The thing about Sal is that he's predictable. He tends to sniff after omegas, he goes to whatever party is loudest, he likes to dress more like a play greaser than a real one and he always licks his wounds at Benny's.

Benny's is almost a county over, and Dallas is intent on getting there. His side hurts, his leg is throbbing with pain and he's feeling slightly hung over as he lights a cigarette on the bus. He hadn't even drank all that much comparatively to everyone else at the initiation last night and as he leans on the window, he can feel gooseflesh break out on his arms.

The pain is there, bothering him and the only thing that beats it back is concentrating on something else entirely. Sometimes, that was thinking about the next race, sometimes it was thinking about the next month. Today? That something else was the morning: waking up with Ponyboy against him, the way it felt to kiss him over and over in the sunrise. Of what he said before Dallas had left him at his place, intent on making sure that Sal knew that what he'd done wasn't acceptable.

Fooling around usually was Dallas' game, on and off with Sylvia over the years. It wasn't all that bad of a game, but that's what it really was: a game. The idea of marriage wasn't even something greasers generally aspired to in the first place, and the idea of mating her?

Even thinking about it makes his lips curl up, thinking about mating her of all people. Having to tie himself to someone like Sylvia who couldn't even be faithful during a jail stint was a joke to him. The whole idea of it was a joke, really; most people could barely work out marriage and the other half didn't do well with mating either, letting bonds drop or mating too many al at once.

In the short term, Sylvia was fine. In the long term, though...

In the long term, Dallas could admit to himself that no one appealed really. That the idea of going into something that big with someone he hardly knew made him annoyed, angry thinking about it. Who would ever do that with him, who would he ever want?

What's the worst thing about it though is that Ponyboy had looked at him with those big eyes of his, and Dallas had agreed with him: This wasn't going to be like fooling around with Sylvia. It wasn't going to be like an omega he fucked every so often, greedy for slick and the chance to knot. It wasn't going to be like a one night stand.

But he didn't know what that was, in all of that.

He wasn't the first person to date their own pack member; most packs tended to have an overlapping dating pool. He would be, however, the first person to go steady with Ponyboy, the first person in their pack to, and ever.

That made it feel different, in every respect.

It wasn't as if he'd treat him softly, breakable. He knows that by the way Ponyboy was last night, illuminated by the fire, the way Ponyboy had never taken anything laying down. He knows that what he's feeling for Ponyboy isn't like Sylvia or an anonymous omega either.

As soon as he spots the bright red sign of the billiard, he reaches up, tugs on the signal cord. The bus halts, Dallas pushes open the side door and climbs out, hand coming up to touch his side. He can see his scar from the fire on his left arm, and breathes better as he makes a few strides down the street.

Whatever he was going to have with Ponyboy, it was going to wait til after this. He can scent some of Sal's pack as he goes, and he puts all thoughts of pain out of his head, straightening up, squaring his shoulders, grinning at them with a level of menace that lets them know to stay out of his way.

Only one or two seem to notice him at first which is fine; Dallas is hunting not for Sal first but his pride and joy: his 1957 Ford Fairlane. The thing was as red as a fire engine, loud, and Sal had always been proud of the fact that he took good care of the car, that he had gotten it on his own.

Dallas, though, hadn't just immediately left the Curtises. He'd stopped by Buck's first to pick up the switchblade Two-Bit had lent him. The switchblade was tucked in his back pocket, and he picks up the pace as he goes around the back of Benny's. It's mid day, and as predicted, it's parked in the back, away from everyone else's vehicles. It's shiny, well kept — he must've cleaned it that morning and waxed it himself.

The smile Dallas gives, he can see in the rim: sharptoothed, big.

And he gets to work, flicking out the blade. He's only got so few minutes to do as much damage as possible.

Doing that was better to concentrate on than last night, taking his time to pull his shirt off, wrapping it around his hand and smashing the glass of every single window, and then taking it to the lights and mirrors. To make sure to drag the knife, to stab it through the upholstery, to kick at the door handles until they came off, to get the rims off of the car as quick as he can, rolling them down and away from the car.

It's systematic, familiar. He did only a little bit of damage to Tim's car, and that pissed Tim off bad enough to give him a black eye.

Sal? Sal wasn't going to forget this, as Dallas makes his way to the tires, jamming the switchblade into both of the front ones, and kicking at the beads of both. Even if he somehow didn't puncture them to hell, there was no way Sal would get air in those even if he tried.

By the time he's on the back, he can hear people in the billiard — someone must've seen him. Dallas works quicker than before, stabbing at the back tires, and when he hears a door open, he takes one last stab at the back right tire.

"Hey—!"

"Shit, it's Dallas—"

"The fuck are you doing?!" Sal comes stumbling out last, looking hungover and pissed off as Dallas straightens up, switchblade in hand. Sal freezes for a moment, looking at the damage, and Dallas savors the look on his face as he realizes it. The way his jaw drops, the panic on his face, and then the mounting anger.

