this fic is set in a world where the events of the novel have changed. additionally and the more important part is this is set in an omegaverse/abo universe. in my setting, i tend to lean a bit more on werewolf tropes and such, as you'll see through out this. and because i know some people like dynamics spelled out, everyone in the gang save pony, johnny, and soda are alphas; ponyboy and soda are omegas, and johnny was a beta. in addition to this, bob and cherry both are alphas since they do crop up.
this is a pre-slash sort of fic, so nothing explicit. this fic will deal with a lot of interpack dynamics, some body and dynamic issues (particularly on pony's end), complicated family issues, and some mild explorations of self harm.
as with all my fics, this is being mirrored on ao3. however, unlike my other works, i am mirroring this at the same time i am posting on ao3. (or, within a day or two.)
the last time he'd been in this police station, he'd been fourteen years old, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, teeth chattering, the smell of chlorine and blood invading his senses. the air had been tangy with fear, anger, and the people who were there in the early morning, trying to sort out what had happened in the park.
right now, he's thirty-two years old, no longer in a thin cut off sweat shirt, hair hanging in front of his eyes, terrified. he's got a hat pulled down over his head, a gun holstered at his side, and his eyes are watching bob sheldon stride down the hallway, not in handcuffs, but in a crisp suit and a smile that's wide, sharp, and straight. it still makes the hair on his neck stand up to see bob as an adult: to see his perfectly coiffed hair, the wedding ring on his hand, the way his voice rolls out, "marshal curtis. it's good to see you!"
ponyboy straightens up from where he leans on the wall, well aware of the fact that he's in blue jeans in contrast to bob's finely tailored, wide shouldered suit as he extends his hand to shake his. it's the same hand that had taken the knife, had stabbed johnny right in the gut years before. the same hand that had glinted with so many rings that it seemed unreal in the moonlight. "mr. sheldon. nice to see you."
he hopes that the sarcasm isn't as heavy as it is in his head as bob's shit eating grin grows wider, his grip slackening. "come on, marshal. you don't have to call me—"
"i do," ponyboy cuts him off there, the veneer already rubbing itself down. "i'm here on official business, mr. sheldon. so we have to do this properly, don't we?"
bob's smile falters a little. ponyboy withdraws his hand, and bob clears his throat. "yes, you are. come with me — we relocated here temporarily due to our, ah, situation."
ponyboy glances at the old bench, remembering how uncomfortable it felt at fourteen, and then follows bob down the hallway to his office. he knows more than anything that bob doesn't want to be here, but he's right that the situation isn't great. the amount of robberies had escalated hugely in the past few years, and now things were worse than before.
the jail was small, and making a command center here was crowded. ponyboy tenses up as he enters — he knows that everyone can scent him instantly, and even though things have changed recently, he can't help but stiffen as eyes drift over to him. he keeps his head up, following bob through the flurry of people working together. there are faces pinned up at the wall, in a row. many of them he already knows, by run ins or by knowledge of other cases or, worse, because they had been childhood friends. young hoods who became old hoods who became wanted by the state.
bob takes him into the little ramshackle office he's set up. ever the peacock, ponyboy can see the photo he has on the desk of him, his wife, and their children. cherry's hair is as red as ever in the photo, and so's the daughter. bob rolls up his sleeves, gesturing. ponyboy doesn't sit down; bob doesn't know what to do for a moment, before sitting down, some of his smile faltering. "well — i assume i don't have to explain the situation to you, marshal."
"think you do, actually," ponyboy folds his arms, refusing to let bob off the hook so easily. anyone else and he might be a little more polite with them, easier to work with. bob isn't one of those people. "asking for assistance with a fugitive, that's a big thing. means your boys can't catch him, and if your boys can't do it—"
bob pulls open his drawer as ponyboy talks. the glint from his wedding ring makes ponyboy tense up again — and the sight of that same flask from that night, the same scent wafting over to him makes his stomach grow cold. "i know, alright? they're not the best boys in blue, but dammit it p—"
"marshal," ponyboy bites the word out warningly. "you ain't get to call me that, get me?"
the way he says it must make bob reconsider. he's halfway towards opening the flask, and then puts it back in the drawer with a snap. ponyboy holds his own. "we caught curly shepard and a friend of his not too long ago. he gave us valuable information. he got transported to the big mac and on the way here to testify, bus ran into trouble. there was a fight and now we can't account for several people that were on that transport. while they were able to find curly, he's not the one that we're worried about. the person we're really after is dallas winston."
his name drops like a stone between them. it's taken years of work to not think of dallas, to not have to linger on where he went, and now bob sheldon of all people is pulling out a thick folder, and offering it to ponyboy in his office.
his head is swimming for a moment, his hand reaching out as if it doesn't belong to him, to wrap around the folder. bob is saying something — whatever it is it can't be that important with the way he seems to talk faster and faster — and ponyboy is already opening the folder, looking down at dallas' face in black and white, defiant and bloodied and so real.
the years on dallas have been kinder than what he expected. his hair seems to have finally had a cut, an earring had found its way in his ear. in the photo, his lip is split, his eye is swollen shut, and the scowl on his face is fierce, defiant, angry. it's been years and ponyboy can still pick out his sharp, animal like teeth like it was yesterday.
bob's voice only breaks in when his hand knocks at the table, dragging ponyboy out of his stupor. "marshal? you hearing me?"
ponyboy glances up. "no. say it again."
bob looks taken aback for a moment, then sheepishly says, "we expect that dallas fled to texas. that's where his friend is. a keith mathews."
ponyboy bites at the inside of his cheek, nods. "right. well, mr. sheldon, it was good meeting you. i'll call in when we have an update, or when we've caught him." he can see that bob wants to say something more, wants to fill in the silence for a moment. what can he say, though? that he's sorry he stabbed johnny? that he's sorry he moved his hand away from ponyboy's head long enough to let him grasp enough air to survive? that he's upset that he got away with it all?
he's like any other soc, any other alpha with money. ponyboy knows he's probably cheating on cherry, got his fingers in different pies, a pup in two different counties. and still, he knows that it's not entirely bob's fault he's like this. he remembers how his parents had glared at him at the trial, remembers the editorials in the papers praising bob, saying how it was just 'bad luck' for him.
maybe it was. maybe it wasn't.
he turns on his heel, exits.
