of course thinking that things will be okay, does not mean that things simply will be.
two-bit looks uneasy as ever when they walk back inside. dallas' hand remains on his back, and as they file into the kitchen, ponyboy has to take a moment to take stock of the fact that he's decided to defy bob, defy the law outright for two-bit and dallas both. that he's decided that the most important thing was to help dallas — and by helping dallas, he'd help two-bit. that even if dallas wasn't pack anymore, he'd still help him as if he was.
now there was the question of how, and where to start. he looks around the kitchen, at the beer cans two-bit has stacked up already. looks at dallas who seems disgruntled at two-bit's presence, and he looks back at two-bit whose leg is bouncing in nervousness as he opens another beer.
dinner, would be an okay start, given the time, ponyboy decides. he longs for a comforting bit of chocolate cake then. he asks, "y'all get pizza out here?"
it takes a good hour for the pizza to get there. in that time, ponyboy busies himself by cleaning the kitchen, cleaning up the bits of beer cans, clearing the table, making sure that he can get out some of the nervousness. he can feel two-bit and dallas orbiting him in and out of turn: always on opposite sides of him, two-bit usually drinking, dallas still in that silence that marked him now, unable to crawl completely out of his head. he wishes he had more books on him or could readily call someone with experience with what was going on. there are medical terms for this that evade him — it was never his real expertise unless it was himself and even then, half of it went in one ear and out when it wasn't related to treating wounds or ways to survive.
as he thinks over it, a name occurs to him. a long shot — one that he decides to concentrate on later — when the pizza arrives. he makes sure that he gets the door, that he pays, and ultimately, the one who gives the slices out. the idea of either two-bit or dallas making that decision feels a little too risky; there's a balance to be kept with this.
"where you stayin', pone?" two-bit asks, digging his teeth into a particularly cheesy slice of pizza opposite ponyboy. "them marshals got you set up somewhere fancy?"
ponyboy snorts. "just a little hotel, not too far from here. it ain't too much — don't have that much of a budget when you get down to it. i'll get out of your hair soon enough."
surprisingly, it's dallas who speaks up, tearing at his crust. "why?" he looks up, pinning ponyboy with a glare. "got a room here."
"not sure you can offer that room," two-bit shoots back tersely.
"just did," dal bites off.
"c'mon," ponyboy tries to cut them off at the pass, tearing at his pizza. this isn't the first tense dinner he's sat in; it is the first one where things felt like a delicate balance that was more than just brothers not getting along or big wigs he felt out of place with. that doesn't soothe things instantly, two-bit and dallas still giving each other cutthroat looks despite the silence. looks that ponyboy wasn't entirely sure they'd be giving each other if it wasn't for his presence. he has to think quickly, between dallas wanting him to stay, two-bit's clear apprehension, his own need to help them both — and what it would cost to stay or go. "i can stay one night, if that's fine with the both of you."
the emphasis on both seems to be enough — two-bit nods, dallas drops his eyes and ponyboy concentrates on his pizza again. it's not the worst pizza he's had, it's not the worst meal he's ever had, yet the tension is so damn thick it's hard to truly enjoy it.
this was his choice, though, he reminds himself as dallas eats more of his pizza and two-bit dunks his slice in the sauce they got with it. he had decided not to come in guns blazing, and now he had decided to help instead of turning dallas in. he had made this choice, and he had to figure out how to work with it.
and the easiest thing he'd been told to do, over the years, was concentrate on the immediate first. so he concentrates on eating pizza and carefully making sure that dallas and two-bit don't harm each other. it's easier as the meal goes on, ponyboy finishing up first, washing down the last of the pizza with the beer from two-bit. he grabs his plate, ignores the glance that dallas gives to him, and takes it to the sink. once it's in, he rolls his shoulders, having to now deal with what to do next: how to take the room.
that turns out to be easier than expected as neither two-bit nor dallas make a move as he goes up the steps. the door is still shut, and all it takes is an easy turn of the knob for it to open. it's a sight better than where dallas is sleeping: there's a bed with a headboard that has a couple of duvets and blankets on it, sparsely decorated, and with it's own bathroom. it's a little odd that dallas hadn't taken it — or maybe two-bit had offered and he'd refused. briefly he thinks of soldiers, saying that they weren't used to beds, and thinks of how many hard floors and stiff pallets dallas has slept in and then his memories turn to when he'd gone up the steps of buck's, looking for dallas hours after he heard he left, seeing it stripped bare. a place that hardly had anything in the first place, emptied of the little things dallas had and only a hank williams poster remained, as if to mock.
he washes up, listening for more movement. there's footsteps, murmured words, nothing alarming. then ponyboy is kicking off his shoes, pulling off his jeans, shirt, then he sinks into the bed, eyes shutting. he breathes in an out, trying to not let the days events overwhelm him, trying to give himself the space to just sink into sleep without nightmares.
he doesn't have nightmares, not at first. he can't help but think about every choice he'd made since he'd gotten up that morning, how he had decided to not do this with violence, and now here he was, in bed with dallas feet away in another room, with no intention to cuff him anytime soon, knowing damn well he should. a voice a little too close to darry's admonishes him, tells him that just because they were his childhood friends, they weren't pack anymore hadn't been for decades. that dallas shouldn't be his problem, that dallas had chosen all those years ago to leave. that he had to execute the law, bring him in, no matter how he felt about bob sheldon.
the rest of his mind, remembers still, the emptiness, the upset when he'd realized that dallas had gone. how dallas hadn't even been someone who he thought was anything more than a dangerous hood until the moment ponyboy was told the truth, that he'd gone in the night without a word. how it was so clear to him that dallas had only cared about johnny and it was ponyboy's fault he left. that part of him says that this won't bring johnny back. that helping dallas wasn't going to fix things by a long shot, and in the morning, he'd regret it.
that part drags him into dreams: into the sensation of bob's hands wound tight into his shirt, the horrible smell of whisky being dumped on him, hollering for johnny and then the cold, cold—
a door shuts. ponyboy jolts awake, sitting up, reaching for a firearm that isn't there. he looks bewildered into the dark to see dallas at the doorframe, not at all phased to be caught. "fuck— dally? everything okay?"
he doesn't answer, not verbally. he might be spent for the day, coming over to the bed in a steady lope, eyes on ponyboy the entire time. ponyboy sits up, still able to catch the dream scent of chlorine and whisky. "dally?" he asks again, quieter than before.
the room is cool, the outside quiet and dallas still doesn't answer, glancing at the bed and back to ponyboy. it takes a moment to understand; it gives him pause. there are the nightmares to consider, the fact that he could flail, hit dallas in his sleep.
in the end, though, he finds himself pulling the blankets back, and dallas climbs in. he pulls up the covers, shifts close enough on the pillow that ponyboy can see where his eyelashes touch his cheeks. dallas is still so much taller than him, and the warmth he exudes isn't overwhelming. it reminds ponyboy of when he and soda shared a bed, and had done so until he'd left the house for college — and how he hardly ever had a bed mate, period, in the intervening years.
his eyes drop down from dallas' face to his wrists, still able to see due to the moonlight filtering in. he hadn't had much of a chance to really take in dallas' appearance beyond his face and hair. now, he can see that his wrists look scabbed over in spots, from what he was sure were the cuffs.
