from Johnny in that moment, from Ponyboy and it feels like he is on the cusp of that bitterness Dallas always had, that bitterness that colored their lives. He fights the temptation to swallow that bitterness, that anger, forcing himself to keep speaking, to try and save Johnny's life if he can, "I don't think he'd have ever done what he'd done if they had stayed on their side of town."

Eugene looks triumphant, and Ponyboy's heart beats harder in his chest with the one thing he's been trying to keep close: hope.

Chapter Text

Trials, as far as Ponyboy knows from television, were supposed to be a little bombastic towards the end. But, then, everything about this was a little odd, wasn't it? He never saw people like him in court on television so he supposed that being dismissed after his testimony to go home wasn't so bad.

Final arguments are for Monday, Eugene had told him, a bright smile on his face. You'll get your fireworks there.

Ponyboy had trusted him on that.

Right now, though, lying on his bed, he doesn't know what to feel anymore, now that the whole thing has been wrung out of him. They'd skipped going to school with how late they'd been, everyone quietly filing into their respective cars.

They'd driven in utter silence with Darry at the wheel, Soda against the window and Ponyboy pushed into the back of the cab. It hadn't been a good silence, punctuated by music; no, the radio had felt like an intrusion on them, hurriedly smothered on top of the tension that permeated every corner of the cab. Even if Darry and Soda's scents hadn't told him how they were feeling, Darry almost white knuckling the steering wheel, Soda's jittering leg that never seemed to stop, the clench of Darry's jaw every few seconds, and the flick of Soda's eyes from the mirror to Ponyboy would've told him well enough.

It should have bothered him.

It should have made him mad, even.

Ponyboy though, as he'd walked out of the cab, taken off his shoes, walked into his bedroom, shut the door and thrown himself onto the bed, felt....

Just nothing. Totally nothing. A whole fucking lot of, well, zero.

He was just lying in bed, his eyes on the white ceiling above, feeling the slight cool breeze from his half open window, hearing Soda and Darry move around the house with hushed whisper, the bed slightly dipped beneath him, and eventually, he could feel the low hum of the television being turned on, followed by the sound of a television show, muted by the walls and the door.

What else was there to do?

Dallas was gone, with Two-Bit for a job. Johnny had been the one who decided to go to school that day to catch up on his homework. Steve was with him. Evie hadn't been there at the end of the day, and Sandy...

Ponyboy shuts his eyes. He hopes Sandy is alright.

He hopes that Dallas is alright, wherever he was right now, running things for Buck. The weight of the St. Christopher on his neck feels a little heavier on him, his fingers touching the cool metal, tracing over the figure there. It's starting to get familiar to him, the oval shape, the figure in it — a man with a staff, with the words around it: Saint Christopher Protect Us.

The vague idea he should look up what that meant, what the Saint means crosses his mind. Ponyboy keeps running his fingers over it, eyes stuck on the ceiling. Neither of his parents were the real religious types. Just enough that they went on big occasions, and sometimes in between when they weren't working or needed rest. The church they went to was almost three times the size of the one on Jay Mountain, with a choir seated at the back, the priest at the pulpit and always a calm atmosphere that he missed sorely.

There hadn't been talk of saints, exactly at the church. Most of the time he'd taken a Bible from the pew, thumbed through it rather than listen too much to the sermons given there. They always seemed more concerned with other things than the stories inside of the Bible he would read, about Ruth and Naomi living together or Daniel in the lion's den unharmed or Jacob wrestling an angel. Those were the stories he cared about more than what they were saying up at the pew.

More than anything, though, he misses the calmness that swept over him in the church. The question of God's existence, of anything else was secondary to how much he liked the ritual of it all, of how much his Mama liked to dress up for it, before they went to the church basement to get food.

It hits him with a jolt, all of a sudden, the times they'd gone to the church. There had been food there, when times were thin. They'd gone there to eat up the lunch they served after the services, and almost always when they were so thin on food that he'd seen his Dad steal sometimes or his Mama slip an extra can of soup in her purse. Or the times when they'd gone, and come out with clothes for winter they hadn't had before.

Even the memories like that were painted with their lives: what Soc had to go to church they may or may not have believed in to just get fresh food? What Soc had to get dressed up on Sunday, with the hope that when everything was over, they might have a buttered biscuit for the first time in a month? Who was dumb like him that he cared about the ritual, about his Mama looking pretty and hadn't seen that sometimes it was desperation that drove them through the doors to have bacon for the first time in three months?

Bitterness floods his throat, and desperation too, at the unfairness of it all, at the deep mark it all has had on his life and Ponyboy bursts into tears. He cries for his Mama having to calculate going into that church for food, cries for his Dad having to smile at times he'd felt uncomfortable just so they could have winter coats, cries for all the innocence he'd had at it all — and knowing that Bob Sheldon, Randy Adderson, Cherry Valance never, ever had to deal with any of that.

He cries and cries until the world darkens, sleep claiming him.

Sometime in the night he wakes up, with the covers on top of him. Ponyboy thinks he can scent other people in the house besides his brothers, and he knows even through his drowsy sleep that he doesn't want to leave the safety of his bed.

He simply reaches over, in the dark, for one of Dallas' shirts. The fabric is soft, and when he dips his nose into the fabric, he catches Dallas' scent. It's so fresh in his nostrils, so comforting as he inhales it. The last time Dallas wore this, he must've been smoking – the menthols are hard to miss, Ponyboy smiling as he nuzzles into it fabric.

Just the smell is enough to make a want in him stir, starting to slick up.

He doesn't reach down though, to touch himself. Even he's too tired for that, turning his head closer, inhaling, and pulling the covers up.

Fainly, he can hear the sound of a car backfiring, dogs barking. Someone laughs in the front of the house, and Ponyboy wishes it were Dallas.

Sleep pulls him back down.

Ponyboy doesn't mean to spend all Saturday morning half asleep. He can't help it, though, not when every inhale brings him closer to Dallas, not when the covers are so comforting, and not when waking up meant having to finally think about what he'd said in the courthouse. It's easier to hide away in the bedroom he and Dallas share, curled up with his clothes, safe from everyone and everything else.

Too bad that his stomach has clear opinions about that, aching so deep in him that he's forced to get up around half-past noon, struggling out of his covers and opening the door to a silent house.

A small mercy, maybe.

The living room needs a cleaning, with cards, dishes, and left over beer cans everywhere. Ponyboy wrinkles his nose in disgust as he passes it, going to the kitchen to satisfy his hungry stomach. Darry must've gotten paid, as it the fridge is full of food that wasn't there before.

In no time, Ponyboy's eaten his way through three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a banana, and two Cokes. It makes him a little sluggish as he sets about cleaning up — all those alphas and not one of them could be neat? Leave it to them to have the youngest omega to clean up! — as best as he's able.

How whacked out was it, that he'd prefer to be cleaning than to go outside?

Everything is slowly picked up, thrown away or cleaned in the afternoon. At some point, he turns on the television, letting the voices flow through. It's an old episode of My Friend Flicka, a show he's seen at least a dozen times by now.

Once everything is at least cleared up, Ponyboy finds no reason to stop. He gets down the vacuum, plugging it in, and slowly making his way around the house with it. Darry rarely ever pulled it out to use it, and Soda, even less.

What would their Mama think?

Ponyboy can see her serious stern face, her blonde hair in her face as she rolled up her sleeves. Every bit the house alpha, trying to keep it clean and together where she could, exacting at times to make sure that things were in order. It had been a sport in and of itself to see her take command on Saturdays, delegating tasks out to everyone, doing house repairs where she needed, and by the afternoon she was out of the door, going to do her rounds as a seamstress to anyone who needed her.

The closet where most of the household things had been put in is at least as neat as she had left it, once Ponyboy finishes vacuuming. It rattles when he puts it against the wall, right where boxes are stacked up, collecting dust. Some of them were familiar to him: the box where his father kept old family albums, shoe boxes that were filled with old newspapers, and another one filled with sewing cast offs his Mama couldn't bear to let go.

Outside, he can hear Steve hollering at someone. Someone answers him, and Ponyboy shuts the closet door.

His eyes do not drift towards the living room where he knows that he could exit, go and play football.

Instead, they land on the door to Darry's room.

The room that used to belong to their parents, that he'd move into because there hadn't been any other room and no reason for him to return to the apartment he'd only been renting for a few months. Ponyboy had never gone to the apartment, never got a chance to. Darry had been proud about it, last Christmas. College wasn't in the cards, but the money he'd been making was good.

For one person. Not a family.

The move into their parents bedroom hadn't been a firm memory. Most of that time was shrouded in a sick, dreamy feeling.

Ponyboy walks slowly to the bedroom, placing his hand on the cold doorknob. The door gives, easily, and he steps into his parents room.

In the sunny afternoon, it feels strange. The last time he'd been in here when his parents were alive, Dad had been sitting on that bed, looking at the thermometer with worry. It was always a big deal when he was worried. A man that sunny, that bright being worried was always a bad sign, and at the time it had been, his voice gentle when he'd said, Oh, honey. You're burning up.

Ponyboy had been. His fever had been so high, the world so distorted from the fever that he could hardly prop himself up on the door to let Dad stand up and put his cool hand on his forehead. It had felt so good to have such warm, weathered hands on his forehead, his Dad's omega scent so calming to his brain.

He was too big to be picked up. Dad hadn't cared, he'd picked him up and cradled Ponyboy to his chest, eyes soft and concerned. In the bed Ponyboy had gone, with those pale pink covers pulled up and then put over him while Dad had said, It's okay. I'm gonna get you some medicine, baby, and then we're gonna have you lie down and drink some soup.

Okay, Daddy, Ponyboy had sighed out at the time, thinking that would be it.

He had no idea that his parents would leave Soda to watch over him, or that an icy black patch of ice on the road seemingly conspired with a broken train track to get them stuck there, a train around the bend, unable to stop.

As it was now, the room was bereft of the warmth his Dad and Mama had filled it with. The pink blankets had been exchanged for dark blue ones, and most of their things had been rearranged in small ways — their wedding photo had been moved from the bedside ot the top of the large mahogany dresser, his mother's jewelry box was missing entirely with the painted flower on top of it, his father's hunting gear shoved into a corner — and in large ways, from the curtains being swapped out with darker ones, Darry's clothes thrown over the chair of the small desk they had, and the furniture shifted around.

What has remained the same, that really makes Ponyboy feel tears well up in him all over again is the sight of his Mama's sewing machine. It was her pride, her joy, and what she had depended on to make them money for the most part. It still sits there, unused for almost a year, blue and gold, imposing as ever.

How many times had he sat in her lap, curious about what she was doing? How many times had he stood on a stool and squinched his eyes up while she placed pins and needles in places, to model for her instead of whatever client she was sewing for?

All those times he complained and now he'd given anything at all to have her instruct him to lift his arm while his Dad made a face in the doorway, trying not to laugh at the scene.

Ponyboy runs his fingers over the sewing machine, wishing them into existence, knowing they wouldn't materialize.

"Ponyboy?" Soda's voice is gentle, his hand rocking at his shoulder. "C'mon, honey, wake up."

"Mm?" Ponyboy lifts his head up, not aware he'd fallen asleep sometime in the afternoon. Evening was surely around him now, blinking as he comes to on the couch. Sitting on the opposite end of him is Steve who's got his cards in his hands, with Johnny on the other side of the table with his own. Between them is a pile of money and cigarettes, and if Ponyboy had to guess, Johnny was losing badly. "S'going on?"

"Dallas called," the way Soda looks at him is so like their father, that it makes Ponyboy a little alarmed — had Dallas gotten in trouble again? "You wanna talk to him?"

Relief! Ponyboy nods, uncurling from the couch. Johnny looks at him imploringly and Ponyboy gives him a thumbs down. Steve had a weak hand. Johnny keeps his poker face steady, Ponyboy moving to the kitchen where the phone was.

He takes the receiver, nodding to Soda who makes his way back to the game where Ponyboy can hear Steve swearing. "Dal? You and Two-Bit are okay?"

"Sure am," Dallas says, his deep voice filling the line, soothing some of Ponyboy's nerves instantly. "Me and Two made it to Louisiana. Just was a long enough drive that we're staying overnight, and be back on Sunday."

"Louisiana?" Ponyboy raises his eyebrows, turning so that he can stay pressed against the wall of the kitchen. "What does Buck have you guys doing all the way out there?"

He can distantly hear voices on the other end as Dallas laughs. "Kid, you don't wanna know. The people here are real different — Two-Bit's acting like a pig in slop with all the shit they have down here." The humor he has is real, infectious, Ponyboy finding himself smiling for the first time in days. "I'm not partaking in all that shit, I like to keep my head on straight."

"And you're taken man," he huffs out, knowing damn well what Dallas was implying. "Two-Bit can chase after his blonde broads."

He thinks he can see the wolfish smile Dallas has when he half growls out, "And you are too, kid. Don't be getting caught in no one's crosshairs before I can get home." He lowers his voice just a little, "Sides, I think it might do him some good getting a look at broads who don't have expensive rings."

So Dallas had an opinion about Marcia that Ponyboy agreed with. Good. "We finished at court today. My part, at least."

"Yeah, Soda told me what all went on," the instant Ponyboy hears the words, he understands that Dallas knows, his stomach tightening, his palms clammy as they grasp the receiver. "Those Socs should be the ones up there, not you."

Ponyboy breathes into the receiver for a moment. Silence builds between them, and he shuts his eyes. "You aren't — You don't think —"

"No," the firmness in there is sharp, hard. "Whatever you think, I don't. I ain't say it, did I?" Dallas' voice turns sharper than before, then gruff, warmer. "If I ain't say what I feel, Pony, then don't think I do. We can talk about it when I get back. You're my mate, and nothing changes that or what I feel about you."