"it's good to have you here, ponyboy," sodapop smiles at him, gudinging ponyboy into the house. his brother is still good looking, still a notch of sunshine here, and his scent is so sweet, so full of home that it makes ponyboy ache. the house is nice, sprawling to house him, sandy, steve and their kids. ponyboy hugs him close for a moment, following soda to the dining room.
soda sets down the bowl of mashed potatoes as kelly passes by with the peach cobbler that sandy's finished, putting it down on at the very end of the table with a wave that ponyboy returns. sodapop gives ponyboy a searching look, "you sure you're only gonna stay for dinner?"
he hates to disappoint soda like this. he knows he should've just left town, got right to it. instead, he'd come here, seeking a little bit of home before he had to track down dallas and two-bit. "i can't. i got a big case to work on."
it's not exactly a lie.
as steve walks in, wiping some of the oil off of his hands, his scent as offensive as ever, ponyboy takes a drink of the arnold palmer, desperate to give himself a break. going into a station full of people he didn't know was one thing; being here, among pack was another. even if he was unsure if they still thought he was pack anymore, they still were to him. every scent made him want, so badly, to stay. made him want to confess what he's about to do, how insecure he was. wants to talk about the shock of seeing bob sheldon, wants to spill out so many things he's kept to himself.
he knows better to, and if he's going to do this, he has to keep it to himself. it hurts worse, seeing some of the pictures that soda has around of them when they were younger, from before their parents death, to the few photos of them before johnny died and—
a hand tugs at his pant leg. ponyboy glances down, and benny grins up at him, with the little bit of teeth he has. he lifts his arms up, and ponyboy laughs. "you're gettin' too big to be picked up." he reaches down anyway, grasping benny by the middle to hoist him up. he sits the boy on his knee, bouncing him there, grinning down at benny. "how old are you, benny? can't be more than ten, right?"
"no!" benny grins as if it's the funniest thing he's heard in the world. "i'm not that old!"
ponyboy pretends to think about it as steve rolls his eyes — sandy swats at his arm as she comes in with the rest of the food. steve at least takes one of the bowls from her as the sound of a truck pulling in distracts ponyboy. he tenses up despite joking with benny, "hm, are you twelve, then?"
benny pouts, and ponyboy beams. "no! i'm six!" he holds up his fingers as the door swings open. the combined scents wash over pony, sharper than ever and he suppresses a wince, the urge to simply get up and go. he can't though, focusing on benny's face instead of the footsteps that get closer.
"six? are you sure? you're so big!" ponyboy leans down and blows a raspberry into benny's cheek. benny laughs, squirms until ponyboy has to let go, making sure benny doesn't slide off and knock his head against the table as he goes. benny tries to scramble back up, and pony laughs, gently nudging him back down.
he can hear voices in the foyer, and finally, he hears it: "-couldn't come. she's having some problems after the baby." his voice is as firm as ever, and ponyboy feels a douse of cold on him remembering how many times that voice was used on him, remembering the hand that snatched out, the impact of the floor.
benny hears too, turning his head. "uncle darry!"
ponyboy sees him turn his head, and he looks up. standing there, looking surprised and critical is darry. he still looks as tall as ponyboy remembers, as big, and for a moment, they both assess each other from across the room. ponyboy with the hat off, the star on his hip still shining, and scenting like an omega again. the plaid he wore from soda, the grey in his hair in contrasts to darry's still untouched hair, his ice cold eyes, the workboots he still wore even if he didn't have to anymore.
benny toddles over to his larger form; ponyboy knows darry. he knows darry wouldn't hurt benny the way he had all those nights ago, and yet he still feels himself lock his jaw, watching carefully.
some things refused to change.
"you're getting big, aren't you?" darry looks down at benny. ponyboy straightens up, and decides that he won't be the one to break the ice. he'll make darry do it.
he still won't give him much of an opportunity, busying himself as everyone descends on the table. he sits wedged between sandy on one side, kelly on the other. soda is opposite him, darry at soda's elbow, steve on the other side. benny and his sister, jet, are at opposite ends of the table.
the conversation is lively enough, but between every ebb, ponyboy finds himself cataloging the difference in his brothers: soda's hair showing only hints of grey, the lines at his eyes; darry still rippling muscle, the way he gets into deep conversation with steve; the callouses on darry's hands; the fineness of soda's fingers when he wiggles his fingers at kelly to tease her.
he wants just one thing: to leave before darry can corner him.
when he excuses himself to take a smoke, he makes sure to take his hat with him. darry's eyes track him, and cold slips down ponyboy's spine. he wonders if darry remembers that night as vividly as he does, he wonders if darry regrets what he's done, what happened afterwards.
he wants to tell them that he's having to hunt their old friends.
instead, when a shout goes up, he writes a hasty note, and leaves, like a coward.
he spends time in the hotel reading over the extensive file he has. dallas' rap sheet is twice as long as it had been at seventeen ranging from petty theft to various assaults that are mercifully simply confined to physical violence and nothing worse than that. he can see that he's been in confinement with some of the worst restraints he's ever seen on someone. it's obvious that he's an alpha who hasn't exactly been in the best shape in a long, long time.
it aches in him to know this.
he can't rightly remember it, when he realized that dallas had simply taken off. that entire time was so hard to think about, the memories falling in one another without end, most of them hard to even untangle. he only remembers the quiet whispers, the news that dallas had gone to jail and then the days that stretched into weeks into months. the rumors he'd missed, the news he hadn't been able to comprehend, mind too occupied with nightmares of bob's hand covered in blood, the glint of the moonlight on his rings, johnny's gasping breaths mixing with his own.
ponyboy scrubs at his face, shuts his eyes. he wants this to be easy, simple. he wants dallas to simply be the scary kid he was at seventeen, a young hood now an old hood. except looking at the photo…
he can see that old dallas in there. he can see the dallas he knew as a teenager, staring up at him beneath the simmering anger. for all the work he'd done over the years to become a marshal, for all the work he'd done to distance himself from home, from his dynamic even, looking at his face brings it all rushing back, the memories of the theater, all of it.
his sleep is hardly any better, plagued by those old dreams of glinting rings, of struggling in water and a sudden release, the smell of chlorine. he wakes up tired, wishing for his bed with soda, wishing that he could just take the suppressants on the counter to tamp down on some of the emotions, wishing that all of this didn't feel so goddamn inevitable.
instead, he showers, he brushes his teeth. remembers the doctor telling him that if he kept up this routine with the suppressants, he'd end up with a disorder and not wanting to risk it. he gets dressed, looks over all the information bob gave him, and begins to formulate a plan.
gainesville is his best bet, from the intel that he has. it's further out, but it's the last place that anyone remembers that dallas had a solid connection to, so ponyboy hits the road. it's a three hour long drive; he spends most of the time listening to the radio, annoyed that the only station playing elvis is one that labels it as an "oldie" while the rest of the radio, he has to admit, isn't that bad. as the stations shift, becoming more country music than anything else, he opts to shut it off entirely. crossing into texas is dustier than he anticipated, and the summer makes the car swelter. it's at least better than being home, or in water.
