if you're wondering about dallas' description here, it's because i generally view him looking like matt dillon. just in case that wasn't clear.


there have been very few times in his life that ponyboy has woken up with such sharp clarity of his situation.

the first and worst time was when he had woken up three days after his parents had died. he hadn't comprehended, hadn't really understood at first, hadn't wanted to understand until the third day, when he'd come to in his bed alone, hit by the dizzying, awful fact that his parents would never ever walk through the door again. reality had finally sank in — the awful, permeating silence of the house, the faintness of their scents, the crushing, painful weight of their deaths had finally come through and he had wept until he couldn't weep anymore. all of the anxiety of the future, of whether he and darry and soda could stay together, the feeling of hopelessness and terror, truly settled into the fabric of reality.

the second time was after johnny had died. two days after he had come home, after soda had gotten him out of the station, when he'd refused to be touched by darry, he had two full days to truly let the horror sink in, that reality had caught up with him. when he had truly stopped thinking of johnny the person and johnny, a lifeless body left in the park, had sunk in. dead because of him, because of bob and his awful smile and glittering rings.

there had been more, after that. most weren't as bad.

as he comes to, his body heavy, aching, the implications of what he has done are startlingly, sharply clear all at once the moment he feels dallas shift behind him, the feeling of slick and cum between his thighs, the sharp scent of it all, can process dallas' cock still knotted inside of him, able to feel the way his body orients around it, refusing to let dallas go.

he is a us marshal, one of the handful of omegas who'd been able to be apart of them. he has just slept with the fugitive he was supposed to have brought in. he allowed him to even knot him and only through sheer luck, they hadn't mated.

probably the worst thing about it all, as dallas' nails dig into his hip, as pony feels him starting to get soft, is that a wild, awful part of him doesn't care. that part of him is aching to turn around, look into dallas' eyes and ask for a mating bite, wants to keep him close, wants to violently, completely make up for the lost years. that part of him doesn't care about the consequences, doesn't want to have to go back to making plans, to thinking about the future. he just wants some way, any way to make this work, whatever this was anymore.

he wants to listen to that part. needs it as dallas shifts, ponyboy turning his head to bite at the pillow as dallas pulls out of him. he's not sure what to do or say, knowing what he did — what they did couldn't be taken back, couldn't be undone.

dallas' hand isn't gentle, turning ponyboy over with his hip. ponyboy looks into his darkened eyes, still unable to ignore the cuts on his face and cheeks, unable to unsee what the muzzle and prison had done to him. he knows damn well they should talk about it, even with the stilted way dallas is stuck in and yet, he can't. he can't after all this time, do it.

he kisses dallas instead. ignores the taste of his own slick on dallas' mouth and kisses him until dallas kisses back, with sharp nips at his bottom lip, fingers digging into ponyboy's side. he wants more, needs more of this. the buzzing in his mind, the knowledge that the more they do this, the worse things will be, he tries to push aside.

just one day, he thinks. just one day of being able to ignore it, being able to simply be with dallas.

when he pulls away, face flushed, limbs still a little heavy, he can see dallas' gaze is focused on him in a way it has so rarely been in this entire time. ponyboy runs his thumb over dallas' mouth, over the scars there, not searching for words or clarity, just the sensation of dallas' mouth, the scars there, the reality in his presence. dallas' jaw clenches; he might be having the same thoughts as ponyboy.

if he does, he clearly doesn't care, hand coming up to ponyboy's neck, to deliberately scent him. it's an act that doesn't entirely make sense, with both of them in ponyboy's bed, naked together, alone. there's no one that could claim pony, no one who could interrupt.

and dallas does it anyway. ponyboy lets him, feeling dallas' thumb against his neck, letting his head come to nuzzle against his neck in such a selfish, possessive act that makes ponyboy wish that they could just stay here, in this hotel room, together. that the universe could slow, narrow itself down to this one room with them in it, and nothing else has to matter.