"Sal," Dallas smirks at him, pulling the blade from the back tire, keeping it in front of him, ignoring whatever signal his body is giving him about pain. "Guess you ain't fucking an omega in here tonight, huh?"

"You piece of shit!" Sal lunges for him, barehanded and angry and reckless and fuck does Dallas love a fight. He likes it enough that he puts away the blade, allows Sal to give him the first punch — not nearly as hard as Texas ever hit him, not nearly strong enough to do anything but make him stumble back, for the burst of pain to give him enough shock of adrenaline to recover faster, to grip Sal by his stupid blonde hair and slug him back. It feels good to deliver the punch, he feels focused as he punches Sal again and again.

The blood hits his nose, his face and Sal can't recover enough to do anything but give a wordless yell, trying to use his weight to force Dallas against the car. Dallas is a good twenty pounds smaller than him — he hits the car, but gets his leg up, lets go of Sal's hair to kick him back square in his chest.

That takes the wind out of Sal, who's wheezing and gasping on the ground. Dallas can feel the blood pumping, tongue darting out of his mouth to lap at blood. He's going to have another black eye, a bruised cheek — he bares his fangs at Sal, aware that other people are watching, that they're too afraid to approach two fighting alphas.

He cocks his leg back, and hits Sal square in the crotch. The sound Sal gives is pathetic, and Dallas spits out some saliva and blood next to him. "Come sniffing around again, you piece of shit and I'll do worse."

He looks up and the greasers there — Sal's little croneys — are frozen in the doorway of the billiard. "That goes for all of you."

No one follows him as he turns to walk back to the bus stop. He might not have everything figured out yet, might still need a roadmap, but Dallas? Dallas knows how to do this. He knows how to fight, knows how to protect his pack, and even if he's going to limp his way back to Buck's, he's proud of what he's done.

The ride back to Buck's is smooth, quick, and by the time he gets in, he thinks that all he needs is a quick, easy nap. The bar isn't that busy, and it's easy to reach behind the counter and get some seltzer. It goes down with two painkillers, grimacing a bit at the taste. He folds into the bed easily, curled up on his side.

Sleep pulls him down into dreams that he's used to having: static memories of the apartment in New York, watching his father in the living room. He knows he's about three or four here, watching his father talk lowly, a cigar in his mouth, bouncing his baby brother on his knee. There are men gathered at the table, all of them listening intently.

In the dream, he's sure that he can smell bacon, eggs, coffee. His fingers clench the wall, and he knows that he has to get in there as soon as he can. That if he doesn't, he won't be eating at all, and he doesn't want to keep starving. The ache in his belly is too acute now.

His father turns his head to look at him, a frown on his face. Dallas stares back defiantly in his dream —

— and then he hears the banging of his door. He jerks awake; it's early evening and the acute feeling of hunger lingers in his belly as he rolls over, barking out, "What?"

"It's me," Buck's voice floats through. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah," Dallas sits up, grinding his teeth as he does so. His side hurts something fierce, he's hungry, he's sure that he aggravated his black eye more, and his tongue feels thick. Buck walks in, and that weasley little look on his face. That usually means he's got a job for Dallas. "I ain't riding tonight."

"Don't need you to ride," Buck clears his throat. "Need you to take something to Knowles. Tonight. Pay you double the score."

Something must've happened with Tim. Probably blew Buck off or was too hungover from the previous night at the initiation. Dallas was probably his best, only option, for an offer like that. He feels sore, tired, but the amount of money on the table was a lot. A whole lot. "You're covering for gas and food."

Buck looks relieved and like the cowardly little beta he is, he scuttles out with the confirmation. Dallas groans, stands up and goes to take a brief shower. The heat helps as it washes down his body, and he has a stray thought of what he'd like to be doing: talking to Ponyboy, having him back in his bed, burrowing his nose in his scent, sorting this out, whatever it was.

He knows that's got to be put on hold. This money was needed.

He finishes up, hissing when he gets his clothes back on, taking another two painkillers, and then making his way down to the bar. Buck hands over a sheet of paper to him, with the address, hands over the money for a meal and gas.

They don't have to exchange words with this; Dal has been driving for him since he was fourteen years old and tall enough to see over the wheel. He makes his way out of Buck's and into the cold night, throwing a glance down the street and down to where Pony's house is.

Then he turns, makes his way to Buck's car, opening the trunk up first, then popping open the false bottom. All kinds of alcohol glimmer in the sparse light from regular beers to spirits, glinting amber in the dim light. Dallas closes it with a snap, then the actual trunk. Climbing into the front, he slots his key into the ignition, turns up the music, shuts the door and heads to the road.

Four hours is what it takes to travel from Tulsa to Knowles. Dallas mainly keeps to the backroad as he does it, familiar with the route, the places cops usually lurked. All along, his mind works his way over various things from the previous week, ranging from the anger over the paper from Bob's parents to the way Ponyboy had looked over the fire, with his eyes so brown, the smile he'd given him.