questions, scenarios raised in ponyboy's mind about it, about the entire situation with the bus. there was no indication any of it had been planned, from the outside at least. how dallas had made it down here, how he'd found two-bit, he was all curious about. his eyes flick up to dallas' own again, looking at his face for any indication it was paining him. he receives only dallas' quiet gaze back, eyes dark, expression not giving ponyboy anything concrete.
the urge to talk passes. ponyboy just shifts the covers up, moving in bed enough that his feet can kick against dallas' shin. dallas kicks him back, grins at him, and he turns his face into the pillow. ponyboy watches him as his eyes shut, and his shoulders go up. then he closes his own eyes, concentrates on his own breathing.
if he's pulled into a nightmare again, he mercifully does not remember it.
what the morning brings is the feeling of a warm body against his, legs tangled up with someone else's, and dallas scent in his nostrils. his mind feels foggy as he comes to, for a moment transported back to tulsa, half expecting the sound of darry making coffee, soda coming to call him and both of them coming to tickle him awake. it makes him ache in his chest, remembering how things were before that night.
the more he breathes, the more his mind clears up, the more he has to acknowledge that he's actually pulled in close to dallas, his body a warm, solid line against ponyboy. there's a stillness there, no rush to get up, ponyboy keeping his eyes closed as he hears dallas breathing beside him. it seems steady, not labored, and when ponyboy moves, he can feel dallas' shoulder beneath his head, his arm flung over them both.
he wants to stay like this. when was the last time he had a bed, shared with someone? much less someone who was pack?
ponyboy shifts in the bed, a little closer. dallas' legs tangle up further with his, and ponyboy decides that he can take ten more minutes of sleep.
when he wakes up properly, blinking into the pillow, dallas is still there, but his arms and legs are no longer entangled in ponyboy's own. ponyboy looks up to see him lighting a cigarette, eyes concentrated on the lighter he's using. he looks almost artistic like this, body in the pillows and blankets that are a soft blue and white stripes, the sunlight catching him just so.
"rude not to ask to use something don't belong to you," ponyboy would have kept the thought to himself as a kid, but now as an adult, he thinks it's fair. dallas just glances down at him, sticks the cigarette further into the flame until it lights, flicks the lighter closed and throws it to ponyboy's side of the bed. ponyboy lets out a chuckle, taking it from the sheets, sitting up fully. there's a breeze from a window that's been cracked open, and he squints at dallas, able to see him better.
he's got stubble that needs shaving, his hair could use a wash, and now that ponyboy is looking at him in a normal light, without so much tension simmering, he can take in some of the other differences at a better pace. besides the way his wrists look, ponyboy can see that despite dallas having a good few inches on him, he looks like he hasn't had a good meal stick to him in awhile. there are scars that criss cross his body, and only some scars are recognizable to him. his left pinky finger looks like it didn't heal correctly after someone smashed it in, and ponyboy can only begin to guess how and when that happened.
the amount of years, the winding circumstances between them just seemed so intricate, so tangled, and disparate at the same time. as he sits up a little more, he wonders if dallas is cataloguing the differences between them, if he wanted to comment, ask questions.
dallas hands the cigarette to pony. pony takes it, and for a few minutes, it's all they do, fingers bumping up against each other's as they smoke the first cigarette of the morning. ponyboy has his eyes at half mast, smoke issuing out of his nose, when he finally asks, "you want breakfast?"
"later," dallas' hand reaches over again to tug at ponyboy's hair, insistent. "marshal shit, first." ponyboy doesn't have to look at him to know his expression is still dark, raw like it had been the night before.
"didn't peg me for one?" another tug at his hair is his answer, and he cracks open his eye to give dallas an annoyed look. the corner of dallas' mouth works up, and he drops his hand. "darry didn't, neither. same for soda." his tongue darts out, licking at his lips as he hands the dwindling cigarette to dallas. the silence stretches on, and ponyboy has to search for some of the words, not used to telling anyone, not expecting to be listened to. "i had to do something, after everything. just talking about it, thinking about what bob did, how he just got away with it — i had to do something, dally. i couldn't run away, could i?"
"i did," anyone else, and ponyboy would have expected it to be phrased differently, to have them avoid it. not dallas, who takes a drag on the cigarette, voice gruff, blunt. "probably pissed you off."
"yeah, it did," there's no reason to not be honest. "specially when two-bit left right after you. didn't know what else to think, both of you taking off."
dallas blows smoke in the air, and ponyboy watches it mingle in the morning light, watches dallas' jaw tick. "kid—"
"you had your reasons, right?" now that is said sarcastic, sharp, something he's always wondered if dallas would say to him, if two-bit would say it in that way that darry sometimes said things. "yeah, i've heard that one." he doesn't want to have to dwell on the past, doesn't want to do this now but he can't help himself, not with dallas beside him, talking. "i already know, johnny was the only one of us you cared about. i got the picture loud and clear already."
"was he?" dallas challenges back, sounding closer to himself with that one word. "i had a whole pack—"
"that you left," ponyboy pushes himself until he's fully eye level with dallas, trying not to raise his voice any higher. "you didn't tell anyone, didn't do shit except leave right when we all needed you. i ain't— i get it, dal, okay?" he's had years to wrestle with it, the fact that dallas had gone because johnny was who he cared about most, that dallas had every right to leave a pack that he didn't care much for outside of johnny. ponyboy had years to understand that just because he had cared about dallas didn't mean that dallas cared about him the same way.
he tries to roll out of the bed then, to at least give himself some distance, not wanting to argue more, wanting to get his teeth brushed, get washed up and fed before he could say or do anything worse. the operative word being try as dallas reaches out to grasp ponyboy's elbow, grip unrelenting. he pulls, and ponyboy stubbornly tries to move away. he relents in the end, dallas dragging him back to the bed. "what?" ponyboy huffs out, trying not to let more and more of his complicated feelings spill out.
"else was i supposed to do?" dallas' grip tightens more, a low growl in his throat, the sound making the hairs on ponyboy's arm stand up. "didn't have a choice. had to go."
"no. no, it wasn't," ponyboy can feel dallas' fingers dig into his skin, "or you could've at least told me— told us where you were going. left a number, something. anything. we thought you were dead, too." his chest constricts, eyes starting to feel hot. "you don't get how— how long we thought you were dead. maybe you ain't think of us as pack then, but i still did. i still do."
the growl in dallas' voice dips lower. "you are pack."