he reaches the general area of gainesville, checks into a hotel, and gives himself the rest of the day to rest. it's a clean, nice hotel. he doesn't alert them that he's a marshal, finding it simpler to just check in, ease out of his shoes, and lay down on the bed. it's stiff, the sheets clean and new, and devotes the rest of the day not to dallas' portrait in the case file, but to a book.
it's something he picked up over a month ago, having put it in the back of the car and hadn't had time to get back to: my sweet audrina. it's not the first time he's read something by this author; it consumes the rest of his day, reading every word from it, enjoying it for the strange, murky ride it is. dinner is spent with the television on low, enjoying the small bag of food he'd gotten.
this was the harder part, he knew that was coming up. actually looking for dallas and two-bit. people were going to be tight lipped around a marshal sniffing around; and taking the approach that he wasn't a marshal would only do him so much. and worse was the fact that ponyboy knew two-bit and dallas both. he wasn't on suppressants now; they'd scent him quick and easy.
it would be one thing to have to lean on his badge. but it was another to sift through childhood memories, no longer as rosy gold as they were, and decide what to do. he wasn't totally heartless; he still had, for years, thought about them. had still thought how alone he'd felt, coming out of the stupor of johnny's death to realize dallas had simply left town. how in a year, two-bit seemed to follow after. how he had blamed himself, night after night, for not being able to protect johnny, how he had wondered if he'd broken up the pack because he had failed johnny so badly, because he had been the reason those socs jumped him.
everytime he thought he had outrun the past, it came roaring back.
everytime it does, ponyboy knows more and more that he's not like others. he knows if anyone else in this position were here, they'd manipulate, push. use the badge to assert themselves. he knew, the instant he'd looked at dallas' face that he didn't want this to end in a gun battle or anger. he'd known that his heart wasn't so hard that he didn't think about so many hoods, so many boys he'd known over the decades who he'd had to corner to bring in. he had, after all, become a marshal because of the violence around him, for the lives around him.
and here he was, staring it in the face.
so he starts hunting as best he can, the badge tucked away, the gun tucked behind his belt. he has to find them, and he has to do it in a way that won't hurt any of them.
he hopes it can be done.
like any good hunt, it takes a full three days for ponyboy to locate two-bit. he makes himself look like any other roughneck: leaves the hat soda left him at the hotel, puts on some older flannel and jeans, and tries for the roughest haunts he can look for. it's easier here than in tulsa, to blend in; texas has more omegas than tulsa has which he can only be grateful for. in tulsa, there were still ten alphas to every omega, and here, he could see it was just about even. there are work crews, bars, hotels, and ponyboy drifts through them as best as he can.
it's funny, to remember little things in the moment. remembering two-bit's favorite beer, his preferred songs, the way he laughed. some of those memories had faded in the years, become duller, but in the middle of a bar on a saturday night, aching from some of the work he'd done, hearing two-bit's laugh descend on him feels more like a homecoming than he anticipates. it settles down on his skin in that familiar way that he can remember two-bit cocking his eyebrows at him as a joke, the way he remembers his rusty sideburns and the way he always seemed to simply know things pony didn't understand at the time.
carefully, he turns his head, towards the back of the bar. he holds his breath — and holds tighter to the glass of water he has as he looks at him. two-bit doesn't look bad; he's a little stockier, muscles firmer. his hair is cut a bit shorter than what ponyboy remembers, sideburns now connecting to a beard. he still has the same laugh, just a little deeper from time.
ponyboy keeps an eye on him as he walks through the bar. he's still a legendary drinker it seems like; he still can't make heads or tails if he's drunk or not. judging by the cheers when he goes for another round, though, it doesn't matter. he's known to them all, and he's buying more and more drinks for everyone.
quickly, ponyboy leans closer to the bar, tries not to be noticed. it works as two-bit walks by, the cheers going up as he goes. he drinks his water, keeps trying not to catalog differences just yet; the night's fairly early as it was.
he takes his time, then, making sure to drift through the bar, to keep unnoticed. two-bit is the person he needs to keep an eye out for, and as the night goes on, he watches as two-bit finally makes his way out of the front door and into the night. he counts to twenty — and then, dips out himself.
he walks out just in time to see two-bit climb walk down a road. ponyboy knows then that he's drunk; he never drove whenever he was drunk, always preferring to walk no matter how long the distance. ponyboy watches as he goes, tracking his movements. he takes down the streets two-bit walks down, turns, and once he's out of sight, ponyboy goes back to where he's parked his own car.
the itch to just get it done, to just get in the car, follow two-bit home was urgent, to try and just rip a bandaid off. the rest of him, however, remembers two-bit's cracks, his grins, and sticks to his guns: no violence.
he goes back to the hotel, chewing on his lip as he goes. the bed is cold when he lies in it, still thinking about how to approach this, how to not mess it all up (again).
sleep comes. he wakes up in the middle of night, covered in cold sweat, the memory of chlorine heavy on his tongue, gasping lungfuls of air. the sheets are tangled around him, and when he finally realizes where he is, he can only be grateful that his throat wasn't sore, that the nightmare hadn't been that bad.
two-bit's place is impressive enough, well to do. two stories, the front a dark green, but in need of some repairs. he has to be renting it. there's a fence out back, the sound of a dog, and ponyboy, walking up the front door can clearly scent dallas. he's been around here for some time, and just the reminder of his scent, however faint it is, makes his hand shake a little, makes the memories surface up more, the photo from before vivid in his mind.
he glances up at the windows; he knows two should be home about now. dallas, however, was the variable he couldn't quite account for. he lifts his hand to ring the doorbell, intent on trying to get this over with, to get the hard part done with.
except a sound reaches his ears: the sound of a twig snapping to the right of him; he turns his head, trying to account for it. ponyboy sees nothing in the underbrush, no animal he can rightfully account for, nothing suspicious. it still makes the hairs on his neck stand up, hand going up to ring the doorbell. it rings, and he lifts his knuckle, to rap on the door, pulse racing. "anyone in?"
there's a scrape inside he can hear, the faint sound of a voice. it's two-bit's, he knows, and unwilling to make himself sound hostile, to make no sudden moves, ponyboy gives him a full minute of a wait. he doesn't get til forty five seconds; the door swings open, and standing there, squinting is two-bit. he looks shocked to see ponyboy there; their height difference is a little less pronounced than what it was when ponyboy was fourteen, and up close, ponyboy can tell that he's showered sloppily. it's not enough to complete wash away dallas' scent, but he doesn't make a remark as two-bit's face splits into a smile. "jesus christ— ponyboy? that really you?"