it doesn't erase the history between them — the discontent, the upset over the years lost because dallas had run. it doesn't erase the words he'd said to dallas earlier that day, doesn't just smother all of those feelings at once to have done this. he knows this, he knows dallas does, too. all those complicated, awful, pervasive feelings are still there.

and in all that — he still needs this. he still wants to say here.

and he can't.

so he stretches out the moment between them a little longer. lets dallas scent him, and reaches out to scent dallas back to, running his hand down his neck. leans into dallas, kissing him again, letting dallas shift them, eager to have just one more round together.

it's two more sun drenched hours together, until ponyboy looks at the clock and finally knows that they have to go. he rolls over on his side, his legs swinging to hit the floor. dallas watches him, eyes dark, piercing as he watches ponyboy stretch, and then get to the bathroom. it's like any other hotel bathroom really, and he keeps the door open.

dallas joins him, six minutes later.


"that'll be seventy five, sixty-eight," the cashier is a pimply teenager with red hair who seems to look a little longer at ponyboy than what he would like. then again, as he pulls out his wallet, takes out the cash, he feels like everyone's been staring at him the moment he stepped foot in the grocery store, and not because he had the marshal's star on his waist now. there's no mating mark on his shoulder so it's not that — it's the dark bruise on his neck, below his ear that might be catching their attention.

that, or maybe his mind's making it up.

he carries the groceries out himself, to the car where dallas is waiting in the passenger seat. at least it isn't just ponyboy who's bruised up: dallas still has scratch marks peeking out on his shoulder, still has a dark bruise on his neck from the second round they'd had in the hotel together. he keeps his eyes focused on ponyboy as he moves to the car, not getting up to help with the groceries. that's fine with ponyboy, for now at least.

he slides into the front seat, puts his seatbelt on, puts the car in drive. dallas' arm winds over, loops around his thigh.

he doesn't move his hand the entire way back. it feels like a warm weight on ponyboy, for what they have done and the only thing he wishes, as he parks the car again, hand moving down to grasp dallas' hand, is that he felt guilty enough to not think about it again. that despite the instant flood of guilt, of upset of what he had done, what he had initiated, as dallas looks at him in the car, he wants to do it again. that he hadn't felt it deep enough to have not had a second and third round with dallas.

that as he squeezes down, he had every intention of doing it again with dallas.

"c'mon," he nods to the door, "get the groceries this time, will you? i know you can move."

dallas gives a sharp grin, digs his hand into the soft underside of ponyboy's thigh. then he gets out of the car, makes his way around the back. ponyboy helps him, and they get the groceries out and stock the kitchen in relative silence with the only real sound in the air being their feet, the movements their bodies make around each other, the quiet shelving of food.

the afternoon continues to be warm. once everything is settled in, ponyboy is at a loss of where to go next, of what to do. he has ideas, most of them concerning dallas. and he knows that dallas has his own ideas of what to do with him, given the way he comes behind him, hand pulling up his shirt. his hand slots right on the bruise he'd left on ponyboy's hip from earlier, and and ponyboy can't help how he slicks at the touch of dallas' nose against his neck, too.

what's another few hours of it, being with dallas? it wouldn't erase the morning, would it?

dallas' fingernails dig into his hips, and his lips press against ponyboy's neck.

carefully, ponyboy takes the star off of his hip, puts it in his pocket. only then does he say, "we should go upstairs."

dallas' teeth sink into his skin.


the dream that settles on him is less a dream and more of a memory: of soda helping him out of the station. the scent of chlorine and blood still fills his nostrils, and soda's hand on his back is warm. everything feels slow and murky; johnny's body still flat under the moonlight, the light bouncing off of bob's rings, stir together.