"you left," ponyboy reiterates again, voice climbing. "johnny was dead, i was alone and you left, dallas. not me, you did. i know why you're still pack to me, you never — i never could stop seeing you as pack. but you? telling me that i'm still pack to you? that is bullshit." dallas' hand doesn't let go. ponyboy doesn't look down, and he tries to fight the urge to cry, to let dallas see how much he means it. "but just because you let me down doesn't mean i'm willing to let you down or send you back to bob."
he's expecting dallas to throw him back into the bed, to try and belt him across the face or shove him. he's not expecting dallas to let go, as if he'd been burned.
dallas' face blanches, then contorts, lips pulling up in a half snarl, anger on his face. he looks like he wants to raise his hackles up, lash out, but something stays his hand. something roots him to the spot, and ponyboy waits, and waits, wound up himself, ready to fight back.
in the end, dallas turns away from him. ponyboy is the one who gets up, moves out of the room and down to the kitchen when it's clear that the conversation is over. it rankles him, that dallas is clearly angry yet unable to (unwilling to) lash out, to hit him. it nags at the back of his head as he opens the door to the refrigerator, the cool air hitting him. he bites at his own hangnail for a moment, wondering if he should go back upstairs, if he should drag out the words for dallas, or ot wait for it to happen on it's own.
and, too, he thinks that maybe dallas needs to chew on it. maybe dallas needed to actually sit with what ponyboy had said, needed to at least digest how ponyboy had thought about him leaving. it had been decades, and not a word he'd said, in his mind, was out of place.
he busies himself with the sparse refrigerator. there's enough to scrounge up breakfast but someone would have to get money to get to the grocery store because it couldn't feed all three of them for more than breakfast. he has eggs on one side, some ham that seemed to be on its last legs, the rest of the grits, some pathetic strip of bacon and hardly enough sausage to eat alone. ponyboy adds spam to it all to stretch it a bit more.
"mornin', pony," two-bit yawns as he walks in, freshly showered, hair plastered on his head right as pony begins cracking eggs into the skillet. "you sleep okay?" he wrinkles his nose and hums. "you and dallas i should say."
ponyboy reaches for the salt and pepper, two-bit heading to the sink to wash his hands. "we ain't do nothing but sleep if that's what you're looking for. and it wasn't bad. you do okay yourself?"
he can hear the water turn off. "first night in awhile, that's been good." the pinched tone in his voice makes ponyboy tense.
but…
"how exactly did all this happen, two?" ponyboy uses his fork to scramble the eggs in the skillet, flicking out a piece of shell as he can does it. "all of it?"
two-bit shuffles behind him, opening the cabinet, pulling something that sounds like a stack of plates onto the counter, and then glasses. "well, like i said. he showed up out of the blue, scared the fuck—"
"no, not— not that part," ponyboy scrapes the bottom of the skillet, "how you two been living here is what i mean. how he's been like…" he waves his fork in the air, at a loss for words. "has he been like that for a long time?"
two-bit is at his side then, tending to the sausage that's frying, mouth working for a moment. "well… it's like i told you before. he just showed up with that muzzle. that thing was so tight on him, i was shocked he could even growl at me as much as he did. scoot over, kid." ponyboy does, almost entirely done. "once i got it off of him… i mean, you ain't. we ain't been around for awhile," he glances at ponyboy in a way that's apologetic, "he ain't changed so bad, before this that he didn't talk. now, though? i didn't hear a word from him for a whole damn day. i cracked every joke i could, asked as many questions as i thought of and nothing. he ain't say a single word even though i knew he understood me."
the more he talks, the more ponyboy can detect the fear, the worry he has. even if he and dallas had different ideas of pack now two-bit certainly was pack to dallas and evidently, in over his head. he doesn't mention that two-bit has said some of this already the night before. this time, two-bit isn't seeing him (he hoped) as a lawman, but a friend.
he let's two continue as he turns down the heat and spoons food onto plates. "his eyes followed me okay, he could hear me in the house, and when i made him a bath, he seemed to know what to do but only if i said it five times maybe." his voice thickens with the worry; pony turns in time to see that worried, pinched expression, his leg hopping again the way it had done the night before. "after that, he said two words and both told me to fuck off. dal never been a walk in the park, he's always been territorial. this, though… he's never been like this before. could barely stand me trying to help him. which— why would he even be here if he didn't want me to help? shit—" two-bit scrubs at his face, ponyboy setting the plate down in front of him.
there's a silence for a moment. ponyboy let's the words hang in the air, able to see it in his minds eye: dallas lunging, snapping at two-bit, him shoving or growling, two-bit trying his best to deal with a pack mate who was in dire straits.
two sighs, looks back at ponyboy. "he's fucked up and it ain't just jail that did it. it didn't help, but fuck."
"not arguing that," ponyboy looks at dallas' plate. he moves from the table to the steps of the upstairs, voice loud, "dal! c'mon, we got breakfast."
there's no answer.
"dally!"
more silence.
"dal—" ponyboy calls again, and decides that, fine. if dallas didn't want to come down, then that was that. he turns on his heels, goes back to the table. two-bit doesn't seem to be the least bit surprised, pony sitting down. "i'll just put his plate on the stove." he uses his fork to break his bacon, attention turning back to two-bit. "he's still every bit as stubborn as he used to be, words or not."
"so're you," two-bit points at him, expression less pinched than before. "you got some guts, kid, doing what you did last night. don't think the marshals taught you that."
"no, they didn't," ponyboy takes a bite of his food, finding the grits done just right. "sure as shit ain't gonna be happy about this, though."
two-bit gives a mild hum, eyes going to the watch on his wrist. "you have any idea how you're even gonna pull off whatever you've got in mind?" ponyboy shakes his head. "i didn't think so." he rubs at his beard, that nervous look still on his face. he has something he wants to say, but unlike the version of him as a teenager, always ready to throw in something, he's hesitant.
it's not just the fact that ponyboy is a marshal. he knows that as they continue to eat in silence, the food going down easy. there's something more to it; ponyboy doesn't want to press his luck though, not now. just quietly finishes breakfast, giving two-bit the moment to breathe — and for him to think.
he didn't have a concrete plan, just what he knew he wasn't going to do: fire on dallas and two-bit, turn them in, let bob have dallas. the rest of it, he figured, was going to have to fall into place as quick as he could manage.
two-bit takes his plate up, the sound distracting ponyboy. "i've got work til about eight tonight, so don't wait up for me." he puts the dishes in the sink, washing his hands quick. "just… i know you're a bad ass marshal and what not, but be careful, pony." his back is facing ponyboy as he says it, hands frantically drying themselves with the towel he's got.
"i'll be okay, two," ponyboy reassures as best he can.
two-bit doesn't seem convinced, yet nods, and in a few minutes, the truck starts up and he's gone down the road, kicking up dust in his wake. ponyboy sets himself to finishing his food, cleaning up the remaining plates, and trying to think of a plan. any plan that wasn't just trying to domesticate a dangerous, feral man who seemed to be as stubborn as the day was long.
it's getting closer to ten when he realizes that dallas still hasn't come down for food or anything else. ponyboy huffs, looks at the now cool plate.
that stubborn asshole, he thinks to himself, turning around and going up the stairs. he covers it quickly, peering into dallas' own makeshift room first, the mattress still as untouched as ever. he opens the guest room to the scent of dallas and blood all at once.
his senses immediately go on high alert, pushing the door open fast, trying to find the source. he finds dallas on the floor, head between his knees, the source of the blood scent coming from him. the closer he gets, the better he can see it: dallas' wrists. whatever scabbing that had been there is gone now, torn by either dallas' teeth or his nails. his fingers are deep in his hair, breathing coming out erratic.
ponyboy, heart pounding in his ears, comes closer in a slow fashion. every alarm bell is going off in his head, not prepared entirely what to do here. "dally?" he doesn't respond, and he says dallas' name again.
on the third try, dallas lifts his head to look at ponyboy, eyes dark, shining from what ponyboy knew was unshed tears. tears he had long ago thought that dallas had forgotten. his eyes focus slowly on ponyboy's face; once they completely do, dallas' fingers dig into his scalp so tight that ponyboy moves forward without thinking to prevent his fingers from digging any deeper, before they can do anymore harm. dallas doesn't fight him when he touches his hands, doesn't fight him when ponyboy slowly pulls his hands away. there's blood beneath his fingernails, some of it fresh, some of it not.
the words dry up in ponyboy's throat, while his mind races in five directions at once at how to try and help dallas. he doesn't know how, doesn't know what to do when faced like a drop like this — the blood is so fresh, the blood beneath dallas' nails is caked beneath it, and ponyboy wants, needs answers.
he knows, though, looking at dallas' glassy eyes, at the way he seems to simply accept ponyboy's touch, that he's not getting those answers. not now. whatever is going through dallas' head wasn't something that was solvable now. it wasn't something ponyboy could untangle, and with a sinking stomach, he's starting to feel very, very sure that he was the cause of it. the fight from earlier about being pack. or, as he saw it, being pack as such a conditional, odd thing between them.