"sure is," ponyboy can't help it, smiling back at two-bit, genuinely glad to see him again. he's not sure what he looks like to two-bit in his view, with his hair still long but not slicked back the same, in jeans and a shirt, looking like just about anyone else. he doesn't have time to linger on things, offering a hand. "how you doing, two-bit?"
two-bit grasps his hand and pulls him in close as he can. it's overwhelming for a moment, to be pressed against him, to inhale the smell of his scent, of fresh soap and faintly dallas. two-bit was stocky when they were kids, but it's nothing compared to how he feels now. he holds on, squeezing, until two-bit pulls back with a laugh, messing up ponyboy's hair like he's fourteen again. "me? boy howdy kid, you got tall for an omega!" he looks ponyboy up and down, and ponyboy swats at his hand like he used to. "jesus christ, you even grew a beard—"
"two—" ponyboy laughs, trying to dodge two-bit's calloused hands as his facial hair is tugged at. "c'mon, of course—"
"and you're graying? ain't you younger than me?" two-bit teases, laugh bubbling up in his throat. "the hell you been doing that got you looking like an old man?"
ponyboy snorts, pushing back. he's aware that two-bit is taking up the doorway, clearly blocking it from view. "oh, if i'm old, what's that make you, exactly? ancient?" two-bit chuckles, and ponyboy shakes his head. "sorry to drop in on you like this, two. i was just passing through, had to make a pit stop the other night and funny— i hear that same ol' laugh you had." ponyboy lies smooth here, and it works, two-bit not prodding further. "i had to go poking around and well. didn't figure you'd stop here."
"well, i wasn't planning on staying in gainesville, really," two-bit leans against the door, and ponyboy still can't get a good look inside. "happened to come in, get some good work and the work ain't dry up." two-bit looks ponyboy up and down then, probably wondering about some of the same things he was, about the time between them, about the things they hadn't said, about the differences. "hell you in texas for, ponyboy? i thought you'd go to college, end up in some big ol' city in the arms of some alpha that talks to you about quantum—"
ponyboy hears the scrape, the lope of legs before two-bit does. it's only a millisecond of difference though, before the door that two-bit has put effort into blocking is swung wide open, and over two-bit's shoulder is dallas, eyes dark, mouth turned into a scowl. the picture doesn't do reality justice: he's got a scar down the side of his lips and at the corner of his mouth; his hair is down to his shoulders, with some debris in it; and he's about as tall as darry, even if he's only a little more barrel-chested than what he'd been as a teenager. the force that he's opened the door with is more than it ought to be, and when he opens his mouth, his voice scrapes the bottom of his register, each word bitten off harshly, "stop fucking around." he fixes his eyes on ponyboy, nose flaring with the catch of his scent. "let him in."
there's a rush of blood in his ears looking at dallas. having him suddenly in color, vibrant and menacing as he pushes past two-bit to stare down ponyboy on the sun drenched porch. neither of them are teenagers anymore, connected by a gang, members of the same pack, yet when dallas moves pasts two-bit's concerned protests to grasp ponyboy's hair in a rough grip, he feels like they've been flung into the past. his teeth are in such sharp, white relief that ponyboy remembers with sudden aching clarity how he used to sketch him often, how he used to look forward to these moods to simply get their vividness on paper — and how it always felt as if he couldn't. it takes everything in him to remember his training, remember that dallas was more feral than not. he can even see freshly scabbed skin and old scars both on dallas' cheeks from old muzzles that must've been so tight they bit into flesh.
"dally," ponyboy says his name quiet, calming as he can. he's always been out of practice with his own pheromones, always so unsure of how to use them. here and now, though, he wills it to work, tries to rely on it in a way he never has in the past.
dallas squints down at him, a growl low in his throat as he leans over ponyboy. where ponyboy isn't sure if his pheromones have any affect, he's very sure that dallas' do: he can feel himself tense up for a moment, that flare of instinct in his gut telling him that he wasn't safe, that maybe he was better off running — only for it to quiet as dallas leans down to his neck, to scent him. his breath fans out warmly against ponyboy's shoulder as he does it, inhaling, breathing out, assuring himself in a way that ponyboy doesn't need to for him.
he knows who dallas is, always has.
ponyboy's eyes focus themselves on dallas' body. on the scars criss crossing his skin, on his ear, on the debris still in his hair that suddenly, badly wants to fix. he lets his body go looser, calmer as dallas growls out, "looking tough, ain't you?" it's quietly distressing for ponyboy to hear how every word seems like he has to bite it out, fight it's way out of dallas' throat.
the rest of him though, as dallas's fingers untable from his hair, can't help but be that kid again, who's quietly pleased that dallas thinks of him as tough, as anything but a scared kid he was then or the unsure adult he is now, unmoored by dallas' presence. "ain't that tough," he says the words, even as he smiles back at dallas, unsure if he should reach out to touch dallas back.
he inhales, to try and steady himself. his senses are, instead, filled with dallas' wild scent, rooting him there to the spot. before he can ask if he can come in, he finds himself being steered in by dallas in a way he'd never let anyone else do. there had been so many people who had laid hands on him, tried to steer him as if he was their omega. dallas' hand isn't quite like theirs, heavy and demanding and unfamiliar. it fills his spot on his his back easily, slotting there like it used to when he was rushing ponyboy into the house or down the lot where they played ball.
ponyboy looks over at two-bit only once — his face pinched for a moment with seriousness, and then nodding as he closes the door behind them all. he's made up his mind with dallas' actions, and ponyboy knows that he has to do all of this carefully, can't let himself get swept up, knowing how this has to end.
and in knowing all that, he makes sure to take a look around, take stock of the situation. there are hardwood floors, a staircase that looks a little worse for wear with a wood banister. the furniture is about ten years out of date, most of it used. he can glance through to the kitchen that looks halfway used, and can hear the sound of a door in the back, creaking with the wind. dallas clearly has been here a few days, even if he's changed out of the prison uniform into something more normal. he's got no shoes on his feet, and when he walks, it's more of a lope.
he has to remind himself: he doesn't know dallas escaped. all they know is that he's had business in town, and neither of them have spoken to his brothers in years. "when did you guys shack up?"
