this is a fic that picks up directly in the latter half of the novel/film. i use the film looks more than anything, and this fic delves heavily into omegaverse themes and dynamics. this is, as the rest of my fics, mirrored on ao3 and is updated there once a month and is much farther ahead than here.
One week and absolutely everything had changed. One Soc with a command to give him a bath, and everything had spiraled out of control. Coming home wasn't exactly easy, and the rumble complicates it further when Dallas drags him up from the muddy ground, and drives him to the hospital, ranting at him the entire time about not being like Johnny about toughening up. He remembers feeling almost sick; so many alphas all around them, jacked up on adrenaline and pheromones. Ponyboy and Soda were the only omegas in the fight, as Dallas' anger gets worse, as his stress gets worse, he'd felt the bile in his throat mixing with the uncomfortable thought that Johnny was going to die. Johnny would die.
When the cop had found them, escorted them to the hospital, it was all Pony could do than to moan in pain. His head was swimming, his stomach was in knots and when Dallas grasps him by the waist to help him up, the cool touch against his warm skin made him shiver. Despite the wave of hostility coming off of him that seemed strangely more than before, it felt good.
They made their way to the hospital, and Dallas had the switchblade out in his hand. Every breath he takes seems ragged, drawing Ponyboy closer to him as if he needed him there, as if he were to let go, things would spin more out of control than it already had.
"You don't," Ponyboy tastes blood in his mouth when he talks, wincing, "Don't need that."
Dallas ignores him as the doors open, grip firm as iron on him, stumbling to the ward Johnny was in. The doctor standing there seems cool despite the way Dallas grips the knife, and his voice is just as calm, "Are you here for mister Cade?"
"Yeah," Dallas grips the knife tighter, "We want—"
"His operation is over with," The doctor tilts his head, towards them, still cool, "He's not in anymore danger, thank your lucky stars. All that's left to do is let him rest and allow his body heal." Ponyboy sways beside Dallas, out of sheer relief at the words. "I think that you two need more medical attention than he does right now."
Dallas sneers in response, grip inexplicably tighter on Ponyboy's side, nails starting to dig themselves into his skin from the effort. "Nah, man. We can sit, wait."
"Dal," Ponyboy's voice is thin even in his own ears, exhausted at another wave of pheromones hitting him, "I think—I think I'm—" he shudders, the feeling of burning, hot sick running up his throat. He gags with it, the taste, then retches onto the floor in a wet mess. Dallas can barely keep a grip on him as he goes onto his knees. It's as if the entire week has caught up with him all at once, body wrenching out the stress with the vomit, throat burning, his eyes going tight with tears as he did it.
Later, he'll remember Dallas' hands in his hair the most, the way he doesn't seem too far from him the rest of that night. How protective he is — how protective he's been for weeks now, ever since they'd gone to Buck's and he'd given Ponyboy his jacket.
The rest of it becomes a blur in his head of the doctor helping him, Dallas snapping at the doctor as he does it. Going in and out of consciousness — bright lights above him, the feel of a pinch in his arm, his throat feeling sore — until he wakes up hours later, not at home but at Buck's place.
He always knows it's Buck's place: the smell of sweat, stale beer taking up his senses in lieu of the terrible country music. This time, Dallas' scent is stronger than usual, letting him know he's in the narrow, small bed Dallas always has had. Groggily, body aching the whole time, he rolls over to see Dallas himself is sitting on the other side of the room, a bandage on his nose, arm draped in his waist, eyes shut. Unlike last night, that fever pitch hostility that was coming off of him after the rumble is gone. His hair seems messy still, his jean jacket thrown over him haphazardly like a blanket. Ponyboy can still feel the bumps and bruises when he sits up, and it feels difficult to clear his throat to try and speak.
Dallas looks towards him the minute he does it, awake and at the ready, eyes sharp when they land on Ponyboy. Ponyboy keeps his eyes focused on him as he crosses the room, unable to do more than that. He doesn't know what to do or say in that moment, sure that maybe Dallas' protective streak had run out now that they'd been tended to. Johnny was safe, and they were just—
"Scoot over," Dallas grouses, "Been sleeping over there the whole goddamn night." Ponyboy wants to give a smart answer about that, but his head hurts something awful. He scoots over ask asked, Dallas sinking into the bed with a sigh. "Already called your brothers, they know you're here with me. Doc said you had a shit time and seemed easier to take you here."
"Thanks," Ponyboy croaks out, tired and still confused. He still feels like he might be running a slight fever, shivering when Dallas pulls the sheet up. "You sleep at all?"
Dallas doesn't answer, reaching over to the side to pull a bottle of pills. "Doc says to take two, and you're gonna be out awhile." He all but shoves it into Ponyboy's hands, "Gonna have to take 'em dry." Ponyboy wants to push him on it, but the pain in his head tells him to shut up and take the pills. He swallows them dry, nasty, and settles into bed beside Dallas.
He has questions. A lot of them, and yet the only thing he's able to slur out is, "Did you sleep?"