there's darry's face, pallid and shocked with what he's done, and ponyboy pulling away from his opens hands, his arms pulling around himself. the shower he took afterwards, scalding hot, punishing because he deserves it, it's his fault that johnny died. it's his fault for spitting at bob, his fault that bob had gotten the knife out of johnny's hand, his fault now that his hands were still covered in blood beneath the hot spray.

he had killed johnny. he had.

soda's hand touches his chin, and ponyboy looks up with a gasp, unaware of the tears on his face. "i'm sorry — i'm sorry i killed 'em."

the hand on his chin tightens, and his tears make the entire moment filmy, thick. then there's a tongue on his cheek which couldn't be soda's. and he's right: it's dallas who solidifies, his fingers gripping his face, his eyes dark and focused entirely on ponyboy. the light shifts, everything snaps into the correct focus: that it's later in the evening, that dallas has scratchmarks on his shoulders and arms, the room scenting of them both now.

it's mostly dallas in his vision now, scars and all, and ponyboy draws a breath, tries to regain his footing no longer trapped in memories mixed with dreams. he shifts, whines at the reminder that dallas' knot is still in him, legs and hips shifting. dallas growls against his cheek, thrusts into him, hands moving back to ponyboy's hips.

he shouldn't feel as if dallas' hands belong there, shouldn't feel happy that dallas looks at him so intensely. shouldn't feel so upset, too, that even decades on, he blames himself for johnny's death, that even looking at dallas is a little painful for him as much as he wants him, as much as he wraps his legs around dallas' waist to pull him impossibly closer.

he hisses at the tug to his rim, the jolt of pain and pleasure, his own hands coming up to touch dallas' scarred face. he puts away the fact that two-bit is going to come home soon, that tomorrow, they'll have to stop this.

for now, he just looks at dallas, focuses on the swell of his knot, the smell of slick, the steady, building pleasure in him as dallas moves, as his tongue laves at his cheeks.

it's not absolution. but it is real. it is real, to have dallas kissing him, to feel him fucking into him, to have someone he trusts enough to do this with — knowing he shouldn't. knowing damn well he should cuff him, but the rest of him, that part of him he's repressed for so long, the part of him that died a bit that day in 1965, feels alive again. he kisses dallas back, he digs his nails into his skin, and he holds on as tight as he can.

it's all he's gonna get. all dallas is going to get.

he tells himself that, and when he feels dallas growl in his mouth, as he feels dallas pull him closer, he feels him tense up for a moment. he savors it, the way the shadows play on dallas' face, the way his brows work together, the glint from his teeth as the light illuminates his sharp fangs.

his hands move upward, sink into dallas' hair. he pulls dallas into his neck, opposite the one where a mating mark would go and allows dallas to sink his fangs in him, feels him cum inside of him and it is the most human, the most alive ponyboy has felt in years as the pain and pleasure tear hinto him. he doesn't even know if he cums: it doesn't matter, not when his body and dallas' bodies meet like this, stay knotted in the bed.

ponyboy can feel himself let go, again, as the pain fades. he thinks he can feel dallas' tongue on his shoulder, his neck. he thinks he says something to him but can't tell, not when his eyes close and he allows dallas to do what he wants, no longer connected, no longer caring as he drifts back to sleep, knowing his body was safe with dallas.

the memories come to pull him back in a half wakefulness: of avoiding darry in the house, working around him in the days after. the screaming of mrs. cade echoing down the street in the a different register, and him in bed, not knowing what else to do except tell her that it was his fault, but not having the energy to go. of going up the steps at buck's, days after. finding dallas' room empty, bereft of his presence, his scent fading. the way his stomach had dropped in realization, in pain.

it's pain that pulls him out of it, dallas' fangs so deep in his skin that the scent of blood rents the air. ponyboy arches up, feels dallas' cock pulsing in him again. ponyboy's legs wrap around him, and he thinks he tells him that he needs it. or maybe the words never pass his lips. he just knows that when he wakes up again, truly wakes up, it's to the sound of a door slamming and a feeling of emptiness mixed with the feeling of slick and cum down his thighs. dallas is still in the bed, but he's glaring at the door, half blocking ponyboy with his body.

he feels confused for a moment, with the air feeling colder, the room around them no longer drenched in sunlight but darkness with shafts of moonlight instead. he doesn't know what time it is, too disoriented, too confused for a moment. dallas' back is red and almost raw with scratches, shoulder littered with bitemarks and almost gouges that ponyboy can hardly remember making, despite the vague taste of blood in his mouth. dallas' hair curls down at his neck, messy and his entire body is taut.