Is it relief he feels? Is it happiness? Is it anything than just a flood of surprised, confusing emotions?

Ponyboy can't name it. He can only say, "Thanks, Dally."

Over the line, Dallas says back, "I know."

It's not I love you from either of them, and it is at the same time.

He wipes at his face. "I'll be home tomorrow, when you get back. I didn't wanna go anywhere this weekend."

"I didn't think you would. You should at least eat okay — and stop all the damn chores for those lazy asses," there's some sort of gentleness in Dallas' tone then, a small reassurance. "Soda told me you did 'em all and we both know he'll take advantage."

He laughs, knowing he doesn't mind. "Sure, sure. Our room's still messy."

"Aw, c'mon!" Dallas huffs out, in a way that Ponyboy can tell he doesn't mind. "At least move the books from the floor so I don't trip and break my neck before I'm twenty!"

Now Ponyboy really is laughing, peal after peal.

Still, Ponyboy doesn't feel up to being social even after the call ends. He finds himself taking his book back to the bedroom, shutting the door on the sounds, on the people outside. To be among them, without Dallas, with everything he'd said still hanging in the air, feels too vulnerable now.

What do they see, when they look at him now? Do they think of him too weak to really fight Bob off, even fueled by desperation?

They don't know that when they'd been at Jay Mountain, he'd been washing himself whenever he could, however he could, desperate to get away from the feeling of being dirty, of something, someone unclean. They didn't know that the thought still stayed with him, the urge whenever Bob's voice was in his ear, to just turn the shower all the way up and to scrub at his skin until it was raw. They didn't know that sometimes when he's alone, when the dreams are a little too strong, he thinks that the fire would be back for him, that he would travel through the church in his dreams, calling and calling for the kids.

Sometimes, like this night, the dreams are worse.

The scent of fire reaches his nose, even though he's in his bed with the tree throwing a shadow over him. Ponyboy freezes for a moment, mind racing, eyes snapping open. Cigarettes. Did he fall asleep without putting out his cigarette?

He's had this dream before. He's had it before, the smoke in the room, the flames all around him, with screaming.

This time, though, when he sits up, he is in the church. There is no jacket covering him, and the flames are so high, so fierce that he can hardly breathe, trying to find his footing. This time, he doesn't run towards a wall of doors: there's just one there, the handle so cold on his hands that it feels as if he's gone from a terrific landscape of flame to an icy nothing.

When he yanks open the door, he steps out into an all consuming, vast darkness. It's a darkness he feels suspended in again, but this time when he hits the dewy, wet grass, it's Bob who blocks the moonlight. His teeth are so bright, his stomach already bleeding as he pins Ponyboy down, hissing out, "Give the dirty omega a bath."

Other dreams, he's thought he was going to die. This dream, he knows he's not going to die. In this one he knows that he will live, and that Bob will hurt him in a way he's never been hurt before. Ponyboy struggles anyway, kicks out, hollers, and Bob slugs him, hard in the face.

The blow hurt so badly, his head snapping into the grass. When his vision settles again, there's no longer a moon hanging above him, but the sun. The Soc from before, in that yellow sweater is grinning at him. "How'd you like that haircut to start right here?" A point of a switchblade on his neck, other hands pinning him down, and Ponyboy bucks up, snarls.

The dream twists on itself. The Soc is pinned beneath him now, and the switchblade is in his hand, and it swings, the blade glinting in the light, and it's the Soc screaming — no, it's Bob screaming — no, it's —

"Pony! Ponyboy!" A hand grips his shoulder, and he gags, sits up, thrashing around. There's the sound of a smack, a swear, and then Ponyboy hits the back of the headboard, scrambling away.

To his relief, Two-Bit and Dallas are there in front of him, sunlight streaming through the window. His heart is thudding in his chest, in relief, in adrenaline despite the fact that Two-Bit is swearing a blue streak holding his chin and Dallas looks like he needs a shave and sleep himself.

"Fucking hell, do you wrestle in your sleep or something?" Two-Bit groans out, equally in need of a shave.

Ponyboy doesn't care, just launching himself out of bed to hold onto Dallas, arms wrapping around him, needing the solid warmth of his body and scent.

He'll apologize to Two-Bit later.

Chapter Text

"Are you fucking sure we're supposed to go this way?" Two-Bit grumbles as they wind down the interstate, chewing his cheeseburger, grateful he had an iron stomach. "I mean, ain't the cops gonna be on our asses if we're on this road going this fast?"

"Stop pissing and moaning," the radio gets turned by Dallas in answer to him, his own eyes rolling. "Once you're out of Oklahoma, them cops don't give a shit on this strip cause they're not in a stupid state that still thinks it's 1933."

Come on, baby, and rescue me! / 'Cause I need you by my side! / Can't you see that I'm lonely? / Rescue me, come on and take my heart / Take your love and conquer every part.

The music fills up the car, a nice change from all the Beatles music that seemed to dominate station after station — or worse, the sort of country music that Two-Bit thought was generally a drag. Not that Two-Bit had anything against The Beatles — most greasers didn't them but he could admit they could strike up a tune once and again. They just weren't really the music you wanted to listen to on a trip that was gonna take ten hours longest and maybe eight hours if Dallas doesn't let the speed dip below 95 mph.

Be nice if one could just have all their music together in an easier way where you didn't have to flip through all the garbage, Two-Bit thinks to himself as leans back against the seat. He doesn't want to think that better music would make it easier to even endure this road trip, away from the courthouse and everything else.

Neither of them have approached the subject since they'd gotten out of the town limits of Tulsa. The car had gone on and on, eating up the miles on the road and Dallas had insisted he drive first. Ever the lazy one, Two-Bit had allowed it and now he leans back, running his palm over his forehead, trying to pick what thought to stay on. If he thinks too hard about Tulsa he starts getting the jitters and if he thinks too hard about commenting on something other than Tulsa, he knows they'll probably wind their way back to it.

There's a word for that: inevitable. A phrase too he can't think of — that usually happened when you had to take repeat classes, remembering something long enough to pass the test, then never think about it again. He picks at his jeans, and instead of pissing off Dallas, he leans back and commits to sleeping just for an hour.

It's an hour that passes by fairly restlessly in the November autumn, Two-Bit's eyes fluttering shut, his mind drifting. The last time he'd been on the road like this, it had been when he was five years old, on a trip with his family, going to Texas to visit his father's family. The car had been a little old, and he'd been bouncing around the back, unaware that his mother was a few weeks pregnant with another kid. All he'd known was that he wanted to have fun, seeing the wilderness, meeting the family that his father had talked about so much.

They hadn't been the most welcoming, his memory hazy. The thing that had stuck out to Two-Bit was that while he and his mother could laugh at jokes together, they seemed colder, more judgemental whenever they did it. His father had laughed along at first, but as the trip had worn on, it had been clear even at five that they weren't exactly welcome there.

There had been two trips after, and then Two-Bit hadn't heard from a Mathews since 1958, when his father had up and left. The bitter memory of his mother chasing after the car in the street in an early dusky morning, her screaming echoing everything as Two-Bit had dumbly stared out at the door still cut to this day. Never before had he seen such naked desperation, pain on someone's face until then, and he'd been holding onto Katie — newly five, in tears herself.

Of all memories he'd had, that one always felt as if it happened yesterday, the walking out, the shouting, watching his mother run for blocks. No one in the neighborhood had called the cops, no one had made fun of Two-Bit outwardly and still he remembered having to tell more jokes, having to pretend as if it all wasn't happening even though his mother sobbed almost every day for a week, even though he was the one making sure Katie got to kindergarten by himself, even though he felt a mounting fury towards his father, even though he was the one making coffee for his mother.

It all had come to an end when Mrs. Curtis had come over, hooking her purse over her shoulder, carrying a newspaper and a casserole. Two-Bit had been dismissed, made to go outside and play with Dallas and Darry, leaving them there.

And now his Mama was working her ass off every night no matter what, and with Johnny living with them too.

Two-Bit turns his head towards Dallas, unsure of how long he's been coasting in half dreams, "You know, you've been all gung ho about you and Ponyboy. You think about what might happen to Johnny?"

"You think I haven't thought about him?" The car is clearly going around a bend of some kind and Two-Bit knows if he peeks and sees what's out there, he'll get green around the gills. So he keeps his eyes shut, feeling the car go around the bend at a speed that's pushing it, Dallas' gruff voice filling up the car, overpowering whatever was on the radio. "I looked up some of that stuff, but it seems like your Mom's got a lot of that handled. I didn't know if Johnny even wanted me to look — he's never been one to ask for anyone to help him unless he couldn't help it, you know that."

Two-Bit does. The first time Johnny slept outside, Two-Bit had outright offered him the spare room and Johnny had looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him up at the suggestion. It had baffled him when he'd said no, and when he'd heard from Darry he'd said the same thing at the offer of their couch it had bugged him a little.

At least until he remembered how people could be after his dad left. The pitying looks, the offers for help were hard to swallow sometimes, and everyone had their pride. Or, well most. Two-Bit knows that he'd eventually reciprocated, asking for the food, taking the clothes offered, ignoring the pity. It had stung initially — then he'd gotten used to it and things had gotten better.

"I know he's got a lotta pride in him, we all do," Two-Bit shifts in his seat as he can feel the rest of the bend end, and he decides just to crack one eye open to focus on Dallas in the driver's seat. Jeeze, he could use a cut real bad with the way his hair is falling in his eyes, and his hair is taking on a slightly bearish look with how much there was. "I just don't understand why he still won't take nothing unless you make it look like it was his choice. S'wrong time to be so caught up in it."

Dallas shakes his head. "I think he still wants those parents he's got to acknowledge him and it'll be a cold day in hell when they do. You remember what I told you about Jay Mountain, when he wanted to turn himself in? How right before that he was asking about them, and he seemed to care more about that then the pack?" He sucks at his teeth. "I even told him you were ready to go look for them in Mexico. Didn't move an inch til I told him they didn't blink an eye."

"Which wasn't entirely true," Two-Bit points out, watching Dallas' mouth curl into a snarl, "They reacted by going and begging for some more drink at my Mama's bar. She almost decked Mrs. Cade in the face before they kicked them out."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't gonna tell him that," Dallas shifts in his seat, maneuvering the car with his left hand, his right one pulling a cigarette out. "It seems like he wants your Mom, and she's always been a good lady."

"But you still got a plan for him?" Two-Bit asks, knocking his head against the window. "Or is it really you and Ponyboy by your lonesomes?"

"If it was you and that Soccy girl, would you be thinking about us?" The cigarette gets lit, Dallas cuts his eyes to Two-Bit. "Or if it was your mate, would you put them above the pack when it came to shit like this?"

"If I were in this situation, I'd have sweet talked Marcia outta all the money she's got," Two-Bit jokes, shifting in his seat. "I get what you're saying. I know I can't change your mind or Johnny's."

"You aren't answering the question," Dallas bites out.

Two-Bit sighs. "Cause you know I'd agree."

"Then what else is there to say?" Dallas turns up the radio, and that's the period on the end of a sentence if Two-Bit has ever heard one.

By the time they're at Jefferson, around one that afternoon, Two-Bit is feeling a little stiff. He'd taken over an hour before, and while he wasn't as fast as Dallas, he could still eat up the miles they needed in the car Buck had provided.

Knowing Dallas was gonna call him lazy, he still guides the car to a roadside luncheonette. It's greener here than it had been in other places, the sun beating down on their shoulders as Two-Bit takes the car to the end of the parking lot, getting it behind a bigger truck. "C'mon, I gotta piss and get something to eat."

"Yeah, yeah," Dallas opens the passenger side door, letting in the still strong Texan heat, "You still got three hours to go."

"Thought it was two," Two-Bit follows, slamming the door behind him, "You're not trying to foist more of this trip on me, are you Dally?"

"Since when do you know what the word foist means?" Dallas stretches, his jean jacket half falling off of his shoulders, enough to see the still bruised mating mark. "Thought you were failing English."

"At least I go to class! One of us failed elementary school and it ain't me," Two-Bit cracks a grin, and Dallas lets out a half laugh as they cross into the luncheonette. It's a modestly built one: built to be longways, the outside a turquoise blue and white with the text written in black advertising the main meat they sold (beef, pork, hamburgers, fried chicken, pork chops, and spare ribs) along with other smaller fixings (baked ham, chili beans, hot sandwiches, baked ham) and desserts (milkshakes, pie, cakes, and sundaes) and even slightly more exotic stuff (tamales, which Two-Bit had only ever smelled and never eaten — he hadn't been brave enough to steal one at the time) in measured handwriting.

It's not a large place — maybe fifty to sixty people could occupy the place comfortably, and as Two-Bit could count, at least forty were in there as he and Dallas took their place at the counter together. There's a mixture of scents, overlaid mostly by dust and oil from people working in these parts. A few, though, seem to be more office types: there's a Black woman sitting in the very back with her hair pinned up, with old cats eye glasses in probably the nicest blue dress that he's ever seen, talking to a taller man with a buttoned up shirt and an expensive watch, his back to Two-Bit.

They both have newspapers spread between them, talking animatedly about something he's not sure of, the both of them clearly different from everyone else. At the very end of the counter was a tall woman dressed in a buttoned up shirt, the sleeves pulled up with her face frowning at a notepad where she was scribbling her blonde hair pulled up into a no-nonsense ponytail. They could all be colleagues from the same place, and Two-Bit is almost sucked into people watching when Dallas shoves him.

