When he raised that gun two years ago: he'd only wanted to die. Dallas had no idea that two years on, he would be forced out of his death.

There had been a vague acceptance of hell, of a dark eternal stretch or punishment. What it was, he didn't have a clue now. He only remembers dying and then the Curtis living room. Ponyboy's terrified face, the realization that he was not alive and not quite dead.

He had no idea things would end up like this.

He didn't think he'd be here, in some party at Tim Shepard's place, watching Ponyboy Curtis get drunk. Truth be told, he never thought of Ponyboy hanging out with the Shepards so easily like this. He and Tim knew that Pony and Curly were friends, both of them even a bit amused by the way the boys got along. They both had been well aware of Darry's situation, Dallas sometimes deliberately curbing Ponyboy away from Curly more than once. It was the least he could do, to keep him out of real trouble that Curly got himself into.

There wasn't a chance of that when he was like this, unable to communicate with the real world, unable to leave Ponyboy's side.

He had tried, the first time he'd shown up, to leave the Curtis house. He'd wanted to find his grave, see what happened to everyone else, try to make sense of things. All it had gotten him was nothing; a few steps to the front door and then he'd had a strange feeling, as if he was growing thinner and thinner, less real.

Stubbornly, he'd tried to make it down the front steps, avoiding Steve. Every step he took was worse after the other, and by the time he'd made it to the front yard, real terror started to seep into him that if he took one more step, this precarious position would end.

Dallas had stopped. Sworn, yelled, felt cheated and angry. He hadn't wanted to come back. He'd wanted to die, wanted out of here.

Nothing had worked. And as furious as he was, taking another five steps forward seemed worse. That whatever step forward would be worse than blackness and worse than being dragged back into the living.

Then he turned back to the house. Gone back up the steps.

Ever since then, he had tried to make it work, figure things out. There were worse people to be stuck with than Ponyboy Curtis-and it was still painful as it was to see the holes left by everything that had happened.

He hadn't wanted to see the aftermath. Couldn't take it. And now he had a front seat to it all. Ponyboy had changed, sharpened in way that Dallas did not know he could stand and at the same time, a grim part of him approved of.

The rest of it was still falling into place.

Touching living people was the worst part, it seemed to hurt them and it made himself feel strange and disconnected. The one time Ponyboy had touched him by accident, he thought he'd harmed him in a real way.

Using it on the Soc was an entirely different matter. Dally didn't care about how it sent such a strange sensation through his him, that it felt like the bullet holes in his form were burning, like he'd been struck all over again. Socs didn't change, would never change, and even if he wasn't alive, he'd do something to make sure they would regret touching Ponyboy.

Hours after, it was different when he had made contact with Pony; it wasn't really like floating, but he couldn't say that he felt as present as he had before, as if any moment afterwards, and he'd disappear.

Dallas didn't want to disappear. Not now. Not when some form of him was back now. That was the second time that the idea of leaving, truly being untethered had made him upset, afraid even.

Addressing it wasn't something he wanted to do, didn't want to delve too hard about why he might be sticking around. He'd put it away, gone about his routine with Ponyboy that they had fallen into. Trying to research, getting distracted together, or watching Ponyboy, well. Live.

It couldn't be like before, so Dally now had to pay attention to the things he hadn't in life, to the parts that had and hadn't shifted. How often the kid seemed to idle in class at times, still ahead even around those Soccy smart asses. He'd doodle, read ahead, sometimes doing his homework halfway through the lecture. Dally had always thought he was smart, and hadn't ever appreciated, until now, just how smart Ponyboy was. How much he didn't deserve to have to work underneath the eyes of his classmates who clearly thought he didn't deserve to be there.

That was when some of the sharpness, the changes came out the most, the hunched shoulders, the reflexive way he tensed up. The Ponyboy he'd known was quiet, but not so much like this. It was…

Scars. Scars from shit Ponyboy didn't deserve to have.

He wasn't the only one either. It left Dally with a painful knot that Johnny was gone, still - the one person who deserved to come back to life and he wasn't there. Without Johnny there, the gang hadn't fallen apart - it had changed. Soda and Steve seemed to have a different, slightly more distant relationship. Darry seemed like he'd aged more beneath the stress. Ponyboy had drifted to hanging out with Curly more, and strangely, Two-Bit of all people. Two-Bit felt a little more deliberate in choice, trying to keep an eye out on Ponyboy more than anything and a convenience if you asked Dally. Curly made more sense for their ages, with the history they had.

What Tim and Darry thought of that, well. Dally could only be a bit amused by that eventual discussion.

Here and now, at this party, he felt what he felt often now: restless, bored, angry. Jealous, even. Hunger, thirst didn't happen for him like before. A craving for certain sensations, remained - Dallas just knew that they weren't as strong as before, not as necessary. Just seeing people dance, drink, socialize made him aware of the lack of want, which turned to jealous of it, when he hadn't even thought of it until Ponyboy had come.

He would have stayed that way until Ponyboy's remark. Dallas had seen what Ponyboy hadn't: an angry hood, gripping a glass bottle, approaching from the back with every intent to use it. No one else was paying attention to him, and immediately, Dallas tried to do his best to warn Ponyboy.

Except, he'd been too slow. The words to tell Ponyboy weren't fast enough as the bottle crashed down on his head.

Time seems to slow even more, into almost simple snaps of reality. Ponyboy's face spasming beneath the blow. A trickle of blood down his cheek. Dally feels fury well up in him, and when Ponyboy calls his name…

Something clicks into place. It tells him that touching Ponyboy is the right thing to do.

So he does. His fingers wrap around Ponyboy's shoulder, touching his bare skin and the jacket that Dally used to own.

In an instant, he realizes that he's in Ponyboy's body, wiry not as tall as Dallas had been. He can tell that Ponyboy has been hurt, cut by the bottle.

The anger propels him, turning around to the smug greaser who did it, balling up his fist and bringing it down against his face.

Dallas Winston is alive again, in a sense.

And every time he brings his fist down, it feels better and better. He shouldn't fit in Ponyboy's body, he shouldn't be able to do this, but he does.

Ponyboy's knuckles crack and splinter. Other greaser and hoods join in and Dallas feels right at home in the fray. The blows he gets don't seem to be real, the pain distant.

Only when someone yells that the fuzz is on their way does he come to his senses. He gives one more punch, and begins to run. The fuzz is coming closer — a wild thought comes to him that the same one who shot him might be there — and Ponyboy's body can really run.

The air is cold, good on his face. It's good to be able to feel it, to smell the neighborhood, to taste the air. Dallas wants to laugh, and his feet keep going, pounding the road until…

Until he finds himself turning towards the road where the lot is. Where he used to catch Johnny sleeping or played football with Steve, Two-Bit, Soda, Darry. The place where everything started to…

Pain erupts thunderously in his head. He brings his hand up and remembers that no. This isn't his body. He can feel Ponyboy still there, muted and confused.

This isn't his body, this wasn't his life anymore. Dallas was dead. No one else knew he was here, no one would believe Ponyboy if he told them. He'd taken Ponyboy's body over and he couldn't stay.

His eyes grow hot, and it's with confusion he realizes that it's a precursor to tears.

Maybe it's Ponyboy's body, reacting to pain, he thinks.

Dallas breathes in, breathes out. Reaches into his pockets and finds the pendant, the Kools.

He puts the pendant on, and uses it to strike a match, light the cigarette. His hand steadies, the heat abates.

Once the cigarette is gone, he turns towards the Curtis house.

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