"bout a week ago," two-bit answers as dallas steers ponyboy to the living room proper, hand still on his back. the further in he goes, the more he can see it's a mess: there's the discarded muzzle lying on the floor, some stained clothes in a bundle, the couch has some blood stains on it. it's clear that dallas has set up camp here, allowed by two-bit. he throws himself on the couch, pulling ponyboy with him as he goes.
ponyboy sits on one end of the couch, feeling awkward yet knowing that he can't make any sudden, odd moves yet. he just moves, allows instinct to take over, letting dallas lean on the couch beside him. "a week, huh? you just run into each other? always thought you just… followed each other."
two-bit folds his arms, shrugs. "it's a little more complicated than that, actually." he rakes his eyes over them both, and ponyboy feels himself weighing his options here. that telling them now would throw everything up in the air, get them on the defensive. it could get messy, awful all at once.
he can't weigh it too much when dallas pulls him further, closer to him on the couch. his grip is stronger than it should be, which usually sets off ponyboy's nerves. instead, he's still soothed, keyed into dallas' scent, the feeling that he's supposed to be safe with dallas.
there's an odd look on two-bit's face, though when he looks back up at him: eyebrows drawn together, bottom lip cinched between his teeth. ponyboy wants to be more logical, wants to not have to lie to them, navigates the best he can with, "complicated?"
dallas pulls him closer on the couch, until ponyboy is cleaved at his side, his fingers gripping the back of ponyboy's shirt tightly. there's a moment of silence, where two-bit looks at dallas' face and dallas looks back — ponyboy can't see what expression he makes, only sees two-bit sigh. "how bout this kid: let me make some lunch, get us all settled and we can figure all that out, huh?"
there's a gentleness in his voice that ponyboy isn't sure is for him or for dallas. maybe both. he feels a bit irked to still be called a kid, which must show on his face with how two-bit chuckles. "fine— we can do lunch. what do ya'll got?"
"ain't too sure, i'll look," two-bit peels himself from the door frame, making his way to the kitchen. "don't expect it'll be as fancy as whatever you've had."
ponyboy gives a snort. it doesn't escape his notice that dallas says nothing the entire time, simply keeps his fingers where they are. "what makes you think i'm eating fancy?" he feels another tug from dallas' side, and ponyboy finally turns to look at him. his scars still seem oddly technicolor, too vivid to be real.
he's still not sure how to play this, how to not lie, how to bring him in. and in all that, ponyboy doesn't know what to do, also with a dallas that isn't sneering at him or making jibes at him the way he'd done when they were kids. they hadn't been buddies, hadn't been close at all. he'd never sat down next to dallas like this; the murky memory of the last time they'd been close, dallas angry at cherry and johnny, swims up. the way he had thought cherry should have lit out of there at the sight of his smile, the way johnny had stood up for her, dallas stalking off into the night.
there are so many questions that he'd locked away in his mind that want to come bursting out all at once: where he went that night, who told him about what happened, why didn't he come back? did he hear about the rumble that happened, the trial? had he ever been back to tulsa in all this time and never told anyone? had he ever regretted it? what moment did he decide that they weren't pack anymore, that it wasn't worth staying? he can hear cabinets opening and closing in the background, sees dallas' eyes flick from him to the kitchen and back. "dal?"
dallas looks back at him, and after ponyboy repeats his name again, he points to ponyboy's pocket. ponyboy glances down, at the pack of lucky strikes. "oh, yeah," ponyboy reaches down, grasps at a cigarette, offering it to dallas. he takes it from him, and in a moment, ponyboy's flicking the lighter he has, to light the end.
low, deep, dallas curses. it's not as verbose as it had been when they were kids, but his disdain at it not being a kool still sends a kiddish, gleeful thrill up ponyboy's spine. he blows some smoke out of the corner of his mouth, grin sharp. "you a fancy professor now?"
"no," ponyboy can feel the need for a cigarette pluck at the back of his throat at the smell, knowing he'd been trying to cut down. he doesn't want to do that now though, watching dallas take another drag almost artfully. "you think i look the type?"
dallas snorts, offering the cigarette to ponyboy. "always been the type." he doesn't break his gaze from ponyboy as he takes the cigarette back, taking his own drag from it, loving the feel of the hit. "else you supposed to be?"
before ponyboy can cover it up with a lie, there's a curse, and then two-bit hollers out, "alright, c'mon down! i think i got something."
the kitchen is bigger than ponyboy expects: there's a creaky wooden table in the center, a creaking screen door to the backyard pointing east, a stove and an oven both, and a refrigerator that takes up the bulk of it all, with a nice sink and window. he notices, too, that one of the drawers has been hastily shoved back in crooked way, with a hammer sticking out of the side preventing it from closing entirely.
dallas follows him closely in, apparently unwilling to let ponyboy too far away. it's something that's getting a little more than worrying as two-bit turns around with that same expression on his face, lifting up what he has. "you like spam? maybe with some grits or something?"
"got eggs to go with it?" ponyboy asks, shedding the flannel jacket he has, putting it one of the rickety chairs. he takes a seat, and it's dallas who goes to the fridge, opening it with a too hard yank that makes the hinges squeal in protest.
"how you want 'em?" dallas pulls out a tray of eggs that ponyboy is sure he didn't buy himself as two-bit speaks. he has the cigarette still, frowning down at the eggs. there's something tense in the air though, and growing with the way two-bit is glancing at him, and then ponyboy. there's a little bit of dread in ponyboy's stomach at the thought of it what it could be, but he elects to ignore it.
"scrambled," ponyboy leans on the table, not sure what he should do except watch. watch as dallas puts down the egg carton, and he and two-bit both hold their gazes then, two-bit frowning up at dallas and dallas looking back down at two-bit, as if it was his place, and not two-bit's.
dallas tries to go around two-bit, and two-bit moves with him, at the same time for the grits, grasping the bag first. two-bit murmurs something ponyboy can't catch, and dallas' face contorts, tenses up.
he knows how to keep his mouth shut, and so he does as dallas growls something out to two-bit, fingers digging into the bag of grits. two-bit shakes his head, and this time ponyboy can hear him clear as a shot, "dal— you don't have to do this. just go upstairs—"
"said i got it, two-bit," dallas all but snarls the words out, yanking the grits to him. he draws himself up, a full four inches taller than two-bit, and the wave of aggression coming off of him is intense. even ponyboy can see that from the table, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up in response. that aggression he'd known as a kid had never been all that underlying; it had been shimmer on the surface, but never precisely aimed at him as it is now at two-bit.
the air is thick with it as two-bit glares up at dallas' bared teeth, at the glittering, heavy anger in his face. dallas seems coiled, ready to hit back the moment that two-bit gives him reason to. two-bit seems like he's gearing up to it as well, jaw clenched. it's something ponyboy isn't expecting, not knowing how close they were — and that makes the aggressive display all the odder as dallas snaps his teeth at two-bit.