"dal? s'going on?" ponyboy's tongue is thick in his mouth. he tries to ignore the ache of loss or the need to pull dallas closer. he doesn't know what time it is, almost doesn't know what day it is.

dal growls in response, and the footsteps that echo in the house, ponyboy begins to realize is two-bit's. except it doesn't make sense for dallas to be hostile to two-bit. for a moment, he tenses up — but no, that's two-bit's scent, and that's finally two-bit in the doorway, looking at them both with an expression that is less than happy. dallas' growling doesn't help either, neither does his obvious move to block ponyboy from two-bit's sight.

two-bit stays in the doorway, eyes flicking from ponyboy to dallas and back. ponyboy normally might have shrunk back, been bashful. not this time, even edging from around dallas' increasingly hostile form. a low whistle leaves two-bit, expression utterly disapproving. "kid—"

"he ain't a kid," dallas snaps out.

the hairs on the back of ponyboy's neck stand up with the way he says it, more than what he actually says. every instinct is inflamed for a moment, telling him that dallas' body is tense, that he might lunge at two-bit.

he moves up as quick as he can, hand grasping dallas' forearm. two-bit is still at the doorway, expression more disapproving than before. whatever he has to say seems to gum up in his throat, his hand gripping the bag he has tighter. the look he gives them both deepens in disapproval, and the way that dallas seems to want to strain against ponyboy's grip, the way that his throat vibrates with a growl, none of it's good.

"you and i'll talk later, you hear me?" two-bit's growl is an undertone. ponyboy's hand grips dallas tight enough that he can't fully lunge.

two-bit closes the door, and the silence that descends with his retreating footsteps is heavy.

and though it's heavy, even though ponyboy knows that every footfall is something he'll have to deal with eventually, that when dallas turns his eyes to him, full of anger and need, he knows that he doesn't want to deal with this now. that if he gets up, walks out that door after two-bit now, if he leaves dallas now, everything will change. he'll have to face reality again, have to think more and more about how this will end and he simply isn't ready for that. not now.

it's him who shoves dallas onto the bed. it's him who bites dallas this time, harder than before. it's his hands tearing into dallas' shoulders, and it's him who uses his other hand to reach downward, and stroke dallas' cock even though he's starting to feel tired, even though he knows he's going to ache after this.

the morning. everything can wait for the morning.


and so the morning comes: ponyboy waking up in the bed, finding that pain is radiating from his hips, his shoulder feels as if he's been pinned all night, and the uncomfortable feeling of hunger, deep in his stomach. the shoulder is at least an easy fix, able to squirm his way from dallas' grip, having at least had his knot deflated at some time in the night. ponyboy winces as he sits up better in the light, able to hear birds outside mingling with the sound of someone not that far away — a neighbor, probably — working on their lawn.

the hunger in his stomach is at a point where it's almost painful, and for a moment he wonders if he should wake up dallas. he glances down at him, at the way his hair is down to his nose, the amount of scratch marks on him, and ponyboy thinks that on the sheets, there are spots of blood.

from who, he's not sure. there's an equal chance that it's both of them.

he runs his hands through dallas' hair, and slowly, with a groan, makes his way to the bathroom to wash himself. the reflection in the bathroom mirror makes his ears go pink; there are so many bruises and bitemarks on him that he's unable to be sure of what to focus on: the ones on his shoulders, the dark bruised mess of his neck, and the impression of dallas' hands on his hips. his hair is a mess, and he's sure if he went downstairs, two-bit would tell him that he reeks of dallas. a few hours ago and he wouldn't have cared.