"What?" Two-Bit turns his head to see a waitress standing in front of them, a beta who smelled thoroughly of bacon grease. He grins at her, "Oh, sorry you're taking orders?"

"Sure am. Your friend already put in a cheeseburger order. What are you having?" She snaps her gum at him with an air of impatience.

"Can I get three cheeseburgers and a big order of fries? With a Pepsi?"

"No Pepsis. Coke fine with you?"

"Coke's real good," Two-Bit winks at her. She just scribbles the order down, moving to the kitchen to shout out the order. Two-Bit turns back to Dallas, looking at him drumming his fingers on the counter. "We hurry up and eat, we could probably hit Louisiana before dark."

Dallas shrugs. "We'll get there when we get there. We're trading the whole car and getting a hotel, and as far as I know they're not gonna care when we get there as long as we get there. I'm gonna call Buck when we get there, then Ponyboy." The waitress comes back with a water and a cup of coffee for Dallas — why did he insist on drinking things like he was forty five? — while she puts down a fizzy Coke for Two-Bit.

He grabs it, taking a swig, gulping down more than he means to, setting it back down with a clink. "It's his last day up there. You think he did alright?"

Dallas looks conflicted, and before he can answer, Two-Bit feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns his head, and the Black woman from the other side of the restaurant is there, a curious look on her face. "Well hello there, Miss. Anything I can do for you?"

"Oh! I — well, I thought you were someone else," she looks a little startled, and visibly getting more embarrassed by the moment.

"Maybe I know 'em?" Two-Bit suggests, looking her over. She's at least ten to fifteen years older than him, with pretty brown eyes. Her scent isn't strong enough for him to pick up on a dynamic, even though she was a full head shorter than him. "I got some family around these parts!"

She frets for a moment. "Well, I — do you know Kenneth Mathews?"

It feels like his chest has gotten kicked in with just one sentence, mouth dropping open. Beside him, Dallas' scent ticks up, and he clearly doesn't like this anymore than Two-Bit does. All manner of words leave him, his thoughts turning into static, and when he finally can speak again it's higher than he means, "Y'mean my Daddy? He — he ran off to Texas?"

The urge to laugh wells up in him, and not a good laugh. A horrible, yelping laugh that he'd laughed years ago, trying to get through things. The kind of laugh that Dallas hated, yet it always forms in moments like these, that awful hyena like laugh that comes out of him before he can get a drip on it. "No — no that can't be right. Where — How'd you know that asshole?"

Dallas tugs at his elbow. The woman looks more embarrassed than ever, taking a step back. "I — I see. We're coworkers at Texas Instruments. I, uhm. I thought you might've been his —"

Two-Bit puts his head in his hands and laughs again and again.

Texas Instruments. He left them alone, taking the car and the money, and he'd moved to Texas. To work for a place called Texas Instruments.

He laughs and laughs.

The woman places her hand on his back.

He wishes it was his mother's.

"My name is Dr. Robertson, but you can call me Hazel," she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. It took ten minutes for Two-Bit to finally calm down enough to allow her to talk, to offer to pay for their lunch.

Two-Bit doesn't know what to feel as she clears her throat, her colleague beside her looking awkward. The man had departed, which left the tall blonde woman. Susan was the name she'd shared, and she looks a little concerned as Hazel goes on, "I didn't mean to interrupt. You just resembled Kenneth that I thought you were one of his children."

"I am one. Just not the one he's got here," Two-Bit remarks bitterly, now able to think straighter than before. Dallas beside him doesn't seem impressed by any of the women here, or at the very least is willing to pretend. "I haven't heard from him in almost ten years. I just – I'm sorry with how I reacted, ma'am it's just a lot to hear."

Hazel looks a little sad in front of him, the way people used to look sad about the situation. "I can imagine it's difficult for you. I really am sorry about that. We had no clue that he had another family. Kenneth always talked about everything from before he came to work with this very... little, I should say."

"Course he would," Two-Bit mutters, "He left a wife and two kids. Probably wants to look good and all."

Susan grimaces beside Hazel. "You could say that."

An awkwardness descends on the table — should they talk about his father more, should he ask every question he's had on his tongue for years, should he ask what the fuck Texas Instruments did besides collect smart people, should he ask about siblings? The thought of the last is making Two-Bit feel nauseous. "I — fuck, I guess I just. I don't know what good it's gonna be for me to ask everything I wanna ask."

Susan looks more uncomfortable by the second. "Well, we want to help as best as we can. I guess. Are you guys looking to stay here or go further out to Dallas? That's where our main campus is."

"No," Dallas is firm in tone, "We're heading to Louisiana to see some people. We still need to make it on time. I don't know what Kenneth would want, seeing as he's the one who walked out."

Hazel's face looks more sympathetic than before, and then a little more set. "Well, even if Kenneth doesn't want to be responsible for his children, I wouldn't feel alright if you left without someone looking out for you. It's the least I could do since I mistook you for Ken — his son. His other son."

Two-Bit can't help himself. "He named his son Ken?"

"Kenny, actually," Susan replies bluntly. "You look a lot alike. Almost identical, except he doesn't have red hair."

It dawns on Two-Bit that if he had a son who looked a lot like Two-Bit, who was around his age...

He shuts his eyes and rubs at his temples. The burger in front of him isn't appealing to him at all, but he grabs it anyway to shove into his mouth, just to have something to do, to not have to think about anything except eat.

Dallas is the one who keeps the conversation going, his voice acidic, "Listen, we're not here to reconcile with the bastard. We're going on our own way. That guy's an asshole who owes Two's mom, but we ain't here to get it."

Hazel places her hands in her lap, her face calculating. "I understand that. I still think – I couldn't let you two both go without something at all. Neither could Susan." The look on Susan's face suggests otherwise for a moment. "Could I at least pay for your meal, give you some money for gas, and his information? If Kenneth has skipped out on his family like this before, I can assure you that if you need to find him, the addresses I have are good."

Two-Bit opens his mouth to protest and Dallas not so subtly jabs him in the side, his smile wolf like. "Sure, Doc." He glares at Dallas, and Dallas turns his head to snap at him. "You think that wheelchair is gonna pay for itself?"

The women's eyes widen. "Wheelchair? Is – he left one of his children disabled?"

A lightbulb goes off in Two-Bit's head and Dallas nods. "Sure did."

The women look furious. And suddenly, the humor is back into the situation as Hazel opens her pocketbook. In no time, Two-Bit has the address of not only his father's workplace but his house and his vacation house, along with two crisp fifty-dollar bills Hazel hands to him. "I'll give you my phone number for your mother, too. Just in-case Kenneth decides to run with his tail between his legs again."

Two-Bit accepts it all. "Thanks, Dr. Robertson." He offers his hand over the table. "I'm Two-Bit. Cause I always —"

"Say your two-bits," Hazel smiles at him, warm and Two-Bit wishes he'd met her at a better time, in a better way.

All he can do though, is drop her hand and accept what she's given.

They have four more hours to go by the time they leave the luncheonette, full of food and all the new information. Two-Bit keeps the numbers and information close to him as he takes to the road now, turning around what happened in circles, feeling like a dog chasing its tail at the revelation. He knows he should take it in stride, and that they have other things to get to.

It still worms its way beneath his skin as he drives them through Texas. At any point at all, they could take a turn, head to Dallas. He could go up to his Dad's house, bang on the door and demand answers to questions he'd had for years. "Don't you wanna do that sometimes?" He asks Dallas, who's been half paying attention as Two-Bit has ranted. "Just find your old man and ask him what the fuck is wrong with him, what he's doing?"

"I know what he thinks," Dallas says, throwing a peanut into his mouth. Hated candy, yet sure couldn't deny having a peanut or a sunflower seed at times. "He makes the Cades look like playground bullies, far as I'm concerned." He shifts in the seat, crunching down on the peanuts harshly. "He could turn Buck's into a whorehouse with a snap of his fingers if he wanted to, it ain't the same as yours running out or the Cades hitting Johnny."

That gets Two-Bit's attention, quelling some of his own nervous, pissed off energy. Dallas rarely ever said shit about his father, and he glances at him from the edge of his seat. "Now, c'mon. All that boasting and you're not gonna tell me more? You make him sound like the Boogie Man or something." He gives a laugh.

Dallas doesn't laugh. "The Boogie Man would probably work for him if he could get him. All these cowboys out here, all the people like Buck who think they're hot shit? Tch. My Dad — he runs New York City. Even if you don't think he's around the corner, he's got someone who'll rat rather than get caught. I can't go to New York City til I'm twenty and if I dared come earlier than that, I'd have to give him something to make sure he didn't have my head the instant he knew I was there."

Normally, things like this are laced with some kind of humor, some little laugh Two-Bit thinks he could get. Except, even in the dappled afternoon sunshine, even in the coolness of the car with the cheery music on, Two-Bit can feel something in his gut lurch at what Dallas is saying. Maybe it's the set of his jaw, maybe it's the lack of playfulness that he'd had in the luncheonette: Dallas is telling the truth.

That makes Two-Bit uneasy himself, all the playfulness sucked out of the car as he glances at Dallas, still eating his peanuts quietly. "Dally. How on earth can that —?"

"Be true? He's a mobster," Dallas says something in another language, "Capo di tutti i capi. Boss of all the other bosses. The shit he got up to when I was a kid would make Tim Shepard piss himself and I was there most of the time, watching it or cleaning up after." Two-Bit wishes he'd never asked with how sharp every word is from Dallas, and how oddly casual it is. "I've seen him shoot a guy just for setting the table wrong. Guy bled out in the street before dessert was served."

Two-Bit's hand goes clammy, clenching and unclenching the wheel. "Why haven't you said anything about that? Or — or I dunno asked him for help?"

"Would you wanna ask Kenenth for help if you had to pay him back every time, and more?" Dallas shakes his head. "I go to Texas, I have to make up for the shit I did when I was a kid and then some before he'd even let me get a word out. And if I had to ask for his help — Might not even make it." Another peanut gets tossed into his mouth. "Don't worry about it, alright? He ain't coming down here."

"Texas — your old man's here, in Texas?" Two-Bit asks, and Dallas gives a huff.

"He used to be. Before I was around. He picked up the name Texas, though, and it stuck," he chews another peanut. "C'mon, drive faster, man. I wanna get there before I get old."

Two-Bit falls silent and presses on the gas.

It's not until they're at the edges of Louisiana, the sun long gone from the sky that he feels brave enough to actually say, "Does Ponyboy know about him?"

"No," Dallas answers, slowing to the red light. He knows by now who Two-Bit is referring to. "I don't mean for him yet. What's going on is — it's fucked up enough, isn't it? They had the most normal parents out of all of us, and now he and Johnny might get the chair. Right when Darry was getting a grip on all this."

Two-Bit sighs, blowing smoke from his nostrils. "Yeah. I thought out of everyone, the Curtises were gonna be okay. Wasn't like Steve's Mama who up and left 'cause she was getting beat on or hell, mine. They were always good together." The light turns green and Two-Bit leans his head back. "I remember when Mrs. Curtis helped my Mama out to get her job and Mr. Curtis threw her a party when she got her first paycheck — she was in tears, you know?"

"Didn't your Mama and Mr. Curtis grow up together?" The blinker light clicks as Dallas moves into the right lane.

"Yeah," the seat of the car squeaks as Two-Bit sits up, looking at the Louisiana streets. They're a sight more colorful than home or the dusty parts of Texas and Arkansas they'd driven through for hours on end. "She used to tell me how Mr. Curtis needed looking out for. His Daddy was a real sumbitch to him cause he presented omega. Told me she perfected her bat swing when she cracked him in the jaw and ran with Mr. Curtis." Two-Bit can see it in his minds eye, his mother holding her baseball bat when she'd said it. "She said that she thought he and Mrs. Curtis wouldn't last since Mrs. Curtis was a rich girl."

That makes Dallas' face contort in surprise. "She was? She hardly ever said much about that kind of stuff."

"Maybe cause her parents kicked her out. That's what my Mama said — they told her it was them or Mr. Curtis and she chose Mr. Curtis. What's the name of the place we're getting to?"

"Hotel is a block away from here. We go there, get checked in, and call. We meet them tomorrow, and then we trade everything out, leave as soon as we can," He yawns, "Let's get some food first, and then we get to the hotel."

Two-Bit agrees, and eases back into the car.

The hotel isn't as bad as it could be. Two-Bit is comfortable in the bed he gets, Dallas getting his closer to the door. He's the one who makes the call to Buck's, Two-Bit still digesting the chicken they'd gotten. It was spicier than what he was used to, in a good way.

There's an urge to go out, look around, and once Dallas finishes on the line, he does just that. Doesn't take anything more than his switchblade and the hotel key, taking to the streets, mind swirling with everything he'd learned.

If he wanted to, he could take out that paper Hazel gave him and call his father. Call him and tell him exactly what misery he'd put them through, demand to know how long he'd been cheating on his mother, and what made him turn away from them that was so fucking powerful enough to leave them in poverty?

He doesn't do any of that. Maybe it's the music he hears playing, maybe it's the lights on the streets he follows to places teeming full of people, of food. Everything is brighter, hazier here — muggier, really. There's a humidity in the air that doesn't exist in Oklahoma, and Two-Bit is happy to get lost in the streets, turning over everything he's learned that day.

And of course, he doesn't do it without picking up booze. A shot here, a glass there, a martini there. He goes down the streets, dancing sometimes with the people there, chasing the booze until he finds himself back at the hotel on shaky legs.

Somehow, Dallas has found him, shoving him into the bed. Two-Bit wants to ask how Dallas found him, but there's nothing to say when sleep claws up, pulling him down into a blank sleep that renders everything heavy and thick.