"c'mere, dal," he keeps his voice soft, trying to tug dallas up, to tend to his wrist.
dallas drags ponyboy to him instead. ponyboy lets him, until he finds himself wrapping an arm around dallas' shoulder, dallas turning his head until his nose buried in ponyboy's neck and he's inhaling his scent. ponyboy can't find it in himself to feel uncomfortable like he normally would, instead feeling so damn guilty about the argument that morning even if he still thought he was right to say what he had said, even if he knew that dallas needed to hear it.
dallas stays like that, pressing his face into ponyboy's neck for a long few minutes. ponyboy rubs his shoulder, the way soda used to rub his shoulder when he was sick or when they had woken up on a particularly cold morning. he can feel dallas' fingers hooking into his shirt, and then digging into his skin, needing to hang on. it's that act that finally jogs something in ponyboy's memory, something to try.
"dally?" as he predicts, despite how softly he speaks, dallas doesn't respond. he says his name a second time, firmer, and dallas' fingers finally do respond, loosening up on their grip. "you can talk to me. tell me what's going on." he thinks of soda, crouching in front of him at the police station, looking at him through a thick strip of tears. remembered how comforting his voice had been, something to reach out to, to cling to despite how he felt like everything was spiralling out, nothing would be okay ever again. how soda had folded him in, the scent from soda, the way it had calmed him, pulled ponyboy up out of the depths of his own despair long enough to get ponyboy to leave with him.
the warmth from dallas' breath is more important than the feeling of something wet against his neck. ponyboy tries to match his breathing, tries to exude that calmness from the memory, the sense of safety. he slowly shifts them, eases them onto the floor. it's difficult from dallas' weight against his own, from the unfamiliarity of it all as ponyboy stretches their bodies into a line, dallas' face burying against his neck as deep as he can make it, his hands moving from ponyboy's shoulder to his side, his fingers hooking into his side tight as possible. tighter than it should be.
he breathes with dallas, finds himself murmuring the same little nonsense to dallas that soda used to tell him, trying to reassure dallas, and maybe, himself. it's such an omega thing, to do this. it's the sort of thing that people in the office sometimes accused him of doing when dragging someone in, even though they all damn well knew he was on suppressants usually and couldn't. it's the kind of thing he had always made sure ot never do, never get close to anyone, to never let them mistake that ponyboy would do anything so very omega, and yet, he cards his fingers through dallas' hair, lets go of the resentment he has for him in this moment.
"i ain't see what else to do," dallas speaks slow, as if he has to pick out every word just so, ponyboy able to feel his lips against his neck as he talks. he has to control himself from shivering, dallas' fang a ghost against his skin as he continues on. "johnny — he was. he was so small. i should've been there, could've stopped it all. should've been there for you and i wasn't. it was— whole night was my fault." the words thud out heavily, messily from him, and he inhales deep, fingers digging more into ponyboy's side enough that he thinks blood might be drawn. he holds his breath as dallas continues on, his own eyes fixed on dallas' hair and not anywhere else. "no point in me staying. not when— when it shouldn't have happened."
he can't say that he agrees with dallas, he can't say that he doesn't either. everything about that night is drenched in murky, heavy feelings. he still dreams of the sound johnny made when he had died, he still can smell the chlorine and blood.
too, though, ponyboy understands as dallas continues, "couldn't stand it. couldn't protect him, couldn't protect you." his breath is coming in erratically again and ponyboy shifts, trying to run his fingers through his hair, to calm him. "i fucking failed. failed my pack."
ponyboy can see it now, as dallas' voice tumbles out. can see dallas at seventeen — a kid — waking up in the middle of the night, hearing that one packmate had been killed, that the second one had been hurt himself. thinks of that night, how dallas had been happy to invite them out, he can see the protectiveness, the way that of course, in the face of everything, dallas would crumble. that instincts would make him choose to run, rather than to stay and watch everything fall apart.
a darker, sadder part of him thinks that maybe dallas made the right decision. he didn't have to watch ponyboy be sick, have to watch soda and darry in turn struggle with him, couldn't see that he and darry weren't ever the same after that night. the whole pack had changed, broken one by one and maybe, in all of this, dallas was smarter than them. he had left before anything could get worse.
the rest of him, the part of him that can feel dallas' eyelashes against his neck, that can feel him starting to spiral again, knows that going down that path wasn't good. as much as he wanted to do that, dallas was with him here and now, and he had given him the explanation he'd wanted so badly for years. an explanation that didn't feel like a triumph, just a larger picture of the cracks that johnny's death, that bob's moment of violence had left them with.
"it ain't—"
ponyboy sucks in a breath as dallas' nails finally do break his skin. "don't bullshit me."
so he doesn't.
it isn't the worst hurt he's ever had. ponyboy lets the scratches remain, working more on getting dallas standing up, to get him to concentrate on food. it's not easy to do, having to say dallas' name at least three times before he responds. he puts his arm around dallas' shoulders, walks them both down to the kitchen. dallas is able to heat up his food himself, sit down at the table, eyes on ponyboy whenever he moves.
exhaustion nips at ponyboy, brain turning over the mental image of dallas in buck's, having to understand that johnny was dead, the sudden enormity of it hitting him square in the face. having to put it next to the image of himself in the police station, struggling to draw breaths, cold, reality bending around him in an unpleasant cacophony until soda's face had come into relief, had pulled him out of it.
tears cloud his own vision, and he has to tell himself to quit it, that he's gotta keep his head here. be tough. dallas trusted him here, he'd been truthful, and ponyboy had wanted it, craved it. now he had it.