Dallas sighs, his arm comes down above Ponyboy's head. "No."
"Oughta sleep, Dal," Ponyboy slurs out. Normally, he'd have left it alone, not asked again. He knows that being mouthy with Dallas can get him belted hard or shoved. It still had felt worth asking, for getting a real answer out of Dallas. He wants to dwell on it but can't as moment later, sleep settles on his shoulders, thick and heavy. It comes without dreams or nightmares. Just blankness.
The next time he wakes up, Ponyboy feels warm. There are no aches, no pains. For a moment, he lets his mind drift over, hazy and almost unreal in the bed, satisfied and detached from reality. He thinks about the taste of chocolate cake, about Darry and Soda. Coming too feels harder than usual and when he rolls over, the scent hits him.
It comes quickly, as reality reasserts itself: he's still in Dallas' bed, but with leather jacket Dallas gave him draped over his shoulders. His scent isn't as hostile as it was before, it feels more like Dallas at his normal: aggressive, heady, and very, very there. The sleep fog is hard to think through; he can't remember when he'd gotten the jacket back again. He wriggles beneath it; some of it still smells uncomfortably like smoke, forcing him to be more alert.
The memories, he shies away from. He should want to toss it, get it away, give it back. Even as he thinks about it though, the rest of him pushes back, not wanting to totally get rid of it, fingers clinging to it as he lifts his head sleepily. The jacket had been with him since Bob had died, since they'd run away, and parting with it, even now seemed…
Ponyboy doesn't want to complete the thought.
"Dally?" he calls out. there's no answer, and Ponyboy turns around, looking for a clock. There's none to greet him.
It figures that Dallas doesn't have a clock here, and if Ponyboy had to guess, it was a little past noon. He scrubs at his eyes, stomach contracting painfully in hunger. The hunger only brings out that he still feels groggy, a little warm and cool all at once, as if his body was battling a low level fever as he gets his bearings, moving carefully to not aggravate anymore wounds he has.
There's an urge to smoke, but the smell coming off of the jacket has him reconsidering it the more and more he comes to full wakefulness. Instead, he turns around, looking for more blankets. Moving has him shivering; the room feels colder than it ought to, and there's not much to go along with the jacket. There's a flush of irritation: why couldn't his body just make up its mind?
Still, what little Dallas has (mostly shirts, a thin pair of blankets that had seen better days, and some sheets), he pulls into the bed, and as hungry as he is, he doesn't want to leave the room. He pulls them all to him, and settles back in the bed, seeking warmth. The medication still makes him feel sleepy, tired, and Ponyboy buries his nose against the sheets, inhaling carefully. The scents, the feelings it gives…
Something in him feels as if it's slotted comfortably into place. That protective little wave he got from Dallas comes back again, confusing him — why him? Why now?
Ponyboy bites his lip, brow furrowing. That feverish, tired feeling sweeps over him again, a ripple of hot and cold all at once, and his stomach feels like it's going to revolt from being so empty.
The door opens — the smell of warm, hot food comes with it. There's no noise from the bar below, empty at this time of day. He peeks up from the bed in time to see Dallas walking to him, one hand full with a bag of take out food, the other putting his keys into his jeans. He doesn't look that much better than how Ponyboy feels, and yet when he catches Ponyboy's eyes he seems to toughen up a little as if he needs to be.
Ponyboy doesn't know how he feels about that. He does know that his stomach growls in the quiet, which is enough to make Dallas walk over to him, almost impatient. "Come on, when's the last time you ate?"
"What day is it?" he sits up, but doesn't move from the bed the way Dallas clearly wants him to. It's not really logical; Dallas doesn't eat in here, that's clear with how small it is. Ponyboy doesn't want to move though, something in him feeling absolutely not pleased at the idea of leaving the bed or the room, as if doing so would be too dangerous now, too foreign.
Which didn't even make sense. This was Dallas' room, he wasn't even supposed to be at Buck's.
Dallas shoots him a confused look, "Sunday. Come on, I don't want syrup in my bed."
Reluctantly, Ponyboy sits up, sets his feet on the ground. It feels so… tepid when he mumbles out, "I don't— I don't want to go down to the bar." No, he thinks, embarrassing is the better word here. He feels embarrassed to say that, as much as every part of him wants to, needs to stay here. Right here. "Can we stay here? Please?"
He feels so small, so embarrassed to ask, expecting Dallas to make fun of him, to tell him he was being stupid. A coward, even. Not to have him pause, and say, "Sure. Just not on the bed."
Ponyboy gives Dallas a small, relieved smile. Dallas seems to hesitate, and yet returns it. Ponyboy sits beside him on the floor of the small room, and when Dallas opens the plastic containers, Ponyboy could almost cry at the sight of the breakfast food in front of him. It wasn't bologna, and it wasn't chocolate cake — it was still good. Grits, scrambled eggs, sausage, the works.
He thanks Dallas and begins to eat, feeling ravenous.
The entire time, he doesn't notice how closely Dallas watches him.