Kissing Ponyboy had only felt right. Dallas knows that as he presses on the gas, goes through the backroads. Kissing him had been impulsive and necessary and it was something Dallas would do again and again.

He knows Ponyboy is probably having bigger, more complex thoughts about this. He probably was fretting, turning it over in his head. And Dallas...

It's not to say that he's stupid, that all he was was impulse anda nerves and anger. It was a lot of him, would always be. That didn't negate the fact that he had a brain, that he had feelings and thoughts and the one that bothers him most as he drives is that Ponyboy is not only an omega, he's one without experience.

Dallas had been on and off with Sylvia for years in a way that had left him unhappy, unsatisfied yet coming back. Mostly because there were so few who caught his interest, more than anything. Some alphas in Tulsa genuinely were into other alphas all the time — Dallas liked alpha women, but when it came to men, it wasn't his interest. No one had ever caught his eye and it seemed as if Sylvia might have been the best option.

He knows that's not exactly the best thing. That he and Sylvia had been more concerned with not showing emotions with each other, sure the other would use it. That things had been more convenient in a way that had broken the last time he had gotten out of jail.

He hadn't told her, never would, but the convenience had worn off. What little they had had gotten tiresome, and Dallas didn't want to be in any damn relationship where he had to keep watching over his shoulder. He'd rather be in none at all than tied to her.

And now...

Now he was thinking about having a relationship with an omega he'd known for most of his life. Who had been a pup to him a few weeks ago and who he now didn't view as one at all. There were two very, very big things about it that no matter what, Dallas knew he had to address on his own: the fact that Ponyboy was an omega, and that it was his first relationship.

Sylvia knew about the fact that out of every dynamic, Dallas would pick an omega over anyone any day. She'd teased him about it, and he'd told her about the few times he'd go to another town and get his fill at an omega bar — a place full of omegas that you got to have some fun with. As soon as she had seen Ponyboy at the bonfire, they'd both known then what she was thinking. What she could say if they got together, Dallas sniffing around the youngest omega around, that it was clearly a fetish even if that wasn't true.

And what she'd use for ammo, what Dallas worried about more was that Ponyboy was youngest. Ponyboy was vulnerable, he was new to this and it makes Dallas' instincts itch at the idea of messing that up for him.

It's a stereotype, an omega drawn to someone older, an alpha usually in a way that others might not like. Alphas using up an omega or discarding them and none of that feels right. None of that is what Dallas would do, but he'd also be a moron — and he wasn't — to think that people wouldn't bring it up or that it bothers him to maybe do that to someone he considered pack. Someone who wasn't a nameless omega he fucked to satisfy himself.

Ponyboy, he'd almost died for back in Windrixville, the terror when he hit him so acute it makes the scar on his forearm itch. Ponyboy's that brave kid that tried to keep Johnny from drowning, the kid he'd first met, hiding behind his mother's legs, semi terrified of him.

His instincts itch and grow upset at the idea that anything they could do together could mess him up.

But the thought of not confronting it is worse. Ignoring it, pretending it didn't exist was worse, and that's what makes Dallas determined to finish up in Knowles and then make his way back to Tulsa to hash it out.

It's just too long to get to Knowles without sleep once he makes all the needed deliveries, gets the money. He knows that Buck owes him for this, and once he makes the deliveries, he parks the car in a public rest area, locks the doors and puts his head down to sleep in the back for a few hours.

The sleep he gets pulls him right back to the old apartment in New York. He's alone now, this time, aware his parents aren't there. In the dream he knows that he's six, that he knows how to count money, where to find little slips of bills and change around the house.

He knows that this played out differently at six. That he found the money and successfully got out, was able to get himself enough food for a week. In the dream, though, when his hand reaches out, his mother's hand wraps around his wrist. She looks at him with a piercing, angry glare.

In his dream, he bares his teeth back at her, feeling a burst of pain.

In the waking world, he jolts awake to the sound of horns blaring, and the sun starting to peek into the horizon. He's had maybe four hours of sleep, and the burst of pain doesn't come from being shoved away but his side, his legs. He's taken too many hits, and driving back to Tulsa is going to be a pain in the ass given it's five in the morning.

But he's gotta get back.

So Dallas limps his way back to the front of the car, puts it in drive and goes. Goes and goes, using the pain to keep himself awake until the interstate turns to the familiar in roads of Tulsa. He's not expecting Ponyboy to be near the sidewalk when he gets near Buck's, but he thinks it's a good sign to see him as he comes barreling down the street, able to see that shock of blonde hair easily. He's cleaned up at least, but to Dallas' lack of surprise, there's no jacket on him.

Ponyboy hears him, jerking his attention away from the street. He looks halfway between startled and pleased as Dallas banks the car on the side of the walk beside him. The action makes another shoot of pain well up in him. "Dally!" He grins at him, and then a startled expression takes over his face as he comes over. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Get in," Dallas waves him over with a wince. Ponyboy hops into the passenger side, and Dallas puts the car into drive, going to Buck's.