"gonna go have a smoke, dal," he moves away from the edge of the kitchen, unable to watch dallas eat. dallas' eyes flick up, tracking him as he moves to the back porch into the heat. his fingers fumble for a cigarette, and he lights it before he can completely blink away the tears.
everything was too much to deal with. so much of the past was barreling back, alive, and ponyboy doesn't know what else to do except smoke away some of the nervousness, the emotion.
the present is a worry too in and of itself: there were protocols to follow up on, things to do. someone was going to get curious about what was going on if he didn't call in soon and the last thing that ponyboy needed was for the marshals and the local law enforcement to get itchy, come in guns blazing. too, though, he didn't want them on his tracks either.
he takes another drag of his cigarette, trying to work out a plan, a feasible one. being in the service meant always being able to adapt to a situation. he knew countless tales of marshals being able to wrangle a situation to their benefit, able to deal with everything from an entire town ready to fire on them to using whatever wits they had to make a situation end in guns being put down.
he'd done it himself countless times before. he could do it now.
it just had a different set of risks, namely trust of dallas and two-bit.
the heat picks at him, forces him back inside. dallas has long finished his food, the dishes shoved into the open dishwasher. it needs to be run and to simply stall for more time to think, ponyboy puts the last few dishes inside. it starts up, and he stubs his cigarette in the remaining cold water of the sink, flicking the butt into the drain.
his car is still parked a few minutes away, the hotel fifteen minutes away in a drive and almost three times that if he decided to walk. ponyboy chews at his thumbnail, thinking it over. a check-in was necessary with the marshals and more importantly, bob. just the thought of having to call him, hearing his oily, smug voice on the line made him angry.
"dallas?" he calls out, making his way further inside. "dal, where are you?" ponyboy looks around, past the muzzle in the living room. dallas turns the corner, eyes narrowed at ponyboy. the conversation from the morning was still hanging between them, but he didn't seem resentful or hostile at that moment. "how do you feel about getting out of here for a little while?"
dallas looks at ponyboy's own shirt, and then looks at himself, eyes in a half squint. ponyboy thinks he might have to say it again, before he finally replies, voice rough as ever. "need a shower." the encounter from earlier in the morning still hangs between them, ponyboy can feel it. it's still encouraging, though that dallas is speaking to him at all, that he doesn't have to repeat himself.
he nods, "you can have it first, i ain't mind." not that he has much else to do except try and get the little bit of two-bit's place in order. dallas grunts in response, turns toward the steps and goes up in those loping steps of his. ponyboy busies himself by turning his attention to the living room. even if two-bit doesn't care all that much, ponyboy finds himself picking up in it as he hears dallas make his way to the top of the steps and the sound of the bathroom door shutting.
the bundle of prison clothes are still in a corner, the muzzle thrown not too far from it. ponyboy gathers both up, the muzzle cold against his fingers as he hefts it up. up close, it's loathsome. it's not the first muzzle he's ever seen — some of the worst people in custody usually needed them. it was one of those things he'd avoided whenever he tried to get someone in. even at times, the cuffs felt excessive. staring, gripping the muzzle now in the brightness of two-bit's living room, he loathes it. he turns it over in his fingers carefully, able to see parts of it have rusted from age, able to see where two-bit had gotten it off.
the light makes it seem that if he looks any closer, he might find rusting blood stains from where it had cut into dallas' cheeks.
unwilling to look at it anymore, he wraps the prison clothes around it, and buries them both in a trashbag, making a note to burn the clothes and to dump the muzzle far, far away from here. he wraps it away, puts it under the sink, and once he's done, he takes time to briefly sweep up some of the dust and debris from the floor. by the time he's done with that, he checks the clock — it's been at least forty five minutes. the shower never turned on.
shit.
ponyboy makes his way up the stairs, concerned. the door to the bathroom is ajar, and he knocks on the door carefully. "dally? you okay?" a half a minute goes by, and he knocks again. this time, the door opens from the inside, dallas looking down at him, face pulled into a scowl ponyboy can see is meant to be discomfort.
he's about to ask why it's taking so long — then kicks himself, remembering breakfast, everything else. of course dallas was having trouble. he falters for a moment, obviously seeing that dallas had gathered towels, some clothes, but hadn't quite actually stepped into the shower. something like shame flares in ponyboy, matched only by the sense that he wishes dallas would ask.
the rest of him knows that he couldn't, not outright. especially not in the wake of the morning.
dallas grits his teeth, both of them at the door. they're not exactly in a rush as is, yet ponyboy finds himself saying, "lemme in, okay?"
he can see dallas' ego for a second, warring with the reality of everything. wrestling with it all. his fingers hook around the door, and he widens it after what feels like a full five minutes. he steps inside, better to see it. the shower looks like it needs a hard scrub, too, before dallas can even use it. he wonders if it's residue from when dallas had first come — and then the set up is a little different from tulsa, too.
he can see it: the tasks before dallas, but with only a little capacity to do each thing. ponyboy takes a breath, says, "know where the sponge is? looks like two still can't clean for shit." he leans over to start running the water, and dallas seems more focused now that ponyboy is there.
it goes like that: ponyboy making a comment, giving dallas a piecemeal of what to do until the tub is scrubbed clean, the shower is pulled back, and ponyboy has worked up his own sweat. the tub needed at least three washes out to be acceptable, and he flicks the water from his fingers as he stands up, ready to go.
he should go. dallas needs the privacy, ponyboy has to gather his own clothes. except there's the morning still hanging between them, the entire situation, the fact that it's taken a lot to even get dallas to the bath in and of itself. dallas keeps his eyes on ponyboy as he leans over to plug the tub up, the movements slow, deliberate. ponyboy watches as he plugs up the tub, turns the nozzle on for a bath, not a shower.
dallas said not to bullshit him. so ponyboy doesn't, saying, "you want me to stay here?" he says it as clear as he can, so dallas might get it the first time. his eyes flick over from the tub to ponyboy, and there's a tense moment, where ponyboy thinks that maybe it was the wrong move.
then, dallas nods.
so, ponyboy sits on the toilet lid, as the water splashes down. dallas takes off the shirt he's in a smoother movement than what ponyboy is expecting, ponyboy taking it from him easily. the way dallas' chest looks makes his gut twist uncomfortably; the scars there are layered, his skin pale. he could still use a good few pounds on him, as tall as he is. where he looked decently lean as a teenager as a grown man, it doesn't seem to be the same. ponyboy averts his eyes as dallas undoes his jeans and boxers all at once, kicking them towards ponyboy once he's done.
it wouldn't be the first time he's seen dallas naked, truth be told. the memory had been long buried, resurfacing again as ponyboy glances over to dallas: of going to buck's, with two-bit. looking for dallas, and glimpsing him and sylvia, his back curved as he leaned over her, the smirk on his face. the way sylvia had looked against the pillows, how she had turned and they'd locked eyes for a moment before ponyboy had looked away, all of thirteen and not sure of what to do.
"ears still get pink, huh?" dallas' voice interrupts his train of thought, and a grin spreads on his face when ponyboy feels the tips of his ears burn again. he's got one leg in the tub already, reaching over to turn the water off. he's so strange to look at, without the st. christopher around his neck, without the ring on his finger.
ponyboy tries to avert his eyes, then gives up, just looking square at dallas as he shifts, lowering himself into the bathtub. "can't help it." he shrugs, picking out more scars, the knocks on dallas' body as he sinks into the water. it's so hot that ponyboy can feel the heat from where he sits. "was — well. buck's." he hands the hand towel to dallas, and the soap, who's trying to work out what ponyboy means. "with sylvia—"
for the first time since he's been here, there's a genuine, slightly mean laugh out of dallas. it's nice to hear, dallas almost bearing his teeth with pleasure. "yeah. i remember." he laughs again, hands working the soap between his fingers, the thin towel lathering up with it.