When the morning comes, he's stumbling up, puking in the toilet bowl before Dallas can say so much as Idiot.

The headache he has on the way to the car shop isn't as bad as it could be. At least the Pedialyte he has is getting him through things, groaning as Dallas drives too fast. "Could you keep it below 65 miles per hour on the street?"

"I'm going 45," Dallas clearly lies as he turns the car towards the mechanic's shop. The garish coloring makes Two-Bit groan in his seat, his stomach twisting. "C'mon, I let you sleep until noon you lazy fuck. We're leaving tonight, so c'mon and suck it up."

Two-Bit thinks about kicking Dallas, right as the car stops. Dallas throws it into park, and Two-Bit takes another swig of the Pedialyte as he gets out. The shop is pretty decently sized, a tall man coming out to shake Dallas' hand. They talk, exchanging whatever Dallas had been told by Buck to say.

What that was, Two-Bit wasn't sure he wanted to know. Was this guy some kind of mob contact who recognized Dallas? Was Buck the only person who knew people out here?

More questions swirl in his brain, and his head pounds.

He shuts his eyes, thinking about Kenneth, thinking about the number written down for him, what Johnny was doing, what his M —

A sharp knock makes him jump. Two-Bit scowls at Dallas, who's beckoning him out. Two-Bit opens the car door, stumbles out, and waves to the mechanics. "We're switching already?"

"Yeah, though I got one more errand to do," Dallas walks ahead to a white 1964 Thunderbird Hardtop — Two-Bit used to idolize having one of these, looking at how clean it was, at the slick design. That almost cures his hangover with how gorgeous it looks, waiting for them. "They checked everything, payment's in the car. We run my errand, we take a rest so you can get your drunky ass together, and then we're going."

Two-Bit swallows the rest of the Pedialyte, trying not to gag around the thickly sweet concoction. He coughs, hacks, and throws the bottle into the trash can, going to the passenger side. He slips inside where he needs to go, waving to the mechanics taking in the other loaded car. It's a tuff car he has to admit, the interior spotlessly white, the paneling beautiful.

Dallas slides in the driver's side, slipping the key in. The car comes to life with a hum once he turns the transmission, a grin on his face. "C'mon, Two. I need you to look alive here."

"Alright, alright," Two-Bit shakes his head as the car pulls off, into traffic. The streets aren't so crowded now, Dallas checking street signs meticulously, muttering directions to himself. He sighs, rubbing at his forehead. "What's this last errand for?"

"It's not for Buck," Dallas turns down a street, his eyes concentrated on the road, "It's for me."

"You? What for?"

"I had Eugene call down before I got here to arrange it for me since he knows some people out here," the car hits a slightly more modern part of the road, and Two-Bit, to his alarm, sees a government building.

He casts Dallas a suspicious look. "The lawyer? S'going on, you got a warrant out here that I don't know about?"

"No," Dallas steers the car into a parking space. He parks the car, shutting it off, "I'm here to get a marriage license for me and Ponyboy."

Two-Bit freezes.

Dallas doesn't say it's a joke, just glances over. "You gonna get out with me, or what?"

"What?" Is Two-Bit's choice.

Chapter Text

Dallas opens the door and gets out. Two-Bit scrambles to open his door and follow him, suddenly violently sober. "What? You're — a license? For you and Ponyboy? Are you fucking crazy?"

"Are you gonna get out or not? Cause I can go right back inside," Dallas snaps out instead of answering his question like a normal person. No, he's gotta glare at him like Two-Bit is the one who just said he'd be marrying Ponyboy Curtis soon and Two-Bit doesn't know why he's the odd one here.

It doesn't make sense. It can't make sense, and yet, when Dallas doesn't get an answer, he scoffs and makes his way into the courthouse, leaving Two-Bit in a shocked, stunned silence at the car for almost a full minute. Then he's sprinting away from the car, and up the steps of the courthouse to catch up with Dallas even though it feels like he's about to literally vomit out his food or vomit out questions. "Please — you cannot be serious!" He moves between Dallas and the doorway, his hands held up. "You're trying to marry Ponyboy?"

"I am going to marry Ponyboy," Dallas responds, scowling down at Two-Bit. It's not as if they weren't, well, together permanently. Two-Bit knows that, he knows what mating is what it means biologically, knows what it means as greasers. Marriage, though. "Are you gonna shut the fuck up when we get in there or do I need to leave you outside?"

Well. Two-Bit opens his mouth, closes it. He knows well as anyone else that you don't stand in Dallas' way or you'll get hit, even if you were a friend. So he does the smart thing and he moves away instead of getting punched.

Physically, at least.

Mentally, as Dallas walks inside of the courthouse, the doors opening and closing with a swish, he does feel like Dallas cocked his arm back and hammered him right in the face.

It's not as if — it's not as if Two-Bit knows they would never part each other. Mating was generally pretty fucking permanent. It altered your body, your scent, your perception of the world. Marriage just wasn't – it was something he associated with adults, with adulthood. It was maybe something you did sometimes if there was a baby on the way or to dodge the draft.

It wasn't what you did in cases like this.

Or at least, it wasn't what he knew greasers to do. It wasn't what Two-Bit thought any hoods would do either.

He turns to look through the windows of the courthouse where Dallas is talking to a tall man with short cropped hair, nodding every now and then. They shake hands, and Dallas takes a manila envelope from him and he stalks back to the doors.

Two-Bit waits for him, glancing back just once and then back to Dallas, at the uncomplicated look on his face. He opens the door, and for once he doesn't know what to say as they go down the steps together, making their way to the car. He just... what can he say? How can he say it?

There were too many unanswered questions in his head and Two-Bit can't find one to run out with. Thankfully, once the car is on and they're a block away, Dallas' voice pierces through his conflicting thoughts with, "We just need to get some rest for another couple of hours, and whatever you wanna say to me, you can say to me when we're on the road."

"As long as you're the one driving when I ask, pal," Two-Bit manages to get out.

The nod Dallas gives is enough for him.

Then again, it has to be for now, as Two-Bit clenches his hands around his knees.

Some fuckin' roadtrip.

Every so often, 'cause of his age, Two-Bit has slipped into college parties on the other side of town, where the more modern places were. Places where he was learning to spot acid tablets, where he was seeing some of the kid's hair get longer, their clothes changing. Some college kids he'd known vaguely before had changed radically after a while there, and others seemed to have simply stayed the same.

For some reason, the rest of the day, it feels like he's slipped into one of those parties where people have changed beneath his nose in ways he doesn't know to configure themselves into someone familiar yet wasn't. Dallas is like that as he orders the same food as normal, as he eats beside Two-Bit and lays down on the bed for the last few hours they have for the hotel room.

Dallas is still Dallas Winston: tough, a good man to have in a fight, and with a past that Two-Bit only has small bits and pieces of, that he respected and knew he should never cross.

At the same time, he is Dallas Winston who's told him that he's the son of a mob boss, who mated Ponyboy, and who now wanted to marry Ponyboy, and was so serious about it he had a marriage license.

Sleep is easier than what he thinks it'd be, pulling him down into a strange lucid dreaming where he can hear the cars outside and distant music and crowds and his mind is replaying memories as dreams: the way his father used to fold his hand, no wedding ring to show for on his finger, his brows furrowed together; the scent of his mother's laundry freshly done on Sundays and how it always made him feel like the weekend was coming to an end; the whispered arguments his parents had when he was young hearing the words I don't know if mating is enough for me!; Katie's pale face when she had really digested the fact that their father was gone; sitting in the car, his foot pressed on the gas, wondering about going to Texas for Johnny and Ponyboy.

All of it swirls in his mind as he drifts in that half sleep until a swirling darkness finally pulls him down.

It just feels like the blink of an eye of it, before Dallas is shaking his shoulder, they're taking quick showers, and then they're going down to the car in the dusk. The sky is turned a deep pink and orange color, music playing and Two-Bit doesn't protest when Dallas picks a diner for them to eat in. There's no fuss, no meetings this time — they both get coffee, scarf down food, and then they're on the road before the sun fully sinks beyond sight.

All the while, Two-Bit's mind keeps going back to the marriage license. Back to what they think of things like that, back to the idea that Ponyboy is fourteen — and Dallas was seventeen. Maybe. He never stated his age, never said shit about a birthday and he said two years so. It might've passed. Or Dallas might've been bullshitting.

Either way, he can hardly take it when they finally hit the interstate, his laugh coming out nervous, harsh in that way he knows gets on Dallas' nerves. "So, you gonna tell me why you're fixing to marry Ponyboy or not?"

Dallas remains cool in his seat, accelerating only a little, just to make Two-Bit's stomach jump. He gives a mean little smile and he sighs. "Listen — I told you about my dad, right? He's the boss of all bosses, and he don't like me none and I don't like him. You asked why I didn't go to him for help — it ain't just cause he hates my guts. It's cause he hates mates too."

Two-Bit's eyebrows raise. "Like Socs hate mating?" He thinks back to the three times he's taken Biology, thinks back to every conversation he's heard in passing about how much they hate mating. "They've always thought of it like we're fucking animals for liking it."

"No, not like that. He doesn't like it cause he thinks — he thinks you're weak if you wanna get mated. Hates that it makes you vulnerable, that you get tied down to something else," the frown that Dallas' face has is different than other times he's seen it. Most of the time, whatever's pissing Dallas off is too small to other people, or so ferocious that he just launches into a quick, hot anger. This kind of frown, the feeling to it is different altogether. To Two-Bit it feels like he's been thinking about this for a long, long time. "He used to warn everyone under him that if they mated, he'd kill 'em. No matter what. If I asked for help for a mate, he'd never help me. If I asked for help for a husband, he'd actually listen to me before he decided to take my head off." Dallas grips the steering wheel tighter, the absence of the radio feeling more and more ominous as they barrel down the darkened road with only the headlights from other cars illuminating the feet in front of them.

Every time Dallas mentions killing, harm, it makes Two-Bit's stomach turn.

Sometimes he's thought Dallas has lied or bullshitted. He wasn't even sure if he entirely believed in the mob stuff until this moment as Dallas grips and ungrips the wheel, continuing on. "If I went up to him with a husband, he'd at least let me talk, and maybe he'd do something. If not him, someone else would respect I had a husband. Just mating — I know greasers are alright with just that, I know. But it can't be like that. And even if Texas' shit wasn't on the table, I talked to Eugene. And he had a lot to say about it — all that legal shit."

Eugene looks at Dallas with some degree of surprise on his face. Dallas understands what he's just voiced outloud, to an adult he hardly knows. "Why would you be asking me about the benefits of legal marriage, Mr. Winston? I understand our case is hard, but not so hard that I would recommend jumping the broom, in this case."

Dallas paces in front of him, buzzing. "You don't know how it's gonna turn out. I don't trust those fucks, and I don't — I might have another way out of this. Can you at least tell me what would happen if I married him, instead of just mating him? I know there's a difference."

Leaning against his own desk, Eugene's face is curious. "Legally, common law marriage tends to cover mating in Oklahoma. If you were to legally marry Ponyboy, you would have access to many things as a spouse. The laws are much more definitive about what you are and are not entitled to —"

"If he were in prison —"

"You would legally be able to visitation rights, including your mating cycles with appropriate accommodations you would be able to set for yourselves," Eugene cuts through Dallas' words, "Which extends to mating rights in general, with him. The legal assistance you could seek is in greater scope than that of a mate's, you would have the ability to add to his commissary in greater value than if you were a mate, have more advocates to help you if you needed to appeal your case, among other things. Medically, you would have a much wider ability to assist him in any problems he has that arises, and you would be able to overrule anyone else who might have a say outside whereas his current legal guardian could overrule you as a mate at this juncture." He gives Dallas a pointed look at that. Apparently he'd noticed some of the tension. "As a mate, all of those services would be greatly reduced, removed, or much, much harder to win. You would also have to work out those issues with his guardian and wouldn't be able to do anything if he disagrees with you until Ponyboy is eighteen," Eugene finishes ticking them off. "I would gladly marry you myself if I felt that my talents weren't going to get you out of this, but Ponyboy is still two years too young for Oklahoma's age limit."

Dallas nods, pacing more and more. "But if I did do it elsewhere, would – Oklahoma would have to recognize it, right?"

"They would. You only have a few options: Louisiana, Alabama, and Kentucky," Eugene doesn't seem to judge Dallas for his words, just watching Dallas pace and pace and pace. "You would have to get a marriage license in the state after verifying you have a residence with Ponyboy in Oklahoma —"

"Been moved in already."

" — and get a witness for the wedding. It can't be the officiants, I'm afraid. And I don't believe Ponyboy's siblings would be up for this, now would they?" Eugene folds his arms as Dallas' mind races. He would need a witness, and he couldn't just pull one out of his ass at short notice.

Dallas runs his hand through his hair. "If — If I did this, he'd be okay, though? If I did this, he wouldn't have to go through all this shit like everyone else? I already never thought about leaving him, I ain't that kind of person. I can't have him in there and not help him."

Outside, Dallas can hear someone yelling for someone else, laughter. He thinks about what Ponyboy would be like locked up in prison, what it would be like if Dallas were trapped on the other side, unable to help. He stops pacing, and looks at Eugene, needing an answer.

"If you did this, it would be risky, and upsetting to his family more than likely. I can see, however, that you don't care about that so long as he's protected. I don't see this behavior from most teenagers, let alone adults. Which leads me to believe Ponyboy chose wisely in terms of a mate and future husband if he so wishes," Eugene clears his throat. "What I can do for you is recommend a place in Louisiana, and a good county to get it in where they're very good about listening to me. I can make a few calls, and once I have everything arranged, I'll let you know. I still believe that I'm good enough to sway our Judge — but I would be a fool to not acknowledge how flawed this system is and that they have it out for anyone who isn't exactly like them."