now…

now he knows that he has to shower. shower first. and then the rest.

he climbs into the shower, dials it to the hottest setting, and when the water hits, the memory surfaces again, of cleaning up after getting out of the police station. the way soda had sat in the bathroom with him as he tried to scrub himself clean, soda trying his damndest to keep him calm. how he had apologized, over and over again, for what happened with johnny.

in the years since, he thought that he had learned better, knew better. that it was bob who killed him. logic, evidence, showed that. there was a body: johnny's. there was a perpetrator: bob. even if he hadn't worked the scene himself, he knew that. logically. he had read the articles that had come out in the trial that had come out, of bob telling the incident in his own words — self defense, of course. it had been johnny's blade that had been turned on him — of him being exonerated even if what he said wasn't entirely the truth.

the dream, however, said the truth: that after all these years, his emotions still told him that it was his fault, for taunting bob back, for spitting at him, for not watching out for johnny. his fault that he couldn't get away from them, take johnny with him…

somewhere. anywhere.

he knows, as he picks up the soap, lathers it onto his sore body, that none of that was possible. he was a small kid, and so was johnny. they were outnumbered. that for months after that night, he was sick, hardly able to function.

it wasn't his fault, and yet, his brain still can't stop laying the blame at his feet. he still can't think of that night without that feeling of heavy, awful guilt, even with dallas with him, in him, beside him. he's not sure if, in all that night before, he said something to dallas about it, if he knows.

if he had said something, it didn't stop him from being with ponyboy. it certainly doesn't stop him as the door to the bathroom opens, and dallas's scent — mingled with his — seeps into the bathroom. ponyboy keeps washing himself off as dallas shuts the door, then pulls back the meager little curtain.

he looks at him as the water falls, eyebrow half cocked. "couldn't wait, huh?" dallas comments, stepping into the shower without so much as a hell.

"i waited a whole day," ponyboy throws the extra towel at dallas. he isn't sure how to take the way dallas' body looks, the way they seemed to have torn at each other in a way that felt a little less human. that he wanted to do it again, as dallas looks down at him, eyes on the marks on ponyboy's hips. scent is a factor, with the way they mingle with each other — the physical evidence, though, feels like a good reason to compel him to pull dallas closer, to just ignore everything outside of here.

"could wait longer," dallas seems more animated as he moves around ponyboy, hands brushing his back, his sides, as he reaches for soap. "two spook you?"

ponyboy bits back a laugh. "two can't scare me."

"cause you a marshal?" dallas hasn't said it out loud in the entire time they've had together. hearing it on his tongue, the full acknowledgement of who he has become, is almost surreal as the water keeps coming down.

the instinct is to lie, to shake his head. the rest of him, remembers how they were outside, his throat bared. he nods, then, taking the soap from dallas. "he's pack. ain't scared. seen… seen too much to be scared of him."

dallas wipes at his face, at the scars there on his skin. he leans over, turns off the water, and he sits on the edge of the tub. silence washes over them as ponyboy leans against the wet side of the shower, feet meeting dallas' own, even if the rest of him doesn't. he wonders what dallas sees from his side side of the tub, as his voice, deep and gruff as ever, issues out, "was it johnny?"

of course, there it was. the question of why he'd become a marshal, and dallas had gotten to the heart of it in just three words.

"yeah," he nods, using his towel to finish rinsing the back of his neck. he was never able to look at darry or soda in the eye when they asked why. he can look at dallas' face, at the way his jaw ticks. "a marshal was at the court house, on a seperate case. he used to talk to me, while everything was going on. he didn't seem to like the trial, and pulled me under his wing..." he shrugs. "he helped me become a marshal."

he wrings out his towel, the water spattering to the bottom of the tub. he thinks of the way dallas' tongue had laved the scar that had been on his neck since he was fourteen, watches as dallas' eyes seem to flick there and then back to his face. ponyboy grinds the heel of his ankle against the bottom of the tub, letting dallas think in that slow way of his now. "how long?"