"don't think my ears were ever pinker than that," ponyboy supplies the words, trying not to get carried away as he watches dallas start to bathe himself. it's still, like his other movements, slower than it should be, still evidence of dallas' overall being still not being entirely healthy too. at the same time, he finds a quiet pleasure in watching dallas move. for all the lack of old animation in him, for all the slowness, there was still something ferociously elegant about his body from the way he could move his arms to simply clean himself to the way that the concentration he gave the task still made ponyboy's hands want to find some paper to draw his expression.
things that he shouldn't be focusing on and yet, ponyboy did anyway, unable to draw his attention away from it, from dallas.
a few times, dallas catches his eyes. he says nothing, just finishes washing himself up, the sound of the water interrupting the silence every so often.
when he's done, he unplugs the tub, hand gripping the side tightly as he stands up. ponyboy stands with him, offering the towel as dallas straightens up. dallas looks down at him as he does it, some of the water on his neck and cheeks bright in the light from above.
he grasps the towel, pulls it around him, steps out of the tub in the smoothest motion he's had yet. ponyboy doesn't avert his eyes as he dries himself off, just taking in the way dallas looks, at all the scars on his body, at the hair on his chest, the way his cheeks still are healing from the muzzle. takes him in completely, not exactly sure what he wants, what he really thinks. all he knows is that he doesn't think he wants to avert his eyes ever again.
it takes effort to focus on something else — and with a bit of surprise, ponyboy realizes that dallas hasn't washed his hair. "don't think you can go out like that," he points to dallas' hair, and it's almost comical the way dallas' face drops into a scowl. it eases some of the tension, and ponyboy has to stifle a laugh. "might break a comb if you even tried to get it through there." dallas' scowl deepens, but ponyboy nudges him back.
dallas sits down on the edge of the tub with a sour expression, but doesn't shove or protest as ponyboy opens the bottom cabinet to retrieve an honestly sorry looking bottle of shampoo. he's twists open the cap, checks; there's just enough to split between him and dallas if he wanted to. unwilling to get dallas to duck into the sink, ponyboy goes down the steps, fetches one of the bigger cups two bit has and comes back up.
he fills it with water, and slowly gets to work, half straddling the tub as he does it, running the water through dallas' hair. dallas' shoulders are tense at first, halfway up as ponyboy is careful with the water, making sure to fold his ears as the water cascades down. they're still a little elfishly pointed, and ponyboy tries not to linger on the detail as he goes along. his fingers dip into the cold shampoo, he rubs it between his hands, and slowly, begins to work it in.
dallas' hair is a tangled mess. it takes time to work through it, and with every movement of his fingers, ponyboy finds that the tension in dallas's shoulders seem to bleed out. he thinks to ask when was the last time someone did this for dallas — then bites down on the urge as dallas hums. it's fascinating for ponyboy as dallas relaxes more, allows ponyboy to wash and shampoo his hair, offering no resistance as ponyboy rinses out his hair.
ponyboy doesn't know what to think about the fact that when it's over, he wishes he could linger. he gives him the excuse of making sure there are no tangles, threading his fingers through dallas' hair, flicking bits of water from his fingers every so often, seeing how dallas' hair is plastered to his scalp, the smell from the shampoo intermingling with them both in the warming air. finally, when he can't give himself the excuse anymore, he asks, "can you get dressed okay?"
dallas nods, shifting around on the tub. he stands up, taking a towel the pile from the side as he goes. "don't take too long." his eyes look downward at ponyboy's hands, at the wet stains left on his jeans and shirt from cleaning, from doing his hair. when he looks up, he grins at ponyboy's snort, and leaves ponyboy to clean the tub on his own again, and to a shower that was a little colder than it would have been, had ponyboy left dallas to his own devices.
by the time they're out, it's a little half past one. dallas doesn't comment on the car ponyboy has, just slips into the passenger seat, eyes roving all over the interior. there's not much to write home about in pony's opinion, all of it the usual government ride. ponyboy keeps the conversation to a minimum as he drives them further into town, letting the radio talk instead. dallas doesn't seem to have an opinion on the music; and besides that, ponyboy is more interested in watching him. his memories of dallas a teenager were full of his own comments, observations, the sneer on his face always at home on his face.
here, and now, in the car, he seems to have his focus solely out of the window, his knees drawn up. the shirt he wears is thin, some tears and stains here and there. it seems a little small on him, and ponyboy thinks that he could afford to buy something for dallas that better suited him — if dallas would let him.
the wind whips dallas' hair, the length long enough to need a cut. a cut that he probably doesn't want, if ponyboy remembers correctly. he doesn't fiddle with anything, just stays where he is, seemingly okay with the air, the scents of the town as they make their way to the hotel.
ponyboy parks the car, glances around. there's a low chance of someone seeing them here, but he still wants to make sure that no one else can say anything substantial… just in case. "c'mon," he opens the door, giving dallas a slight smile. dallas opens his own door, climbs out and squints at the hotel. ponyboy takes a step forward, leads them both to the hotel. it's been untouched, as he asked for.
his books, his files are right where he left them from before. dallas brings up the rear, shutting the door behind him with the same excessive force that he seems to simply do now. ponyboy pauses, letting dallas get the look of the hotel first. he doesn't feel embarrassed about it; this was just where he was temporarily.
dallas wrinkles his nose, sorting out the scents, and when his eyes flick to ponyboy questioningly, ponyboy shrugs his shoulders, feels his ears get a little pink. "i just gotta check in first. you okay with that?" he hadn't asked before, and watches dallas carefully. "you can hear me, while i do it."
he's never lied to dallas. he's not starting now. dallas looks over him, glances at the phone, at the fact that ponyboy's gun wasn't anywhere near him, and he takes a seat on the bed, starts going through the papers there, the books. it's as careful as anything else they've done.
ponyboy picks up the phone, and dials out. the ring in his ear sounds louder than it's ever been. there's a hyper awareness in him, that dallas is beside him, watching him place the call, watching as ponyboy says into the line, "this is deputy marshal ponyboy curtis. can i speak to robert sheldon?"
he can hear a few muffled sounds, and then, "he'll be right on the line. one minute, please."
just speaking bob's name sets the hair on his neck on end. ponyboy looks at the shitty, hotel carpet beneath him, feels his palms get clammy even though he was miles and miles away from bob, even though it was years and years since he'd seen bob pull the knife out of johnny's abdomen, the moon glinting off of those rings he had, and the smell of blood had cut the air—
it's not until dallas' hand touches the back of his neck that ponyboy realizes that his breathing's gotten faster, louder. he shudders, feels his shoulder slump beneath dallas' hand, trying to even out his breathing with dallas' own. right when he thinks he's gotten the right rhythm, that he's okay, bob's oily voice comes on the line. "marshal curtis! thank god, i was getting worried about you."
and why is that? ponyboy thinks to himself, shutting his eyes as dallas' scent washes over him, as his thumb rubs at the back of his neck. "no need to worry or nothing. i'm just checking in — i'm in gainesville. had a lead but i'm thinking it might not pan out. seems like sherman might be the place, but i have to check this lead before i go." his breath hitches a little on the last word, feeling dallas' hand move from his neck down to his shoulder, dragging him closer like he had on the couch. ponyboy lets him, hand still clammy as he grips the receiver.
he can't help but hear the gasp johnny gave when he died as bob's voice drips out, "ah, good, marshal. i'm happy to know that you're as thorough as your colleagues have told me." pony grips the receiver all the tighter. "we've already apprehended curly shepard within the last few hours, so i hope that—"
"i get it," ponyboy snaps out the words faster than he means to, unable to help it. his back hits against dallas' chest, fully pulled against him now. logically he remembers that what bob had done was a part of something bigger, worse than them. the rest of him wrestles with the memory of johnny's dying breaths, of the taste of chlorine in the back of his throat, the emptiness of seeing dallas' room, all surging in at once, threatening to drown him beneath it. "i mean — i'm sorry, i understand what you mean. this lead's just been a little frustrating down here."