A grin breaks out on Dallas' face.

Eugene returns it.

Two-Bit doesn't know what to make of what Dallas has just told him. The lawyer had helped him in all this? He'd called, he'd done all of that?

"That's your plan? You marry him, and what, invite Darry down to Louisiana with the expectation he won't kill you?" Two-Bit gives a half laugh, running his hand through his hair, wishing he had his switchblade to fiddle with, could pace around, something other than bounce his knee in the car. This one was bigger than the other, and he doesn't know what to do with himself, full of energy, full of thoughts. "Or, what, you get Tim Shepard to do it?"

"It's not about that," Dallas snaps, "It's about making sure Ponyboy doesn't get lost in there. You've been to jail same as I have, Two-Bit. If I marry him, and this shit goes south I can go to Texas and fix it. He could get him out of there in a matter of hours if I asked and was willing to do what he wanted."

Two-Bit's brain just feels like it's going in circles trying to deal with this, trying to parse that. "You're assuming he'd say yes. You really think Ponyboy would?"

"If I brought him here, without telling him first, yeah. If I said anything before that, kid might panic, get up in his head," the admittance is harsh and realistic. "I don't want him to. If — if he said no, fine I wouldn't do it. I ain't gonna just sit on my ass and not try to save him. He's my mate, I can't lose him. I can't just sit there and let him go to prison, and rot there."

And Two-Bit knows it's true. He knows that if Ponyboy goes in, he might turn out as bad as Tim Shepard or Curly by the end. That if he goes in, he'd be the youngest of them, gone. The pup they all had.

It stings, too, he knows Johnny isn't getting this, that he can't get this. He's got a whole other set of circumstances to deal with, and deep in his heart, Two-Bit knows that he'd never agree in the first place. Help had to be on his own terms.

They lapse into silence, the miles stretching onward, further and further.

It might be an hour, it might be ten minutes when Two-Bit finally manages to untangle his words enough to say, "You wanna tell me more about this Texas character before I figure out how to feel about this."

Dallas gives him a suspicious, uncomfortable look and pulls over. "Switch off."

Two-Bit gets up, stands and stretches in the dark of the highway. Cars zoom past at high speeds, the air fresh, and utterly cold against his skin.

It makes things feel much less surreal as he and Dallas pass each other in the headlights and then get into their new positions.

And the darkness makes it all the spookier as they set to driving again, no stopping and Dallas talks. Talks about a man worse than the Cades, with an intimidating presence. A man who had been beating on Dallas since he was about born, and a man cruel enough to banish his son at ten years old away from him.

Two-Bit listens as he drives, as Dallas weaves a tale about a man he wishes he could punch. About a world of men existing with ungodly amounts of money, able to be cruel at a moment's notice, able to get anything and everything he wants.

"The Mob is bigger than you think," Dallas' voice is rough, hard beside him, "And shit's more corrupt than you think. I saw judges in that apartment before, laughing and taking money he gave them and then they were in the newspapers talking about immorality and fixing the streets. Texas meant it when he exiled me at ten — he would kill me if I showed up before twenty. Not unless I had something to offer, and he wouldn't lift a finger to help me if I had a mate. I can't — I can't take that risk."

"And what if it all works out, Dally? What if all of this — what if it goes well, what if we don't get fucked over for being greasers, just this once?" Two-Bit asks, trying not to let the eerie darkness, the scary description get to him.

He's aware he's asking for a fantasy here, that he's asking for reality to bend here.

Dallas is aware, too. He's always known the score. And still, Dallas replies, "Then we're married anyway. Wasn't planning on being with anyone else, anyway."

That's not an I love you in the traditional sense, Two-Bit knows. Goddamn he knows it isn't.

Coming from Dallas though, it might as well be. A hood like that, with all that going on, and he was doing all this for Ponyboy?

Two-Bit sighs, rubs at his forehead. "Fuck me. I guess that makes me a witness to your fucking crime of marrying that Space Cadet."

A grin breaks out on Dallas' face. "I didn't think you'd say no."

Two-Bit huffs, but exchanges a smile with Dallas anyway, even though he feels weak, like he's getting in over his head. "Yeah, I wasn't. You're my buddy, even when you do crazy shit like this."

They both share a laugh, and Two-Bit thinks maybe it'll be okay anyway. He leans back, looking at the signs they're passing, getting closer and closer to Tulsa. "I don't think I'll tell my Mama about that asshole 'til after this is over. I know how to keep my mouth shut and right now, she ain't need all that."

"Even with the money?" A curious look is leveled at him. "Those ladies were pretty keen on making sure you got your pound of flesh."

"That dick owes her twenty pounds, far as I'm concerned," Two-Bit snorts, "Nah, she doesn't need to worry about him right now. I don't — I don't know that she'd want to think about him in everything at the moment. They weren't the Curtises you know, all mated and married. They were mated, and everything about them seemed... I don't know. He thought like a Soc, that the real thing was the marriage he's got now and not what he actually had. She needs to get through this first, then I'll say something."

Dallas lets out a sound of agreement. "You got a good Mom."

"I know," Two-Bit says, tapping on the gas. "Where you gonna keep that license?"

"Don't worry about it," is the cheery response, Dallas yawning. "Give me an hour to sleep and I'll get us to Tulsa."

Two-Bit nods, and sighs, as he keeps going on.

God, when was the last time they felt like kids? When was the last time they could be kids?

He doesn't know, and he hopes to God that maybe, just maybe they can make it by the skin of their teeth to adulthood.

"How was your trip?" Katie asks him the morning they arrive, after Ponyboy has bonked him in the face. Two-Bit had watched Dallas slip the marriage license into a Bible behind Ponyboy's back, and he knows that the information he has itself feels like it's burning a hole in his pocket.

A part of him does want to turn around and tell his Mama everything, drag that asshole out here and give her money for raising them. Wants to tell him he's a piece of shit, that he walked out on something good, like Katie's grin and their Mama's mac 'n cheese and their laughter.

But, Two-Bit decides that for now, he'll keep that to himself. Why upset them more than what they had to be?

He has a family here, a pack here. What did that asshole have beyond a shitty copy of the real thing?

"Well, I met me a cute blonde," he drawls out, and Katie rolls her eyes and walks out of the kitchen, towards her room. "Aw, c'mon! It was a different blonde!"

"Shut up, Two-Bit!"

He laughs, and when his Mama walks out, yawning, he opens his arms and pulls her into a hug. She's surprised at the strength, but well.

She's always been stronger than any of them.

Chapter Text

Monday dawns clear, and bright. Ponyboy wishes it wasn't as he dresses in his suit for what he hopes is the last time. Even with Dallas and Two-Bit back from whatever job Buck had sent them on, he feels utterly exhausted from it all. That there was one more day and then a limbo of not knowing saps the strength of him even during that sunny Sunday afternoon they had together.

As much as he wanted to be like some of the other greaser kids, all he'd done was cling to Dallas, pulling him into bed, wrapping his arms around him. Dallas hadn't minded, wrapping around him with all of his lanky, skinny limbs and burying his nose into his neck.

Well. Ponyboy can still feel a little heated about how much attention Dallas had tended to his neck. He'd practically flattened himself onto Ponyboy, licking and nipping and sucking at his mating mark. It had put Ponyboy into an odd state — getting dizzy with the feeling, his body relaxing, sighing and moaning as he'd done it. It wasn't as intense as it had been when Dallas had first bitten the mating mark into him, and it certainly wasn't as good as it felt whenever Dallas really bit him during sex.

It was a sort of in-between, where every bite sent a sort of small wave of good feelings through him, made his eyes flutter and his hips rock, half hard, some slick dripping out of him with every bite, every feeling of Dallas' tongue on his skin. He had wanted to roll over, to bite Dallas back, but every time it even crossed his mind, it was as if Dallas had known and had bit down harder, more insistently.

As a result, his neck is a mess, the skin so dark beneath his fingers as he gets ready that if he weren't so exhausted he'd try and cover up. Instead, Ponyboy finds himself going through the last of the motions, shoveling food into his mouth and then getting into the truck a few steps behind Sodapop. Darry gets in last, and he puts his head against the window, not even giving a thought to Dallas' still slumbering form in bed or the cold outside.

He just tips his head against the window, shuts his eyes and lets the truck take him down to the courthouse. Nothing matters — just the movement of the car, the snatches of sleep, the low level jitters that he's been feeling just seeping through him, keeping him suspended there in a half state.

It only feels like a too long blink by the time they get down to the courthouse, the feeling of the truck stopping forcing Ponyboy to open his eyes, and take it in. The sky is brighter than it should be, the parking lot filled with greasers and Ponyboy gets out of the truck like normal.

One last time. One last time until the verdict.

He looks around at the cars around them, spotting mostly the familiar ones — and one that wasn't. It sticks out in the parking lot, as it was one of the newer cars he'd seen. It's mid-sized and there's a Black woman there, smoking to herself, her eyes focused on Ponyboy. Something about her and the car is oddly familiar, and when their eyes lock together, she gives a wave.

Had he seen her in a photo before? Had he passed her in town somewhere, seen her picture somewhere? Ponyboy racks his brain trying to place her, why she seems so familiar.

Ponyboy waves back anyway, trying to figure it out and coming up empty with only a ghost of a recollection that her face is familiar, that the car looks like something he'd seen before. She's older than him for sure — maybe in her mid forties, if he could guess, with dark hair that's in a fashionable swoop. The clothes she wears are court appropriate, her blouse a bright pink against the horizon. She smiles encouragingly at him, and Ponyboy wonders if she might be some kind of expert or something.

That just makes his stomach turn in fear. Darry catches her look too, saying, "You know her?"

"No," Ponyboy shrugs, as they walk towards the courthouse. "I was thinking she might be some kind of court official. Look at her car."

Soda is the one who cranes his neck over, and gives her an even bigger wave. Ponyboy tries not to laugh at how enthusiastic he is, just walking into the courthouse.

Judge Cross clears her throat when they're finally sworn in and seated. Ponyboy feels limp as he sits there, dreading what there is to happen now. Beside him, he can see that Johnny's fingers are bitten down to near stubs, and he looks as if he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep.

Ponyboy can't blame him as the Judge speaks, "Today was supposed to solely be a closing argument. However, as I understand it, there has been a last minute addition today from Mr. Hall. Is that correct?"

"I do," Eugene stands up, Ponyboy and Johnny both looking at him, Ponyboy unsure of where this was going. "I can retrieve him, as he's come down for his day in court."

"Please do so," Ponyboy can see the Judge scratch something down on her paper, and Eugene flashes him a smile.

Eugene hadn't said anything about another witness. Or... maybe he had in all the talk and Ponyboy hadn't kept up with it. He remains seated, while Johnny cranes his head around to see Eugene stride to the back. Just who else could he call? Another Soc?

A part of him feels like he has to be more excited, more anticipatory of what was happening. The rest of him... Ponyboy feels almost numb, staring down the barrel of the end of things. Every time he tries to concentrate, to keep himself tethered down, he can't entirely, as if —

Johnny beside him almost rams his elbow into Ponyboy's side, and the pain makes Ponyboy yelp in surprise and pain. "Johnny, what —"

"It's the teacher!" Johnny nudges him again, and Ponyboy whips his head around. Sure enough, Jerry Wood is making his way down the aisle of the courtroom. Unlike the last time they'd seen him, his hair is done up well, his suit is a little more put together than what they'd seen on Jay Mountain. He spots them both, and a smile lights up on his face at the sight of them, giving a friendly wave.

Suddenly, Ponyboy remembers where he'd seen that car, the woman from before: that was Jerry's car, that he'd driven away from the hospital. The woman — her photo had been in his wallet! Ponyboy had seen her there, pictured with some little girls at the hospital when Jerry had taken out his wallet to buy him a Coke.

Without mounting curiosity, Ponyboy waves back. "What's he doing here?"

"I dunno, man," Johnny whispers back, both of them turning around as Eugene escorts Jerry up. Shaw looks surprised, and a little sour. Ponyboy thinks frantically back to the television shows he'd seen — didn't lawyers usually know about witnesses ahead of time or something?

All of the empty, half numb feelings are pushed out of him as Jerry swears on the Bible and he steps up. "My name is Jeremiah "Jerry" Wood, Jr. I'm from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma and I'm a teacher at St. Mary's Elementary School there."

"Thank you, Mr. Wood for coming," Eugene looks good in the dark red suit he's got, his hair freshly cut, his voice booming. "Could you please tell me if you know Mr. Curtis and Mr. Cade, and could you point them out for me?"

"Oh, sure," Jerry beams, his friendly round face making Ponyboy remember the smell of smoke, "They're right over there. There's no way I wouldn't be able to recognize them, after what they did for us. They're heroes to me." He swivels in his chair a little, in a way that Ponyboy makes him think of his Dad, how pleased he could be.

Eugene takes it in stride. "And could you elaborate on how you met them, Mr. Wood?"

"Sure, sure. See, I and my co-worker, Mrs. Robertson are both second grade teachers at St. Mary's. We decided that we wanted to take the kids on a nature trip a couple months ago. Uh, back in September, I mean. The kids were still pretty new, and our first field trip is always something based around nature every year." His voice keeps up that bouncing friendliness, almost tripping over his words. "We went to Jay Mountain — every year we pick a new location. We thought Jay Mountain was a nice place to take them, and we were just showing the kids around, letting them play. It's — our trip is always very important, you know? Especially since we finally got integrated recently, a lot of parents have been a little nervous about how we do things. But we're dedicated to giving every child the best education they can get, you know? And I've always tried to be a good example, since I'm someone who's in a mixed marriage myself."