"little over ten years," he can see a bit of suds at the back of dallas' ear, and more along his shoulder. ponyboy rocks forward, comes between dallas' legs, bringing his own towel to swipe at them slowly, though he's very sure that dallas hasn't scrubbed behind his ears in some time. "pay ain't bad. get to leave tulsa."

one of his hands braces dallas' thigh as he works. the light is fairly shitty here, just not so shitty that it doesn't illuminate dallas' eyes enough to see the brown there as he watches ponyboy's arm move. dallas reaches out to grip ponyboy's arm as he finishes, the scowl on his face one that isn't built of anger, just frustration. it's something that faintly reminds ponyboy of darry, of the way they had looked at each other in the intervening years. "tulsa that bad?" his grip tightens. "you running?"

ponyboy believes the answer is obvious now, shooting dallas a flat look. dallas's grip tightens more, his gaze stays on ponyboy.

there's no need for dallas to open his mouth to convey it, that he wants ponyboy to actually say it. have the verbal confirmation that they both, in the end had run. that he was going to keep running, even though he knew that it wasn't what he should do. that even now, there's a thought in the back of his mind that's growing stronger and stronger, telling him that maybe, just maybe he could run with dallas. that the thought had been there since dallas' tongue had touched his cheek in the motel room — and maybe, even before then. maybe the seed of it all had been there the moment ponyboy had seen dallas' face again.

he's stared into men's eyes before, and not given them what they wanted. men who had shot at him, had threatened to break his finger, threatened to do more than just gut him with what they'd had, who'd told him they'd delight in fucking open an omega marshal, who had told him point blank that his pain would make them happy. and ponyboy had been able to deny them what they wanted.

except he's fourteen again and not when he says the truth, ecked out of him by a look. "yeah, dally. i'm running."

he doesn't want to fill in the gaps of what and who he's running from. dallas can do a lot of that thinking himself, some of the water from his hair sliding down his neck as he keeps his focus on ponyboy, grip slacking. ponyboy finally puts the towel down, finally gives up anymore pretense of the shower.

he doesn't expect dallas will comfort him, and he doesn't. he just sits with it, jaw working for a moment, and then longer, before offering his hand. ponyboy takes it, lets dallas lead them out the tub. they share the larger towel, make it back to their bedroom they've been sharing.

ponyboy at least bought them more clothes, and when he makes it down to the kitchen, it almost feels normal.

it should, except two-bit is at the table, his eyes cutting as they land on them both. he smells like he's been drinking for awhile now, and the cans on the table that are stacked their confirm as much. ponyboy doesn't know exactly what to say to him even though he feels as if he should say something.

"morning, two-bit," he keeps half an eye on dallas as he moves around him, going to the counter with the shitty little coffee pot on it that ponyboy didn't even have the need for. "you stayin' in?"

two-bit looks scoffs, "no, i gotta leave in a bit." he looks like he's going to say something else, about that talk, when the sound of a phone shatters the silence. immediately, all three of them tense up all at once. the phone rings again — two-bit glances at dallas, brings his finger up. dallas nods, slinking over from the coffee pot to the corner of the kitchen. ponyboy doesn't know what to do except nod at two-bit and watch as he got up to take the phone on the third ring.