"i, i understand it," bob's voice falters on the line, lapses into silence. ponyboy has the mutinous thought that no, actually he didn't get it. that he didn't understand what it was like to find someone from his pack — not that bob even had a pack — again after all these years, who was so much worse off than he used to be. he didn't understand what it was like to look at dallas and to feel the sense of loss, how hard it was for ponyboy to realize that the bob back then had been a stupid kid acting shitty and in those actions, he'd taken the life of his best friend. he didn't understand how hard it was to look into his face, to hear his voice and not remember the words, give the dirty omega a bath. bob doesn't get it at all, and the worst thing of it all was that ponyboy knew that not only would he never understand it, he himself knew that there were bigger things. that bob didn't deserve parents who bought him out of every little thing, that he hadn't deserved to be out that night, angry and drunk — and neither did johnny deserve to be killed defending him, and ponyboy hadn't deserved to see him be killed by bob's hand.
the unfairness of their lives, from johnny's death to dallas now, his arm around ponyboy's waist, nose pressed against his neck, hurts. he doesn't know how he survived so long with a hurt this bad, had ignored it for so long and every moment of this was ripping open every wound he thought had actually closed in a way that felt new and worse every single time it was acknowledged.
he takes a breath — inhales the hotel, dallas' scent, the papers around him — says into the receiver, "i'll have another update in about forty eight hours. you have a good one, bob."
he hangs up before bob can reply, his hand so clammy that he wants to press it into the bed. dallas is quicker, though, grasping it with a firmness that ponyboy isn't expecting. the argument from the morning rises up, and it hurts to try and keep everything in. that impulse he had at fourteen to be tough in front of dallas is still there, despite the heat building between his eyes, the way he can feel the tears gathering.
he doesn't want to cry. he doesn't want to fall to pieces here and now, pressed flush against dallas. he can't. he can't—
dallas' nails press against his side. his breath hitches, his eyes burn and his vision blurs with tears. as much as he doesn't want them to fall, as much as he wants to not be like this, they fall anyway. the shudder he gives echoes through his entire body, the sob in his chest harder than what he's felt in a long, long time.
there's no way to keep it all in anymore, the years worth of loss. no way to stop the yearning, the need and ponyboy can't even make himself pull away from dallas. he has no control over himself anymore in this moment, the tears flowing from him freely. he coughs, sobs, and when dallas shifts them, turns his face to him, ponyboy tries to look up at him, to say anything. he can't, the words lodged in his throat — and then they disappear all together at the feeling of a wet tongue on his cheek. startled, he freezes for a moment, blinking as he understands what's going on: dallas is licking at the tears as they fall.
"dal—," ponyboy chokes out his name, and dallas doesn't stop. his tongue laves at ponyboy's cheeks, at the corners of his eye. he gives a low growl in the back of his throat that ponyboy slowly realizes is meant to be reassuring, meant to be caring. it makes the tears all the worse. he turns his head, intending to say something, to get a good look at dallas through the film of tears.
it's difficult, being in dallas' lap like this. he wants to fully look at him, to apologize for this, to try and tell him— tell him what, he doesn't understand. ponyboy doesn't know what he wants, what he can do anymore.
"c'mere, pone," dallas' voice rumbles out, shifting onto the bed. he pushes the papers and books away, moving ponyboy until they're facing each other. his back is to the door, and his scarred face is close to ponyboy's own. his hands grip ponyboy's jaw, and ponyboy simply allows him to touch him, for his tongue to lave wet tracks on his cheeks. he's beyond words, only needing this, dallas taking the time with him to get every salty track from his face.
it's been so long since anyone has cared for him, so long since ponyboy has trusted anyone to care for him. here he was, on a hotel bed, and every time dallas' tongue meets his skin, he feels comforted, cared for. he knows that dallas is still his pack, he's still that boy that ponyboy had looked up to, even now.
when dallas moves again to get the last tear off of his nose, ponyboy shifts his head upwards, and catches dallas' mouth with his own instead. it's not soft, it's not exactly thrilling — the last time he kissed someone was almost ten years ago. dallas doesn't kiss like them, as if he was something that was going to break beneath him, no: he kisses roughly, with his fangs nipping at ponyboy's lip. ponyboy likes it, needs more of it, and so that's what he does, kissing dallas over and over, letting himself do this, letting dallas lap at his tears in between, letting dallas' hands stroke up his sides, his thighs.
the thought that he shouldn't do this, that this could fuck up everything is still there, it's still echoing in his head and yet here he is, letting dallas push his shirt up, away from his body. he's letting his own hands tug at dallas' shirt, whining when dallas takes his hands, pins him against the bed, looking down at him, eyes intensely dark as they settle on him.
in a movie, in a book, it would be where they would talk. ask for permission, for a way around this, his senses would come back and he'd do what he has to do.
looking at dallas' scarred face, looking at his intense eyes, ponyboy doesn't want to have to do that anymore. he's spent years doing the right thing, trying to be good, to do better and in this moment, he doesn't want that. he meets dallas' eyes, sees the way the light hits his hair, the way his mouth looks in the sunlight, and ponyboy can feel himself slick up. he can see the instant dallas scents it, the way his eyes flick downward.
he has the training to flip them both over, to get them out of this. to walk away.
ponyboy spreads hs legs apart for dallas instead. he relaxes into the bed, blinks away the last bit of tears looking into dallas' face. dallas leans down to kiss him this time, deeper than before, hands not leaving ponyboy's wrists. it feels like they're making up for lost time, feels as if the past and present were coming up in a way that ponyboy hadn't accounted for and neither had dallas.
dallas' hand loosens on his wrists and ponyboy lifts up his hands to draw dallas closer. the scent of his slick is getting thicker, and a groan leaves him when dallas shifts enough to let ponyboy feel his erection pressing up against his thigh, straining his jeans.
that's the permission. that's what he needs.
dallas knows it too, mouth drifting down ponyboy's neck, fangs grazing the side of his neck. it isn't like it was in the backyard this time when ponyboy extends his neck for him, looking through half shut eyes at dallas. the way dallas looks at him now isn't demanding like it was — it's transfixed in a different way, intertwined with not just a need to know pony's intentions but with something else that ponyboy doesn't have a name for, only the thought that if dallas dipped his head now, if his fangs sank into his throat, he'd want it.
he catches dallas' gaze, keeps it there for a long moment, breathing with him, pinned.
it's an opening. a way out that he should take.
ponyboy reaches this time, for his own shirt, pulling it off, throwing it to the floor, defiant. dallas grins down at him, hand grasping ponyboy's jeans, right at the belt. ponyboy lets out a chuckle with him, watching as dallas' fingers move slower than what they normally might would as he unbuckles his belt, and with a groan from ponyboy, unzips his fly. he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his underwear, pulling them off with his jeans in a smoother stroke.