The man is rambling, Ponyboy can tell. Some sweat is blooming from his forehead, and yet, Ponyboy is mesmerized, even as Jerry keeps going. "So, we were showing the kids around, and we'd just wrapped up the scavenger hunt when we realized some of the kids were missing. We kept taking a head count and coming up short — then we heard, golly, we heard the scream before we smelled the fire. The kids had been hiding in this old church up there. It wasn't occupied, or so we thought. But smoke was going up, and the kids were panicking." Jerry takes out a handkerchief, dabbing at his face, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "That's when I saw the blonde — Ponyboy, he ran up there out of nowhere. You should've seen how he looked at the church, golly. He looked at the church, and as soon as I said kids were in there, he just. He didn't stop for nothing, he ran towards the fire. I heard his other friend, telling him to get back there. I don't blame him, the smoke was so big, that fire was so hot it felt like stepping in there might be stepping into hell." Jerry looks directly at Ponyboy as he talks, his voice solemn, "Ponyboy didn't care. He ran towards the kids and that fire like he was there to beat the devil himself. His friend, Johnny, he went after him too."

Ponyboy can feel his ears tip red in embarrassment, and he looks at his own hands even though he knows that he'd do it again. Over and over again he'd do it. He can't even look at Johnny, even though he can feel Johnny move beside him, hearing Jerry go on.

"I tried to follow 'em in, but there wasn't room enough for me. Got a little too fat and happy with marriage," Jerry Wood cracks and there's a little bit of laughter in the room. "All I could do was try and help the last friend of theirs — he never gave me his name, just helped me break down a window and got the kids out too. All three of them were like angels, coming out of nowhere to help us. All of the kids got rescued out of there, due to their efforts. The only thing any of the kids came out of that with were some slightly singed ponytails and nothing else."

Eugene looks like he's the cat that got the canary. "Did you ever think that they were a danger, Mr. Wood?"

"Not once," Jerry refutes immediately, still using his handkerchief for the sweat on his face, "They were nothing except good to the kids. And when that beam hit Johnny — I felt so awful. That other kid was able to get him out, but only barely. I wound up helping him with that beam, and staying til the ambulance came. I actually rode back in with Ponyboy — the dark haired kid wanted to ride with him, tried to argue with me about it until I told him Johnny probably would do better with him. He looked mighty upset about it, but I promised him I'd take care of Ponyboy. He only believed me after he told me he'd knock my block off if I didn't." Jerry lets out a chuckle and Ponyboy can feel his mind whirling.

Dallas had wanted to ride with him. Dallas wanted to stay with him.

"When he told me they were greasers — I tell you I couldn't believe it," Jerry huffs out. "I didn't think they were anything except kids, really. Couldn't damn near believe they were running away from a murder. I still sorta don't believe it. They're such good kids, all of them. They never asked for nothing from us, and they were so careful with my students. The whole town of Broken Arrow has been real grateful for what they did for us."

Shaw looks like he's so red he's about to turn purple. Ponyboy dares a look at Johnny's face — he's staring at Jerry as if he's never seen him before and he's astonished at every word, and Ponyboy can't blame him. He'd already thought Jerry was someone who was pretty shocking the day they met; and yet here he was defending them.

"I have no further questions," Eugene chirps at the Judge, the expression on his face chipper. "I pass to Mr. Shaw."

Shaw stands up, and his mustache is twitching, his bolo tie looks a little askew as he approaches Jerry. "You say that all of Broken Arrow has this opinion? Even with the awareness of this trial, Mr. Wood?"

"Sure do," Jerry nods, "I even have something to prove it." He twists around in his seat, rummaging around his pockets. Finally, he withdraws a bundled stack of letters, placing it in front of him. It's an enormous stack, some of the letters bulging. "I was supposed to just give this to the judge: they're all letters from my student's parents. When I told them about this, they all rallied together to write letters thanking Ponyboy, Johnny, and their other friend for rescuing their kids."

Ponyboy doesn't know if his heart is trying to plunge out of his chest to the floor or if he wants to throw up in half shock at what he's seeing. This time he and Johnny do look at each other in shock, and appreciation.

And... well. Hope. There's no way not to feel hope as Shaw looks at the letters there. Shaw tries again, "It did not bother anyone that they were there, due to a murder?"

Jerry shakes his head. "I can't believe those kids could act in cold blood. Not when I saw Ponyboy run in there, braver than any adult I've ever seen. If something happened to that end — it could only be self defense. They are not violent, they are not mean kids. They're good kids, sir, and I believe in all of my years of teaching that I am a good judge of character. I would be proud to have taught them, if they're like this on their own."

What else can be said? Shaw seems to realize that, nodding. "I have no further questions."

If the Judge feels anything in particular, she does not show it. "Thank you, Mr. Wood. Please hand those letters to our bailiff, and if you choose to stay here, please take a seat and stay silent until the proceedings are over."

"Yes, ma'am," Jerry stands up, taking the letters. The bailiff comes over, taking the letters. Ponyboy flashes a smile to Jerry, Johnny doing the same that Jerry heartily returns.

For a few moments, there's silence, as the Judge gathers her notes. "Mr. Shaw, you have the floor for your closing arguments, and then you Mr. Hall."

Shaw takes a big gulp of water he has. He seems steadier, and when he stands up, he straightens up his bolo tie, and his boots click on the floor. "Bob Sheldon, the victim of this murder at such a young age, was not a perfect victim by any means. He was a teenager, one who was subjected to certain vices and faults. We have heard of his drinking, his predilection to his own forms of delinquency, his temper, and we have also heard that he was a boy full of promise — a boy who could have eventually conquered those demons if he had been given a chance to live, to have the time to learn from those mistakes. Not everyone was raised perfectly, not everyone has had a past spotless of error." He wheels around as he talks, purposely avoiding the side of the court that only housed the Sheldons now, Mrs. Sheldon's hands folded up in her lap, Mr. Sheldon's face blank.

Ponyboy chooses to ignore them, hating the sound of those spurs as Shaw goes on. "But Mr. Sheldon, even for all of his transgressions, for all of his aggressions, didn't have the opportunity to learn or to grow. Instead, during a low moment he was killed by someone else without a spotless past. He was struck down by Mr. Cade in an act of revenge. Mr. Cade knew that Mr. Sheldon was someone who was in throes of his vices, he knew that Mr. Sheldon was someone who had a heady temper and perhaps was not always in the right," Shaw gestures to Johnny as he speaks. "He still was someone who walked around armed with a weapon he refused to relinquish, with a grudge on his back that while it was earned was something he never divulged to others much less an authority. He walked around without reaching out to his parents, to his family, or his friends about what was going on. He carried the weight of that anger, with those thoughts of revenge — and when he saw his moment to act out that moment, Mr. Cade took it. Not once did it ever occur to Mr. Cade that he could have had this settled differently, that he could've gone to an adult or authority. Like most teenagers of his age and of his stature, he didn't care to seek out the appropriate help."

Johnny beside him, is taking deep breaths. A bird outside chirps, and another answers.

"He sought revenge. Perhaps Mr. Cade had a right to that revenge in this moment, and Mr. Curtis was someone who was certainly in peril despite his own provocations of Mr. Sheldon. As is stands, he still sought out the violent ends to all of this, and Mr. Cade is responsible for the death of Mr. Sheldon, and Mr. Curtis is responsible himself for going along with that act of vengeance," Shaw jabs a finger towards Ponyboy, to emphasize his point, his eyes flinty in his face.

Ponyboy refuses to blink, to give in to a reaction. "That act of vengeance has had consequences, and I beg the Court to do its job in it's matter. Vengeance is not sanctioned — and Mr. Cade and Mr. Curtis must have consequences for their actions surely as Mr. Sheldon did."

Shaw gives them both another hard look and then tips his head to the Judge. The Judge's face remains impassive as he goes around to sit down at his side of the court.

For his part, Eugene stands up and gives Ponyboy and Johnny a wink as if to say watch this. He strides to the bench, lifting his head. "There is no denying that Bob Sheldon was a victim of a crime. He is, after all, deceased and has been for months now. It surely is a tragedy his family will always bear. To that end, I am sorry for that." He pauses, and then he tips his chin upwards, as if he's been challenged.

"To solely cast him as a victim of a revenge plot is to reduce Mr. Cade and Mr. Curtis' lives, and to reduce Mr. Sheldon's life and history as well," Eugene's tone takes a more melodic one, his voice stronger than before, "During this trial, we have had multiple witnesses confirm, to varying degrees, a history of violence that Mr. Sheldon and his friends perpetuated for some time with a lot of pleasure. They attacked Mr. Cade while he was alone and beat him so violently that a normally law abiding young man," Eugene gestures to Johnny, "A young man who already has been living under hard circumstances, that he had to seek out protection for himself. He could not go and ask adults for help as he had access to very little, and what adult would be able to protect him in the circumstances he was facing? He could not ask for help from anyone here beyond the other boys his age, and they already were victimized themselves by Mr. Sheldon and his friends."

He sounds more and more confident, the bluster backed up by the strength of his words as he speaks directly to the judge. "Mr. Curtis spoke himself of being targeted by Mr. Sheldon and Mr. Addderson in ways that are vulgar. It is unsavory, yet it is a fact raised in this court: Mr. Curtis was specifically targeted on the basis of his gender as an omega, and threatened with rape." The word is still almost too much for Ponyboy to hear, his stomach turning at how direct it is. "Yes, rape — not sexual assault, but rape. This was not an empty threat — it came hand in hand with their already present need to assault those they thought were below them in status of wealth and gender. This is a threat that has been ritualized as an omega hunt — one they seem to have engaged in before."

With every word Eugene says, it gets more fiery than before, "Mr. Cade and Mr. Curtis were already in an environment where every day they were subjected to threats, even though they wanted to simply do what others do, whether it was walk home or watch a movie. The simple act of attempting to talk to a girl — a girl already able to see that her boyfriend was not a perfect human being — led to another volley of insults, threats and those threats were not empty." His voice is booming in its command. "Mr. Sheldon acted on those threats. He invaded their neighborhood, he verbally accosted them, he chased them. He attempted to assault Mr. Curtis, and when he could not complete that sexual assault, that attempt of rape, he then proceeded to attempt to kill Mr. Curtis. No act of attempted drowning can be seen as a simple attack. That was an attempt to murder and Mr. Cade prevented it."

Behind him, Ponyboy can hear people shuffling about. "It was not an easy thing to prevent, and it was not an easy thing to carry out. It is a burden on anyone's soul to have to commit an act of violence, much less one that ends in death. But vengeance was not on Mr. Cade's mind that night — it was an act of brotherhood, of friendship that had him saving Mr. Curtis from Mr. Sheldon. It was an act of self defense. There is no doubt about that, and I ask you, Judge Cross to rule fairly in this matter and take Mr. Cade and Mr. Curtis at their words here." Eugene gestures to them both, even though his gaze is firmly on the Judge. "We even have had further evidence that their behavior that night was one provoked — if they were truly the animals, the horrible people that Mr. Sheldon's friends attested they were — would they have saved the lives of so many innocents at such costs to themselves? Would Mr. Cade have had his body broken, would Mr. Curtis have almost willingly died for children if they were simply delinquents? They would not and I beseech the Court to demonstrate justice in their favor in this matter."

Ponyboy doesn't know what to think or feel as Eugene takes his seat again. The Judge shuffles a few papers before speaking, "This concludes this trial. We will now enter the judgment phase — my judgment can take a minimum of two weeks to rule on and a maximum of three months. I do not intend for my judgment to take that long in this manner but you will have a summons when I have reached a verdict. Mr. Curtis, Mr. Cade, please stand."

Hastily, he stands, Johnny managing to struggle up in his crutches. "You two are not permitted to leave the state of Oklahoma during this period. Once my verdict has been rendered, you may travel freely. Do you understand?"

Together they say, "Yes, ma'am."

The Judge nods. "You are all dismissed. Please wait for your summons patiently."

It was over. The trial was over.

He looks at Johnny, and he knows Johnny is thinking the same thing he is: What now?

Chapter Text

The immediate answer is: lunch.

Ponyboy doesn't know how to account for the time between the relief of walking out of court to suddenly sitting in the Cosmo's diner with almost everyone from the gang crammed in on tables, the suit off of him, back in normal clothes. What he can account for is a tally of everyone there: Darry at the very end of the table sitting opposite an unimpressed Tim Shepard; Soda sitting beside him talking to Ivy who seems to have a small smile on her face at his words; Johnny at Soda's elbow, slowly drinking a milkshake while Steve sulks opposite him; Mrs. Mathews talking to Jerry Wood's wife who went by the name Sabrina — she was the Black woman from the parking lot; Eugene beside her stirring a French fry in his own milkshake while Two-Bit sat opposite him, digging into his own burger; Jerry Wood opposite Ponyboy himself, a smile on his face as he dips his onion rings into ketchup.

For his part, Ponyboy has his cheeseburger out in front of him, a few bites out of it. He knows that he should eat more, but there's something in the back of his head that has him asking, "Did you really mean it, what you said up there?"

"Why would I lie?" Jerry replies, adjusting his glasses good-naturedly back up his nose as Mrs. Mathews laughs down the table. "You are good kids. I've seen my share of kids who don't care or kids who don't know how to reach out for help or kids that are bad who want to be good. You just are good kids, better than most adults I've known."