"dal—" ponyboy stands up, the chair scraping the floor, hand going up.
"no, pony," two-bit lets go, his own hand going up. "dal said he's got it. so he's got it." for once, ponyboy can detect the bitterness, the resignation in two-bit's voice that he hadn't heard as a kid. then he's giving dallas a wide berth, and the cheeriness he injects in his voice doesn't quite match the pinched expression on his face. "i'll go in town, get a couple beers for later."
then he's out the kitchen, the front door closing with a snap.
ponyboy is left, looking at dallas' hand still clenching the bag of grits, the growl still low in his throat, overdeveloped sharp teeth still halfway bared. he remembers all his training, all the incidents, all the books involving alphas who were feral, on edge from the adverse treatment. thinks of the report of dallas being in isolation, gaze focusing on the scars on his mouth and cheekbones as his jaw ticks. remembers all the times when he was on suppressants before, having to de-escalate a situation, having to not rely on on his dynamic, left with complete strangers.
he makes a choice, then to stand up. to come around the table, hands up, seeing dallas' hand shake more. he has never trusted his dynamic, never thought he could live with it but here and now, he decides to rely on it as the wave of aggression from dallas seems to grow worse.
dallas isn't the same hood he knew as a kid. he's not the same kid that dallas knew, but here and now as he reaches out slowly, hand touching dallas' neck, he knows they still remember who they were, who they had the potential to be. johnny's death, the intervening decades hadn't quite changed that, that basic trust they'd had back then. ponyboy looks up at dallas' face, at the way his shoulders go up and down, at his still scarred face, and runs his hands over his neck. he keeps his eyes focused on dallas' eyes, not pulling back at the way they pin him down beneath their gaze.
"i ain't gonna hurt you, dal," he keeps his voice low, calm. leans into the training he's never had to use before, thinking of how many times soda had comforted him so effortlessly, of all the times, he had felt lulled by his gentleness, his attention. things dallas clearly never had. "i promise. two ain't neither."
"you don't know that," dallas murmurs, and even then, he shakes his head, "i- shit. i know. i don't—" he shudders, eyes fluttering shut as ponyboy pulls him closer. he thinks of all those times dallas had shoved him, had belted people in the face before, had even yelled at sylvia in the street and here and now, he's not doing any of those things ponyboy had remembered, all those rough moments dallas had seemed to enjoy. his eyes seem to rove in his face for a moment, face scrunching up. "pone—"
focusing. he's having trouble focusing. ponyboy is familiar with this, those times that his mind had scrambled into ten different directions, the times his mind had gone back to bob's fingers in his hair, the smell of alcohol and chlorine, the words, dirty fucking omega echoing in his head. a drop, dal was circling a drop. probably had been for ages.
that, he's less certain how to approach. he and dal were packmates. they certainly weren't now, and yet…
his hand moves down dallas' neck, down his shoulder, and to the hand that was keeping the grits in a death grip. "you wanna just make 'em together? make enough for all three of us?" he slots his fingers with dallas' own, careful as he does it, trying not to draw any closer, trying to keep it as if they were just pack.
the look dallas gives him is as about as contrite as dallas gets: lip curled, eyebrows working together into a half sneer. ponyboy doesn't pull back the way he would've as a kid, eyebrows raising as he continues, "he still likes grits with some sugar, right? i'm sure it'll work as a sorry. or, we could just play a little hank williams—"
"fuck him," dallas bites out, and ponyboy laughs then. he feels dallas' hand loosen, and then leave to latch onto ponyboy's own, calloused fingers wrapping around ponyboy's own. "rather go back to jail."
"that right?" ponyboy lets dallas tangle his fingers with his own, "dunno if it'd be worth it." he grins at dallas, trying to wheedle him more, trying to relax him the way soda did. the thought actually makes his next words easier. "you should see soda's kids — now they sing better than hank williams, warbling like that."
that perks up dallas' curiosity, and too, it makes him shift closer to pony, gaze still intent. "he got kids, huh?"
ponyboy nods, and without thinking goes on, "got three. sandy — you remember sandy, right? she got pregnant by some alpha but she and soda eloped anyway. made darry madder than a hornet's nest." the mention of darry has him faltering, forcing himself to pick up, "he got over it though, kelly's a cute kid. her hair's redder than two's, actually. whip smart, too."
step by step, dallas follows him, as ponyboy begins to look for the pots and pans to cook with. he finds them shoved haphazardly beneath a counter, and when he pulls it out, he offers it to dallas, who takes it with ease. "steve too?"
"what about him?" ponyboy scoffs as dallas runs water in the pot. the snort dallas gives back makes him grin. "he's shacked up with them both. he might be the daddy of benny and jet but dunno. kids are about as fat as soda used to be." he watches as dallas moves, able to eyeball the water than measure it out. "they're all happy, though."
the pot is put on the stove, and the grits get shaken out into the pot. ponyboy moves to get the butter, but a glare from dallas makes him put his hands back up. he gets the stick, cuts it, and it takes another minute for the words to struggle out of his throat, "darry, too?"
there's an opening there, to lie. make something up, let it flow out. "don't know, actually," ponyboy allows for the first time in years, for a scowl to cross his face about darry. cracks open that emotion enough, lips pursing. "we— we didn't much talk after— after johnny died."
whatever warm air in the room is there, it seems like it's sucked out at that, the mention of johnny. dallas goes perfectly still, knife still in the butter. ponyboy feels his stomach knot, his mouth go dry. he clears his throat, voice quiet, "but he seems okay. got a wife, two kids. been married about five years."
the knife slices through the butter. dallas' tension leaks out, and so does ponyboy's, mixing all at once in the silence of the kitchen. ponyboy takes a breath, swallows, and continues, quieter, "don't see much of them. they seem happy, though. happy enough at least." a pause, and then. "happier without me." dallas gives him a sharp look at that. ponyboy doesn't look away, shrugging. "couldn't wait to send me off to college, practically rushed me out the door."
it's a little thrilling, he has to admit to see dallas' jaw work, reaching for a spoon. he hasn't been around them in years (decades) and can't refute that. he can't fight against the reality of what ponyboy has lived, can't make him feel guilty the way he used to. and that in and of itself, is a bit of a pain. to know all that's between them, how it was still between them.
he lets the silence take over. dallas gets to cooking the grits, letting them soak, getting the butter and everything else together. then the pan goes on, and he's cracking the eggs in, concentrating with every step, given something to focus on that isn't ponyboy.
by the time it's all finished, he makes a plate for ponyboy that's mostly grits with some egg. for himself, he just gets a glass of water, the remaining bits of egg, sitting opposite ponyboy. "he can heat up the rest when he gets back." he looks over at ponyboy's plate expectantly.