ponyboy's body has certainly changed in the years, no longer that scrawny kid who ran track. he wonders what dallas sees when he looks at him, at the scars on his body from stab wounds, gunshot wounds, the little scrapes and wears and tears accumulated on his skin, in such a different way from dallas' own body. it must not bother him too much, with the way he runs his mouth along the inside of ponyboy's thighs, his breath warm against ponyboy's skin.
it sends a shudder through ponyboy — it's been so damn long to be touched and now dallas was touching him, bit by bit: his mouth on his thigh, his hands reaching up to thumb his hips on either side. ponyboy's hard but it's secondary to the slick he's feeling, the warmth wetness of it, the slow remembrance of how few times he'd actually had sex in years. how many heats he'd suppressed, how little he'd actually been wanting sex and—
his ears flush pink. dallas' seems to know, eyes flicking upward, inches from ponyboy's erection, still nuzzling at his thigh as if he's got all the time in the world. a memory floats up, dallas bragging at sixteen and ponyboy's voice is quiet, "d'you — every time, still?"
"knot?" dallas supplies, amusement in his voice, his own hand finally moving down to adjust his jeans, and his grin turns sharp, hungry, recognizing ponyboy as prey. "yeah."
ponyboy swallows, mouth going dry. "i—"
"don't worry," dallas shifts upwards again, and ponyboy's not sure how the hell he's ignoring his own erection, "don't want that." his hand shifts between ponyboy's thighs, angling low. ponyboy doesn't know what his own face looks like the moment that dallas' fingers brush up against and then gently push against his slick drenched rim; he does know that dallas' grin gets sharper at the groan ponyboy makes.
there's no turning back from this. he knows it, looking at how sharp dallas' grin, he knows it as his legs spread wider, as he can feel dallas' fingers push further, deeper into him, as the first spark of pleasure unfurls in him. there's no turning back from what they're doing and the consequences are going to be for the morning. in the here and now, in this moment, ponyboy reaches out, pulls dallas closer. the kiss he gives dallas is rough, wanting, and god, it feels good when a second finger joins the first, dallas abandoning the need to be any sort of gentle.
there's no time to ask when's the last time dallas did this either, pony only able to ride the roughness of dallas' fingers, to let his body take the pleasure dallas seems to want to give with every sharp thrust of his fingers. the scent of his slick, the feeling of dallas' fingers stroking the bundle of nerves in him, the way dallas tastes on his own tongue start to overwhelm him. a whine leaves his throat as dallas pulls away from him, and the whine turns into a full sound of protest when dallas' fingers leave him completely.
"no—" ponyboy reaffirms his grip, tries to hook his legs up around dallas' waist to keep him there. "please don't—"
"m'not," dallas gives him a brief smirk and then raises his slick covered hand up to taste it. ponyboy can feel his ears go redder with it, somehow caught at the view of dallas cheeks hollowing out briefly as he gets almost every drop off of his fingers. his arousal feels like it's higher than it's ever been, looking at dallas lick up his slick; it's no wonder when he feels more of it leak out of him.
briefly he remembers too, when he'd first presented, when dallas had given him a strange look the first time he caught his changed scent. ponyboy can feel his face flush more, seeing it for what ot was then.
dallas' mouth finally leaves his hand, but ponyboy shakes his head when dallas looks like he might finger him again. "no," his voice is firm, leg nudging up to deliberately press against dallas' cock, "i want this." he grins at the way dallas shudders at the feeling, as if he'd truly just forgotten about his cock in this moment. he probably has, the way things have been going. "take 'em off." dallas' hands reach down, undo his belt, pushing down his jeans and kicking them off.
there isn't much time for ponyboy to consciously look at his cock, to assess it — dallas is suddenly in his vision, eyes bright, kissing ponyboy roughly. he wants to look, wants to see — but he can't. he closes his eyes, pulls dallas closer, spreads his legs for him further, tries to even help dallas' hand. it's not necessary, in the end — dallas sinks his teeth into ponyboy's bottom lip right as he thrusts up, and into ponyboy. there's a bit of pain as he does it — as slick as ponyboy is, as much as dallas had fingered him, it's not making up for the fact that he hasn't had sex in such a long time. the cry he gives is swallowed up by dallas as he thrusts himself deeper into ponyboy. it's on the third thrust that ponyboy truly begins to stop thinking with his brain, arching into dallas as he hits home.
there's no more thinking, no more communicating with words. there is only ponyboy's fingers digging into dallas' side, the scent of slick coming thick into the hotel room, the feeling of dallas fucking deeper into him, the feeling of pleasure he hasn't felt in years coming back in wave after wave. he gives himself over to dallas, kisses more biting than soft, dallas' fingers digging into ponyboy's side, his thighs with the same intensity as ponyboy's own.
there aren't words for the way he feels, as dallas growls beside his ear, as he feels himself get closer and closer to the edge, for the way he feels, more and more, that this is what he's been waiting for. that every tear in his skin, every thrust, every way the light catches dallas' eyes is what he's wanted, and that he doesn't think there is anything more, that there should be anything more than this, them intertwined like this.
dallas' teeth don't sink into the mating mark. they sink into ponyboy's ear, and ponyboy can't help it as he orgasms. for the first tim in years, it feels as if every part of him comes together all at once, feels as if every nerve in his body lets go all at once, as if it is home, here, with dallas' teeth biting down on his ear with a sharp flair of pain that encircles the pleasure, with the feeling of his hips against ponyboy's, his cock hitting every nerve inside of him all at once. he doesn't want it to end: the pain, the the pleasure, the way dallas' back feels with his nails tearing at his skin, the faint scent of blood mixing with slick.
by the time he comes back into himself, feeling dallas' breath hot on his neck, he realizes that he can feel dallas' knot against his slick drenched hole. he can feel dallas panting against his skin, the wet of his tongue, and realizes he's straining.
it's hard to make his mouth work, but he does it, hand moving from dallas' side to his cheek, turning dallas' face to look at him. his eyes are blown, the rim of it dark, glittering. "you can, dallas. i'm your pack—"
that's all it takes. ponyboy watches as dallas' brows come together, lip curling enough to see his fangs in the sunlight. for a moment, he doesn't think that it will breech — and then dallas snarls, his hips snap up sharply and ponyboy feels his body accept his knot. he spasms, wordless as dallas cums. his own orgasm feels like nothing in the way of it, of feeling dallas cum inside of him, the feeling of his knot locking in. he gives the thinnest sound as dallas deliberately tugs at his rim with his knot — and then dallas' fangs are back where they were, pinning his earlobe against his neck, biting down as if they were mating.
the last thing ponyboy can feel himself think as dallas' cock pulses inside of him, as he starts to feel the mess of slick and cum between his legs, is that he almost wishes dallas would have.
and that? that is dangerous.
that took a turn! i woke up with an idea for the bed scene, decided to write an alternate take and... the alternate take won. it means that the complications of this are going to be bigger than what i originally envisioned as well. thanks so much for reading, i love kudos, comments, shout outs, anything at all. thank you to hearthouses and aishiteru for looking over this and helping me pick which version to run with.