Jerry's scent is omega, Ponyboy is realizing this up close. It makes sense; he was someone who was a school teacher, and most of them tended to be omegas. His wife was certainly an alpha herself, he could tell the moment she'd hugged Jerry outside of the courtroom, almost enfolding Jerry into her entirely. They remind him a lot of his parents, in a way that makes his heart ache a little – and not just because their dynamics matched his parents. There's a warmth, a love between them that he can see and feel as surely as he'd felt his own parents' love and warmth for each other.

Ponyboy still drops his head a little, shrugging. "I dunno I — It just. Usually I don't hear that from adults around here." He picks at his fries, wishing Dallas was here. Two-Bit had told him that Dallas still had something to do for Buck, and he'd be there later.

"I can tell," there's a kindness to Jerry's voice, and a little disappointment there, too. "It's a shame people can't see past a little matter of hair oil to make an accurate assessment of a human being." He reaches over to pet Ponyboy's hand. "I hope everything will turn out alright. Even if it doesn't, Eugene told me of what's going on with your home life."

Lifting his eyes from his plate, Ponyboy focuses on Jerry's eyes, the seriousness on his face. "It know it ain't the best —"

"I'm not making any judgment on it. What I do know is that he's told me you're an exceptional student — you're fourteen in the tenth grade," Jerry goes searching in his pockets, "This is a very important time for you. No matter how this turns out, I want you to keep my card and my phone number. I still have plenty of friends willing to help and I can give advice myself for your future." He withdraws a business card, offering it to Ponyboy. "I don't know if your school will assign you a counselor to think about college —"

"How – I don't know if I'll be able to afford college," ears tipping red, Ponyboy interrupts him, even though his fingers reach out for his card. "I — I honestly, I haven't been thinking much about college lately. With everything."

Jerry nods, picking up his milkshake. "I figured that you hadn't," he takes a quick sip, straightening up, "Even if the worst comes to worst, you are entitled to an education. Keep that card, call me about college no matter what. You deserve to have a future, same as anyone else. You're too intelligent and kind to not have a good future comin' your way."

Emotion wells up in Ponyboy's throat, the diner almost going silent in his ears. There have been so little moments lately, that he felt assured by the adults around him. Not even Darry was thinking about the future now, the way he used to. He looks at Jerry, and all Ponyboy can say is, "Thanks."

Future. What did the future look like, what could it be?

Ponyboy thinks about it as the lunch moves on, Two-Bit eventually reminding everyone that they had to get to school. What kind of future could he have now, with the trial over?

Was he going to wake up in two weeks to the news that he was going to have to get remanded into the jailhouse? That he had to stand up there, gripping a plaque, and get handcuffed and ushered into prison? Or would they send him to a reformatory or a foster home?

Or was he going to wake up in two weeks to hear that the judge had smiled upon them for once, that things were going to be back to normal, as it was now? Was he going to hear that he would stay with his brothers, with his mate? Was Johnny going to be alright, could he even think about college?

Darry hadn't mentioned much about his grades or anything in weeks, Ponyboy realizes. He'd all but dropped any kind of talk like that, so busy they were with the trial and as Darry stands up from the table, throwing down some money, he wonders if it'll come back at all.

He hopes it doesn't. If one thing has been okay so far, it's that Darry no longer is pushing so hard about his grades, about school. All of that had melted away into the background of their lives and Ponyboy sure doesn't miss it, even in the thick of it.

"C'mon," Two-Bit stands up almost the instant Darry is gone, "I need to get you kiddies to school."

A groan rises up from Ponyboy's throat, and Johnny's too. Jerry and his wife laugh.

They all stand up together, heading to the parking lot. Ponyboy looks back at the diner — Soda and Steve seem to be talking, Steve shaking his head while Soda speaks. His gaze lingers before he turns back to see Jerry holding his hands with his wife. "We're heading back to Broken Arrow — We just want to say good luck. Don't lose our number."

"If you ever need help, please, call," Sabrina says, her voice cheery and warm — enough that Ponyboy can feel himself thinking of her and his mother, what they could say to each other. "We'll be thinking about you guys, keeping you in our prayers and checking the news."

Prayers? Ponyboy thinks of the burning church and tries to swallow down some of the anxiousness. They were good people, and they cared about him and Ponyboy finds himself shaking both of their hands, not minding it when he's drawn into a brief hug. The same goes for Johnny, and when they slip into Two-Bit's car, none of them talk. It feels so strange to just drive to school with the radio playing, Two-Bit not even cracking jokes.

That was the way of things now, though. The future was changed for all of them, and it always would be.

He knows it as he steps into the hallway with Johnny and Two-Bit. They aren't like the rest of their peers anymore, and haven't been in a long time. It feels something like... acceptance in the moment as they make their way to their classrooms, the looks they're being given the same cutting, same curious, same judgemental ones as before.

Just now, with all of it done, Ponyboy feels different from the rest.

They all had to worry about college, about pleasing their parents, about jobs they could either work one summer without breaking a sweat or jobs their parents could just hand to them, easy as pie.

He has to worry about a judge's decision, and all of that was in the background and would stay there for as long as Judge Cross wanted it. He has to think about two separate paths now, in a way he hasn't before, and he has to think not about the homecoming that had been canceled weeks before or the Thanksgiving holiday everyone was shifting to talk about now.

They'd always have those Thanksgivings coming, always have the guarantee of next year's homecoming or, hell, prom in the spring.

As he takes his papers, as he tries to focus on the blackboard in front of him, he can't just think about that. The guarantee of it all is now firmly up in the air.

That's when the thought crosses his mind that Ponyboy doesn't feel like a little kid anymore. And maybe he never would feel that way again.

It's cold, the lights are on, and Ponyboy pounds his feet against the track. That feeling from the afternoon, that he was no longer really a child anymore persists as he goes around the track. For as much as he was behind, he was slowly catching up to where he'd been before, running at an even pace, his mind whirring on itself.

Most of his track teammates avoided him now — half, he thinks, because the last time they'd seen him he really had been as frightening as Dallas and half because now that the trial was more or less over for most, words were flying at an even thicker pace than before. Some of the things he'd heard in snatches weren't exactly flattering, and the words that were made his stomach turn.

I think that Soc deserved it.

I bet he enjoyed doing it.

Who wanted to be known as a murderer?

Sweat slides down his face. The freshman in front of him tries to outrun him and Ponyboy runs faster, faster. Runs as if Bob was pacing behind him, blood thick in the air. Runs as if Johnny is in the church, screaming for help. Runs as if he were in the countryside again, with no greasers, no Socs.

He runs, and runs until the Coach blows his whistle and Ponyboy finds himself slowing down, sweat sliding down his neck, every part of him sore and on fire all at once. There's a slight ringing in his ears, unable to concentrate on his Coach's words, just knowing the way his lips formed the word Water. Ponyboy obliges him, taking a pull from the water they have on the field, guzzling it down cold. Some of it seeps down his lips, his chin and neck, and when he goes back to where his teammates are huddled, he doesn't feel bothered by their lowered eyes, by the cower of some of their scents.

Ponyboy just stands there, aching, wanting more water as his Coach keeps talking saying things like Practice went well and We'll have this team in shape by Spring. Normally, he'd care about the competitiveness of it all, about winning, but tonight he just feels the stinging cold air, the slight ringing in his ears and not much else.

Why would he care about Spring? He might be here, he might be in a reformatory with Curly Shepard or Bear. Why did he care about winning when he might be dodging aggressive alphas in some bricked up school or a foster home he hated?

Ponyboy wipes at his hair, trying to focus on his coach and failing — behind his Coach's bigger form, Ponyboy can see Dallas in the stands, leaning back in his white shirt and jeans. He looks pleased to see Ponyboy, and Ponyboy can see he's already gotten his things from the locker room, including the brown sheepskin jacket Ponyboy so loved.

When Coach gives the signal that everything is over for the night, Ponyboy doesn't head towards the locker room with the rest of his teammates. He just walks across the grass, going up the steps in the stand, ignoring the sight of his teammates practically fleeing to the showers.

All that matters is Dallas, with a look on his face that Ponyboy would've once read as dangerous and now understands is interested, is wanting.

There's no words spoken as he approaches, just him sliding between Dallas' legs, his hand on Dallas' pale cheek, Dallas' feral scent mixing with his, and their lips connecting beneath the lights. Dallas just floods his senses all at once, the feel of his arms, the taste of his mouth, the feeling of his skin on Ponyboy's own.

A part of him knows that he shouldn't be doing this in front of everyone — and the rest of him, the part that loved Dallas, that didn't want to be here, the part of him that had mated Dallas in a moment of trust, doesn't care. All at once, Ponyboy is seized by the thought that he needs Dallas now.

"Out here?" Dallas says, his voice rough, his hand grasping Ponyboy's hips — once again, Ponyboy had spoken his thoughts aloud without meaning to. "You ain't gonna like getting knotted in this cold weather." There's a rumble in his chest and Ponyboy looks at the crook of his neck, where the mating mark is.

It's pale, pink and Ponyboy in answer grasps Dallas' shirt, sinking his teeth into the pale column of his neck as hard as he can.

Instantly, his senses are plunged into a frenzy: his nostrils inhaling Dallas' scent, his teeth able to sink so hard into his supple skin, the taste of slight salty sweat on Dallas' skin invading his tongue, and the feeling in his own neck, the back of his senses of his bond responding to the contact. A wash of fever, of need roils over him; he knows Dallas can feel it too, how their bodies seem to connect all in that one instant. There's no distance between them, no real thing standing between them as long as Ponyboy's omegan, sharp teeth are connected to Dallas' mating mark. There's no Dallas and Ponyboy for a moment — just DallasandPonyboy there, locked together, body to body in one solid line.

Then he lets go, feeling cold air seep into his mouth. Dallas lets out a groan, that feverish feeling wavers and before he can say anything more, Ponyboy opens his mouth and bites down again, his hips rocking, meeting Dallas' own. That electric fever peeks up again, the need for more flaring up again, and all of the world narrows it down to the interplay of Dallas' neck caught up so fiercely in Ponyboy's teeth.

Dallas' hand grasps his hair, his legs spread and he snarls out, "That all?"

Ponyboy opens his mouth and bites down again at the challenge, enough that a slight taste of blood bursts against the roof of his mouth. He can feel how hard Dallas is when he bucks up against him, he can smell the scent of his own sweat and slick, and Ponyboy fully straddles Dallas, breathing hard as they start to buck up against each other.

The cold doesn't matter as they start to move against each other, Dallas' head tipped back — prey, bared to predator above that Ponyboy felt now, the planes of his chest obvious against Ponyboy's wandering hands.

Nothing matters more than this, than the feeling of Ponyboy biting down harder, the taste of blood growing, Dallas' hand slipping behind Ponyboy's jeans, and his fingers pushing against his slick drenched hole.

They both forget the rest of the world then, just moaning, panting, biting, and biting, hips working, the sound of a zipper hardly heard. What is there to think?

There's only the taste of Dallas' blood in his mouth, the scent of his slick everywhere, the groan he lets out when Dallas fingers him shallowly, and the warmth of Dallas' cock around his fingers when he shoves his hand into Dallas' boxers. It's Dallas who provides some slick, his warm hand wrapping around Ponyboy's, pumping his cock as Ponyboy continues to bite him over, and over, tearing more and more at Dallas' neck.

He can't stop. He can't stop, he needs —

He needs more. He needs Dallas, he needs his mate —

It's not Ponyboy who orgasms first, who's cries out and snarls in the cold air. It's Dallas who does, cum spilling out over his and Ponyboy's hands, it's him who shudders and looks fucked out, and it's him who has blood slipping down his neck, pooling against his clavicles.

It's him who drags Ponyboy down for a kiss, and it's him who licks at the blood in Ponyboy's neck, in his mouth and Ponyboy loves it, loves him.

Dallas tastes like blood when they kiss, huffing out when Ponyboy pulls away, "Now I gotta drive with this knot making a mess."

"S'not my fault you ain't like other alphas and you gotta knot every time," Ponyboy grins back, settling himself on the stand, lifting up his hand to lick at the cum there, enjoying the taste. Dallas' dark eyes follow his tongue, clearly wanting. "You could always just let me play with you 'til it goes down. Just like we did at the hotel."

There's a look of contemplation on Dallas' face at that — a beautiful one. His face is still flushed pink from his orgasm, his hair half lifting in the cold air, the lights making his eyes look even darker than ever, the shadows falling across his face that Ponyboy wished he could get down in a few dark lines. The shirt he wore was clearly stressed at the seams from the pulling, his neck dark and still blood seeping out from the mating mark.

The dark thatch of pubic hair peeking out of his jeans makes Ponyboy slick up almost as much of the sight of his cock does: there's still cum spilling out of it, staining Dallas' jeans, pooling in the fabric of his boxers.

Dallas licks at his lips, cocking his head. "I don't know. I don't like giving out free shows to little perverts out here." He flicks his eyes to the side, clearly scenting someone on their way. Heat rises up on Ponyboy's face, and Dallas gives a sharp laugh.

The house is quiet that night, the mood different. Some of the tension is gone when they sit down for dinner, Darry setting out food for them all the way he had for awhile now. The television is on and Soda is smiling as he passes around the bowel of mashed potatoes for them.

It just isn't the same. No one had come over that night for cards or to talk or shoot the shit or anything. Ponyboy was sure they hadn't gone to the bonfire either — he'd spotted Mrs. Mathews' car at her house and the lights were on. Steve's car was at his own house too, and the streets had seemed quieter that night.

Even, after dinner is over and he's gone to his bedroom with Dallas, the wild dogs that roamed the streets were oddly quiet that night. It was as if everyone had taken the last breath before the big plunge, the calm before the storm.