ponyboy picks up his fork, digs it in. dallas' eyes don't leave his until he takes his first swallow.
the house isn't all that cleaner than two-bit's room used to be as a kid. once he'd finished eating the grits and eggs beneath dallas' unwavering eye, ponyboy had asked for the bathroom. dallas had jerked his thumb up, told him to use the one upstairs. ponyboy had gone up the steps the creaked and moaned. there clearly used to be portraits that hung on the wall, and now were all emptied away the spots lighter than the rest.
he takes his time as he does it, looking for more clues of what had gone on. there are scuffs in the floors and walls, with three bedrooms. the master one is closed, but one of them on the farthest side has the door open. ponyboy peers into there, finding just a bed flung on the floor, some pillows and blankets. there isn't much else at all and the scent is clearly dallas'. the other door is shut too, and ponyboy does his business quick, washes his hands as he hears a car come up the drive. he peers out of the window of the bathroom, seeing two-bit drinking from a beer as he drives up, parks the car.
ponyboy watches as he swears, gets out. dallas meets him in the driveway; their voices don't carry enough to know what they say. their bodies communicate as always: dallas glaring down, two-bit saying something sharp, dallas shoving him back so hard he hits the dirt. ponyboy's hand clenches the window for a moment, afraid that this will get worse. and then dallas is storming off, around the property towards the back as two-bit gets up, barks out his name. dallas doesn't respond, and ponyboy weighs his options again. thinks of dallas, like this in the back of his car, cuffed and unable to speak. thinks of bob sheldon's smile, seeing ponyboy drag down dallas to him. thinks of the way dallas had cooked for him, thinks of two-bit in the dirt.
coming down the steps, he catches two-bit walking in, wiping some of the dust off of him, expression dark. he looks at ponyboy and ponyboy is the one who says, "he didn't have to shove you."
"yeah, well," two-bit adjusts the pack of beers he has, refusing help from ponyboy as he goes into the kitchen, "it ain't that uncommon for him to do that lately." he opens the refrigerator, putting the beer in there. "honestly pony — you might be better off going back to what you were doing. dallas ain't exactly in the right head right now and he might take it out on you. i don't want that." there's a twinge of regret in his voice, protection.
this it. ponyboy knows it's the only good chance he's got, when two-bit looks at him, expression concerned. he tries to keep his voice as steady as he can, hand reaching for his wallet. "well — he's the reason i'm here." he offers his wallet to two-bit, who takes it with apprehension, fear. ponyboy keeps himself rooted where he is when two-bit opens the wallet, reading ponyboy's badge. he hates it, watching the color drain out of two-bit's face, the scared look he gives ponyboy. it's painful, too close to the way he had looked in the memories after he'd heard johnny die.
"you're a federal— pony, no, you can't take him back!" his voice hits a pitch of fright that just hones in the point, the difference between them. "i know he ain't the same—"
fast as he can, he puts his hands up, palms out, expression pleading. "i'm- two, no, i ain't bringing him in! not now, not like this!" his own voice is just as high and pleading, just as pained and it hurts worse to see the conflict in two-bit's face, whether to believe him or not, to see him having to think about a way to escape. there have been so many times when ponyboy had to arrest someone he'd known, when he had to track someone down and none of them have made his chest constrict the way it does at the look of open conflict in two-bit's face, so much of it tinged by fear. "i swear to you i'm not — i'm a lot of things two, but i ain't someone who's gonna drag a man this bad off back to prison. you can even check me, i didn't bring a gun, cuffs, nothing."
two-bit hesitates, looking at the id, then back at ponyboy. he raises his hands higher. then he comes over, hands searching, patting down ponyboy's body. the scent of his own alarm sends ponyboy reeling with it, hair standing up, palms clammy. when two-bit can't find anything on him, he pushes the wallet back into ponyboy's chest, eyes bright with what ponyboy thinks might be tears. "you got some explaining to do, kid. to me and to him."
ponyboy takes the wallet back, feeling contrite, eyes lowering. "and you gotta tell me something too. i know — i know ya'll ran off together but what the hell happened? all i was told is that he escaped. i didn't know he'd be— be like this."
two-bit doesn't seem to care that the beer isn't cold. he just opens one up, drains it halfway, swallows, rubs at his face. ponyboy can't blame him. he does wish two-bit wouldn't look at him and then away, at him and away as he talks, "listen i didn't have anything to do with the bus—"
"you think i ain't know that?"
"i been living here for a couple of years, before dal got busted," he goes on as if ponyboy isn't there. "i just woke up a couple of days ago to him in the kitchen, rummaging around looking like shit with that muzzle on him. he smelled up to high heaven, his clothes looked awful— what was i gonna do, turn him away? we been friends for years, pony—" every word comes out hurried, scared. "he looked like hell. i haven't even heard him talk as much as he has until you showed up."
that makes ponyboy grimace. there are so many things loaded there, heavy and upsetting. "no, two it ain't bad you helped him. better you help him than no one help at all." ponyboy pulls out one of his cigarettes, putting it in his mouth, chewing on the end for a moment to resist the urge to light it. his mind starts racing in different directions, not knowing what else to do now that the truth has come out. "what all's been going on? he seems real—"
"territorial," two-bit takes another deep swig from his beer, leg starting to jump up. "soon as i got that muzzle off, he just got like that. not letting me do certain things, shoving, growling at me. i could barely get through to him." he shakes his head, wiping at his mouth. ponyboy gives in, digs for his lighter, and lights the cigarette. "and you saw what he did earlier here — i'm sure if i hadn't backed down, i'd be picking up my teeth off the floor."
ponyboy inhales, shuts his eyes for a moment. all signs of a feral alpha, all connected to dallas being behind bars. and he'd only shifted when ponyboy had gotten here. an omega. he opens his eyes to see two-bit still watching him like a frightened animal, and he keeps his voice gentle, "i mean it two. i'm not dragging him in. especially — especially not to bob sheldon."
two-bit's face contorts into anger. "bob sheldon? hell he got to do with this?"
"he's the police commissioner in tulsa now. he's the one who sent me after dal," ponyboy takes another drag, eyes on two-bit. "on purpose, probably. but i'm not— i can't do that. especially not now."
two-bit swears again, scrubs at his face. "shit, pony. this is a fine fucking mess we're in." he gives a bark of a laugh, "i'd have never guessed tiny, quiet little ponyboy curtis would be a federal fucking marshal. not in twenty years. maybe not even in fifty."
ponyboy keeps the remark to himself that it isn't that easy. instead, he glances to the backyard. "i'll— i'll tell dally." two-bit gives him a warning look, and ponyboy shakes his head. "he's shoved you around enough, two-bit. i'll tell 'em. i ain't like i was at fourteen."