"howdy," two-bit takes on a fake affectation, shoulders hunched up. a look of consternation overtakes his expression and then he gives a huff of a laugh. "m— molly? hell, i forgot—" he nods, laughing, and glances to them both, waving his hand, clearly fine. "no, it's just me, you know i ain't got anyone else here."

two-bit is a still a smooth liar. ponyboy relaxes, moves quietly around the kitchen to get his own cigarettes and let two-bit keep the call going — molly was his cousin, and no one to worry about. even if she was married to darry, it wasn't the same. he points out back to the backyard, and after both two-bit and dallas acknowledge him, he goes to have a smoke. there was still tension between them, but the instant two-bit had taken the call, it was a stark reminder of things. that despite whatever was going on, despite whatever territorial debate between them, they were all in this together.

that feels like a pack. that feels like something to hold on to. even if they weren't like the way they were before, there was still loyalty between them. that loyalty, that understanding, still is there.

there's a comfort to it, despite everything.

and that everything else is the problem, too. he had promised himself, didn't he, that now he'd think about it, about what to do with dallas, with two-bit, bob and the other marshals. everything else, he swore he'd deal with with it.

it makes his mouth go dry a little, trying to pick apart at it all: bob's smarmy grin; the way dallas' scars felt beneath his thumb when he touched him; two-bit's disapproving gaze; what to do with a warrant, what he would have to say, how he would have to lie.

there's a crunch behind him, the wind picks up and he scents two-bit, and turns around. two-bit doesn't seem all that pleased — but he also doesn't seem hostile either. "that was from molly — don't worry, she don't think you or dal are here. just regular catch up talk, about her kids and darry." his tone is casual enough, loping over to ponyboy.

he's sure that two-bit has to go to work. he's got the toolbelt on and all, and ponyboy knows that it's early enough. "yeah? everything okay?"

two-bit shrugs, mouth pinching together. "she ain't… well. let's say she ain't really been okay since we were kids. and she's gettin' more worries on her plate than what i like." there's some curiosity in that that ponyboy wants to pry at, yet the rest of him senses that now's not the time. that's confirmed at the firm gaze two-bit settles on him. "i mean it, kid. we gotta have that talk when i get back. all three of us, i don't care."

"we can have it now," ponyboy pushes back, even if his heart pounds in his ears a little. "dal's right, i ain't a kid. say what you want."

two-bit shakes his head. "you don't wanna hear what i got to say. i…" his tongue darts out, licks at his lips. ponyboy frowns, having half a mind to force it out of him even if two-bit is probably right. "i'll see y'all tonight. you just take the time with dally."

the way he says it makes ponyboy's ears burn, and his guts twist up. two-bit always knew other people better than what they thought, and in this moment, he wonders what two-bit sees, what he knows. what he could say to him.

it balls itself up in his gut, the need to know and the need to not push it, to take what's been given to him, a little more time to push everything else away. he feels as if it's not quite cowardice that holds him rooted to the spot as two-bit goes not through the house, but through the back, hopping the fence and making his way to his car.

the wind lifts up, and he thinks he smells rain on the horizon.

there's a scuff of boots. ponyboy turns his head to the backporch instantly. dallas is standing there, and there's the faint smell of bacon and eggs coming from the kitchen. he wants to make a quip about dallas and cooking, yet doesn't find it in him, not yet.

he retreats inside, underneath dallas' dark gaze, and his hand on his back.

at least, he thinks, breakfast will be easy. dallas seems fairly animated as he cooks, allowing ponyboy to elbow around him, moving without need to talk. secretly, ponyboy finds himself enjoying it, maneuvering around like the way they had done the day before.

when he sits down, he takes first bite of it, the eggs a little burnt but sunny side up. the sausage is a little pinker than what he'd normally take, and the grits need a little more butter — or a bit of sugar. he catches dallas' eyes, gives him a grin.

it's the best breakfast he's had in awhile — not including the way that his feet settle between dallas' own as they eat.

when he's scraping the plate off into the trash can, that's when dallas decides to bite out a question: "how'd you know?" ponyboy glances up from the trash can, and dallas turns the sink water on. "that you'd be a marshal?"