He voices those thoughts, curled up against Dallas in the darkness. Ponyboy had been wanting to do more than just kiss again, wanted Dallas to pin him down, fuck him as hard as he could, as much as he wanted. And instead, he clings to Dallas, saying, "What can we do now?"

"We gotta just wait it out," Dallas runs his fingers through Ponyboy's hair, the blonde that he still wishes he didn't have anymore. The thought to call Evie, take up her offer comes up. "We ain't gonna hear anything 'til after Thanksgiving."

Ponyboy shuts his eyes, trying not to think of the church, of how much he wanted to run back there, how much he wanted to be wrapped up in those old dreams, thinking that nothing outside of the church was real. Everything was deeply, painfully real now, Dallas evidence of it all as he keeps stroking Ponyboy's hair.

He wants to say, I don't know how.

Instead, exhaustion, the warmth and safety of Dallas' arms, all work together to put him under a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

"Mr. Curtis, please see me after class," Mr. Syme says as he places Ponyboy's quiz down in front of him, face down. Shit, that wasn't good.

Ponyboy feels dread creeping up his spine as Mr. Syme continues to pass back the quizzes to everyone. The looks he's getting from other students vary from amused to concerned — pity, really. Being in an honors class did that and as soon as Mr. Syme gets to the front of the class, Ponyboy peeks at his paper.

A B- stares up at him.

Instantly, he can hear Darry's voice echoing in his mind: A B-? You can't even get a damn B, Pony? and he feels exhausted at the thought already. There were other things to worry about than a B- and Darry's wrath. He slumps into his seat, not looking forward to how this was going to go.

Everything was still going on as if there wasn't any decision to be made, their lives grinding onward. It had been a week and change since Jerry and his wife had left, and things had churned on in Tulsa. Ponyboy had been trying to go to class, to be normal, and have his life go forward.

It just seems strange now — walking down hallways where people would peer at him at times or mutter about him being a killer; having to sit in class with people who would scoot away from him in some classes while others they would get closer to protect him; running at his track meet, over and over, and not ever knowing how his teammates or his coach felt about him; going home to it empty because Dallas, Darry, and Soda were all working more, waiting for the worst; waking up in the middle of the night to Dallas wrapped around him, his nose buried in his hair, his hand on his waist.

All while waiting. Sometimes he makes his way out to the bonfire, sometimes he finds himself in the lot with Johnny playing a half-hearted game of poker (at this rate, his college tuition was going to Johnny, if he ever even got to college), sometimes he finds himself wandering to Buck's, waiting for Dallas to come back.

Today, he doesn't know how he's going to take what Mr. Syme has to say. He'd studied for that test as best as he had been able to. Anyone else on their blog, they'd be whopping and hollering out of happiness at a B-. Johnny had made a C+ last week, and Ponyboy had been ecstatic for him. A B- would've had Johnny on the moon.

For him, he knows what he's in for: a lecture at best and an argument at the worst.

It's hard for him to concentrate on the rest of class, and when the bell rings, Ponyboy almost considers diving out of the door where Syme couldn't see. Instead, he trudges his way up to the desk, feeling sullen and ashamed as he looks at Mr. Syme and his serious eyes and glasses.

"I know I did lousy," he says, his voice low, shame swooping through him, "I've just been — there's been a lot going on for me."

"I'm rather sympathetic to your plight, Mr. Curtis," Mr. Syme replies, tapping his pencil on the table, "I taught your brothers, and I have to say that as bright as Darrel was, you're lightyears ahead of him when you apply yourself. He always was able to complete an assignment, but you have always been able to understand the heart of what I've given you." Mixed emotions well up in Ponyboy's chest, pride mixing with an even sharper feeling of embarrassment that he hadn't done better, that he'd been so distracted. "I miss that version of you, Mr. Curtis. So I'm going to give you some grace here: if you get here every morning early, for a thirty minute catch up session with your homework, whether it be for my class or anyone else's, you'll pass this semester. By the time the Christmas season is done, your head will be on straight for Spring. Do we have a deal?"

Ponyboy looks surprised. "For my other classes?"

"More people are rooting for you than you think," Mr. Syme says, offering his hand. "Deal? This is a one time thing."

There's a kindness in his face that Ponyboy hadn't noticed before; maybe because he wasn't looking for it, maybe because he didn't know how. He takes Syme's hand, shakes it. "Sure, Mr. Syme. I'll be here tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Oh, no," Mr. Syme gives a half laugh, shaking Ponyboy's hand, "It's Wednesday tomorrow. I won't be in, seeing as my family will be here early for Thanksgiving. I'll see you bright and early on Monday."

Dammit, he really was getting so spacey. Ponyboy nods. "Okay. See you Monday, Mr. Syme." He keeps his eyes on him, feeling his ears turn a little pink. "Thanks, though. For — for looking out for me."

"We all need someone to look out for us," Mr. Syme says simply.

Ponyboy doesn't respond to that, just nods, picks up his bag and exits the classroom, knowing that if – if this all went well, he didn't want to let his teacher down. Not when he was that kind.

Two-Bit looks at the trunk, and then back to Dallas. "You're packing for your little wedding shindig without a date on the table?"

"It ain't much," argues Dallas back, peering down. "It's just some money, Pony's papers in case someone asks, and some clothes. Ain't bad." He knows that Two-Bit has concerns here, and Dallas can't blame him as he moves the duffel bag to the side. Not what he envisioned, really, when thinking about weddings.

Not that he had thought about it much. The idea someone would want to marry him was almost as remote as the thought that someone would've wanted to mate him, the ideas mostly incoherent, hazy in his brain. A white dress maybe, suits. Cake that he didn't want.

An elopement wasn't something he'd thought of, Dallas snapping the trunk shut in the parking lot of Buck's. The trees have turned overnight to scrags barely retaining their red and orange leaves, the dusk making them sway in the slight wind. The sign above Buck's glows brightly, Dallas rolling his shoulders. "It's all we need if we're going down there real quick and come right back."

Two-Bit takes a swig of his beer, leaning against the car. "You don't think you could ask Ponyboy about it? All sneaky like?" His eyebrows cock up and down in that cartoonish way he likes so much and Dallas sucks at his teeth. "I mean, it's his first wedding too. I'm sure he's had his own ideas about it."

"Yeah, and if he figures it out before we're ready, he could freak out, and his brothers might find out," Dallas points out, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket. "He can't afford that." Just the thought of Darry finding out makes Dallas' instincts go on edge in response. "I already picked out where I'm gonna talk to him, I got this under control, Two."

Two-Bit's thumb runs around the ring of the beer he's got, his hair waving in the wind. He takes a deep breath. "So it's really just gonna be us three when this happens?" Dallas gives a sharp nod and Two-Bit lets out a high, hyena like laugh. "Hoo, buddy. If Darry ever finds out, I'm not going to Texas — I'm going all the way to Canada before he can tan my hide."

Dallas laughs with him. Two-Bit gives a toast to him, peeling away from the car. "You got the list of food my Mama gave you?"

"Yeah, I got it. Don't know why she didn't give your lazy ass the list," he grumbles, moving to the driver's side. Two-Bit laughs again when Dallas adds, "Probably it's the lazy part."

"I can't help I'm not that great at chores!" Two-Bit slides into the passenger side, and Dallas rolls his eyes, puts the key in the ignition and peels out of the parking lot. The lights flash on, illuminating the dark strip of road, guiding him towards the inner part of Tulsa where the grocery store was. "Sides, if she don't make nothin', I can always come over to the Curtises as usual."

"Darry can't cook turkey for shit," he flicks on the radio, and Two-Bit lets out another laugh.

"I bit into what he had a year ago, tasted like he'd been trying to change my tires, not feed me a bird!" Two-Bit reminds him, and Dallas has to crack a smile at it. Mr. Curtis had let Darry do a little more around the house the year before; Mrs. Curtis had injured her hand at work, and hadn't been feeling well. She'd been exhausted that entire time, but like usual she'd insisted that every greaser on the block she could feed, come.

So Dallas had come himself, and the look Mr. Curtis had at the table was polite for all of three seconds. "Mr. Curtis looked like he was eating war rations," Dallas recalls, the way the man's eyebrows had gone up, the grimace on his face. Dallas hadn't wanted the turkey in the first place, always opting for ham or the occasional steak that might pop up whenever turkey couldn't be gotten. "Then he started laughing and it was fuckin' done with. I don't think anyone touched that turkey after that."

The car heads towards the center of Tulsa, until Dallas finds the parking lot for Betty's. It's not that busy at this time of day, and Dallas heads out with Two-Bit, walking towards it together. For all of his remarks previously, Two-Bit doesn't seem too bothered to grab a basket, and get working down the list together. The grocery store slowly fills up with people shopping, all of them hell bent on getting prepared for Thanksgiving. The more scents that mingle, the more the fluorescent lights seem to bear down on Dallas, trying not to feel distracted as they move along, needing to get to the bottom of the list Mrs. Mathews and Darry had given them.

The cart gets filled up well, the food stacked up as neatly as Dallas can make it, lining up the sides with the cans they needed, the eggs, the potatoes, the duck. They all get put in, and once they're done, they make their way to the front of the store where a scent hits Dallas' nose he hadn't counted on: Randy's.

The English Leather hits him first, with Two-Bit picking up the scent himself, both of them turning their heads to see. He's at the other end of the store, pushing a cart alongside a man who's tall, skinny looking and clearly his father with the dour look on his face. Dallas and Two-Bit are too far away, the grocery store is too crowded for them to pick up on the words yet it seems very clear Randy is being lectured.

On what, Dallas could guess. It would be just like a Soc to have his father drag him to the place where poorer people were to teach him some kind of lesson. He pushes his cart forward, seeing Randy turn and say something to his father, clearly annoyed.

Good.

The thought crosses his mind though, to do something he'd been resisting doing.

The trial was over now, though.

He glances over at Two-Bit, and Two-Bit seems to pick up on his thought.

They both share grins and Two-Bit pats his pocket with his switchblade.

"No turkey?" Ponyboy asks, helping bring in the bags from the car, his cigarette smoke mixing with the coldness of his breath.

"Mrs. Mathews didn't want to make one and were you really gonna trust Darry after last year?" Dallas responds, coming past Ponyboy to get inside. Soda is already putting up the beer that Two-Bit brought in first, lining the fridge with them as best he can. "They're splitting everything so it was up to them."

Ponyboy doesn't protest that; at least it'd be something. "What did ya'll get instead?"

"Coupl'a Cornish hens, some steak, and a duck," the bags get set down on the table, while Two-Bit moves between them to flick on the television. Ponyboy doesn't bother to call him a lazy bum; wouldn't do anything as he goes past the living room and back to the car.

The air is cold enough that he's shivering as soon as it hits his skin again, moving faster to the back of the car. There are a few more bags there — and tucked in the corner, a black duffel bag that he hadn't seen before. Ponyboy gives it a curious look, wanting to peek in before he thinks better of it. That could be the whisky that Buck had Dallas transport, and there wasn't any way he should be peeking in there.

So he leaves it alone, shutting the trunk as he brings in the rest of the groceries up the steps to his house and then to the kitchen. Moments later, he can hear the sputter of Darry's car filling the air, then the engine gets cut off. He and Dallas work with Soda to put the food in the fridge as best they can, Ponyboy starting to feel a flicker of excitement at the food. If there was a time of year he knew that he'd have excellent food at home, no matter what, it was Thanksgiving and Christmas. Sometimes, his Dad had gotten a turkey from his job as a thanks on those holidays, and sometimes his Mama was bringing in extra money for all the holiday stuff.

No matter what, they always tried to give them good holidays at the end of the year, with good desserts, good food, company.

Unbidden, sadness creeps into his thoughts, at the reminder.

It was going to be their first Thanksgiving without their parents, the first time they'd sit at the table without his Mama's turkey or his Dad's chocolate pie. There would be no faraway cousins at the table — they'd never responded after his Dad died and Mama didn't have anyone in the first place. There would be none of the usual, and that makes him quieter than usual as Darry rushes in, going to his room and slamming the door after him.

But...

Ponyboy puts some canned cranberry sauce in the side pantry they have. It could also be his last one, ever, breathing free air. A worry he didn't have last year either.

Fuck.

"Hey," Soda's suddenly there beside him, his hand on Ponyboy's neck. He must've scented the distress, and come as quick as he can, his arm slinging around Ponyboy's shoulders. "We got more of that, I promise."

In his gaze, Ponyboy can see those same thoughts, those same worries. He chooses to give Soda a half grin around his cigarette. "I think we need at least three cans between us."

Soda smiles back. "They got five, lucky, lucky!"

In the kitchen, Ponyboy can hear something slam, and Dallas saying, "I think you guys are full. I'll put the rest in Mrs. Mathews' extra fridge."

The door opens to Darry's room, and he strides out, wiping his hands. "Just leave the receipt on the counter, I'll pay my half to you. I actually went up there to get one or two things I missed, you mind getting them out of the car for me?"

"Sure, sure," Dallas waves him off. "How much did you forget?"

"The goddamn sweet potatoes," going to the cabinets, Darry pulls one open, Soda and Pony going back to putting away the cans. "I had to go get 'em before everyone else did. It was a mess out there." Ponyboy goes to fetch more from the bag, able to see Darry flicking on the faucet to run water in a cup he has, Dallas shrugging on his jacket again, "Some guy was in the parking lot, pissed cause someone had slashed his tires. He was arguing with the owner about it, caused a ruckus."

Darry doesn't see what Ponyboy sees: Dallas and Two-Bit exchanging sharp, pleased looks.