"if you say so," two-bit remarks, still worried. "not really looking to see what he does."
neither, truthfully, is ponyboy. he makes his way to the backyard, through the kitchen. his hands feel clammy around the wallet, dallas' scent wafting in past the screen door. he steps into the backyard — and momentarily finds his eyes fixing to the horizon, at the way the sun was beginning to sink. he wants to stay there, look at it, lose himself for a moment in it, but he can't. his eyes tear away to find dallas, and does: he's sitting beneath a tree, eyes fixing themselves on ponyboy. his mouth is in a half sneer, but he doesn't do anything more than look as ponyboy walks over.
"you watching the sunset?" ponyboy asks, grinning when dallas rolls his eyes. he comes to sit beside him — and just like before, dallas' hand grasps the back of his shirt, pulls ponyboy to him until their sides are touching. their shadows look interesting against the craggly dirt and grass: two heads, shoulders, bodies meeting in the middle to form one line, and then their legs, splayed outward. something about it teases an old story at the back of his head, that he can't quite remember.
the rest of him feels jittery. having to come clean to two-bit was one thing; having to tell dallas was another. all those times when he'd been shoved, all those times he'd seen dallas belt someone across the face are juxtaposed with his own experiences: shoot outs he'd gotten through, talking down men twice his size to put their guns down, taking a a full punch to the face more than once. his hands itch, because it's different. they weren't boys that he'd known, who'd run away into the night without an answer, who'd been so wild and vibrant that it didn't seem to match this man who could barely string together sentences without difficulty, who still, somehow, saw him as pack even though the decades had intervened. with someone who, ponyboy could quietly admit to himself, felt more like pack than his own brother.
he searches for the words, keeps his eyes on the horizon. feels dallas beside him, leg bouncing. he offers dallas his cigarette, fingers brushing against his. the silence stretches on, and he watches the sun being to dip on the horizon. the sky glimmers, almost dances with the colors that wash across it. the sunset is redder here, in gainesville than it is in tulsa. there are streaks of purple, but the red is what he notices most as it finally sinks.
ponyboy lets out a breath that he's been holding the entire time, and looks to his side. dallas is focused on him, eyes on his jawline, it seems like. he's got the last bit of cigarette, and ponyboy decides to just offer his wallet to him. dallas glances up at him, and back at it. ponyboy offers it again, voice soft, "i ain't here to hurt you, dal. or drag you nowhere. just need you— you have to know."
apprehension makes its way on dallas' face. ponyboy wants to tense up, but they're so close and comfortable, he can't. dallas takes the wallet, flicks it open, focuses on it in the fading light. ponyboy's fingers dig into his own wrist, and dallas looks up at him with a darker expression before — but no wave of aggression, no anger. it's not happy — it's wary, as if he can't believe what he's seeing, as if he doesn't want to believe.
"i mean it," ponyboy keeps his voice quiet, leans into the pheromones the way he had earlier, trying to be as truthful, as calm as he can. he doesn't reach for dallas, doesn't make any move that could be threatening.
that doesn't much matter, though. the cigarette is spat to the ground, and the wallet follows it. ponyboy forgot how fast dallas could move — one moment he can see dallas' expression warping into anger, and the next, dallas is on him. he hits him hard in the shoulder, enough to get ponyboy on his back in the dirt. it knocks some of the wind out of him, makes some of his own anger flare up, the training he had telling him that he had to find a way to use dallas' momentum against him, that he had to find a way to pin dallas.
the rest of him though, knows what this is. had seen dallas with sylvia doing this verbally, had seen him knock down drunks and had even seen buck take a beating and lose. dallas isn't looking for a fight, not really. ponyboy has to take it, has to gasp for breath as dallas' hands pin his shoulders down, and he snarls above him in anger.
it's difficult to look up at his eyes, to read the intent there. how many alphas had done this to ponyboy, trying to make him do this? how many of them had he proven wrong immediately, had vehemently punched? a memory floats up of steve trying this very thing when he was younger and how fast he'd been to smash his palm into steve's nose, how soda had laughed and darry and dallas too. how he'd scrambled up, and steve had never tried this again. how he'd fought off men in training even bigger than dallas, with worse intent.
and how now, as dallas' hand pins him further, as his eyes burn in his face and his growl reverberates at the bottom of his throat, that ponyboy doesn't break eye contact with him. he doesn't let panic take over, doesn't show any measure of fear or anger. only puts his mouth into a line, stares back at dallas. he doesn't lower his eyes the way so many have expected him to, he doesn't whine or do anything except extend his neck, baring it for dallas. keeping his voice steady as he says, "i ain't gonna hit you, dal. i ain't gonna — i ain't gonna bring you in."
dallas' hands stay pinning him against the dirt. he can hear cicadas starting up, can hear two-bit in the house, the door swinging open but two-bit saying nothing. ponyboy looks up at dallas' face, at the scars. thinks of the one johnny had on his, the one he died with, and he lifts his chin, showing dallas more. dallas is the one who lowers his head, the one who lets his over extended fangs drag themselves along ponyboy's neck. let's the threat hang in the hair, his breath hot on ponyboy's neck, teeth almost to his skin.
ponyboy doesn't flinch, doesn't get up. not until dallas' hands leave him, his shoulders aching from the force. he lets himself count to ten, sitting up slowly, until he's upright. dallas' teeth aren't bared anymore; he reaches out his hand, and ponyboy takes it. he pulls ponyboy up with a jerk, and thrusts his wallet back at him.
in the doorway, illuminated by the kitchen light, two-bit looks between them, still nervous. ponyboy feels dallas' hand on his back, and allows himself the thought that things might be okay.
thanks for reading this uh, wild ride! this was meant to be a "i just clocked out of work and need to do something" and i blinked and this happened. some of this was inspired by the fact that i def think of timothy olyphant for an older ponyboy, a slight riff on "dallas leaves and the novel doesn't happen" tropes, messing with "what if darry and ponyboy didn't make up", some more dynamic exploration. this is a little bit of a cheat i suppose, it gets to some of that dynamic exploration that is being teased in other fics but hasn't come up yet. this one's a little more obvious in it due to ponyboy being older, and hasn't had puberty to muddle through.
i love comments, kudos, thoughts, anything you guys have to say. there are going to be three chapters in this. i do have an intended side story for this showing how two-bit got the muzzle off of dallas that might arrive... whenever. as always, i'm very happy for anyone who's read this and hope to see you in the next two installments.