"didn't," ponyboy pushes the little bit of food left into the trashcan — he didn't really have to, generally picking his plate clean, more of the action of getting the more difficult pieces off the plate more than anything. "i worked for it, hard as i could. they ain't real cozy around omegas." he frowns, using the spoon to scrape at a difficult spot. "went on suppressants, put in as many hours as i could, made sure they didn't have an excuse to not let me get my badge."

satisfied, he walks the plate and utensils to dallas. what he'd told was the short version, bereft of the warts and all that come with it. dallas takes the plate with a look that says he wants to hear about it — and that opening his mouth to say it would be annoying for him and ponyboy. a look ponyboy would have openly mistaken for anger as a kid, but now, he was getting to understand his expressions better, the way his frown could go in a certain direction to indicate what he means.

"you don't wanna hear all that," ponyboy tries to brush it off, and dallas' lip curls. he does.

to fill the silence, maybe. to actually hear ponyboy's voice. because he did want to know. whatever motive dallas has, he keeps it to himself, waiting expectantly for ponyboy to talk, hands dipping into the soapy water in the sink.

darry has asked this question before, sharp and angry. soda has asked quiet, inquisitive. none of them have heard it the way ponyboy says it to dallas, his voice low, describing the time with the marshal he'd met — pulled in not just because the man hadn't liked the procedure, but because he listened, because he cared about what ponyboy had to say. how he'd given ponyboy his card, encouraged him to do something on his own. how how he had worked, day after day, night after night. studying. making sure that he qualified for any and everything. having to work an extra job to afford suppressants, to make sure that no one could tell he was an omega without him telling them. the alphas who seemed incensed at his very presence, the amount of work it took to make up for being smaller, weaker than them.

he talks until they aren't doing dishes anymore, until they're in the living room, the sunlight haloing around dallas' hair as he tells him things that darry and soda have never heard. things he's kept to himself for years. lets the entire thing spill out of him, until by the time he's over, he's not sure of how or when he was pulled into dallas' lap, except that when he's done, he can see the mottled, dark mark on dallas' neck from his bite, can feel dallas' hand on his back, thumb going in circles.

"you ain't on 'em," dallas takes advantage of the momentary silence. "why?"

"the suppressants?" ponyboy runs his own hand against dallas' side. "yeah, i ain't on 'em now. doctor said i was gonna get a disorder, if i kept on 'em." there's a note of bitterness, a little fear. of what could be said, gossiped about if this, if any of this ever got out. if he had to go back. the accusations, the disapproval, all of it proving that he wasn't fit because of his dynamic. because he kissed dallas first, because he had told dallas he'd wanted his knot, and that now, he wanted him again, hand moving up dallas' side even as his thoughts spin and spin and spin.

a sharp pain in his ear tugs him out of his thoughts, and ponyboy jerks upwards. dallas' teeth let go of the shell of his ear, tongue a bright pink in the sunlight. "thinkin' too loud."

"you don't make sense," ponyboy huffs out, and then dallas tips his head downward, to kiss him before he can talk anymore.

no more talking is good, he decides.


the morning lazes into the afternoon, and the sky grows darker, the air smells of oncoming rain. two-bit isn't anywhere to be seen; ponyboy feels a little nervous for him as he watches the sky. dallas doesn't seem to be worried, roughly opening a window as the wind picks up.

"y'sure he can get home in all this?" ponyboy thinks he can maybe scent a little chlorine in the air, though it makes no sense for it to be there. his hand reaches up to scratch at the scar those soc kids had given him years back, eyes on the skies above. he still had more time to check in later; and he hopes, quietly, that the storm will be bad enough that the power could knock out, give him an excuse.

dallas grunts, but there's a shadow of concern on his face. "two'll figure it out."

ponyboy watches him as he lights another cigarette, framed by the window. lightning sparks in the distance, sends a wash of white light over dallas, illuminating his brown hair, ghosting over his skin. his shoulders still look a little raw from ponyboy's scratches in a way that makes ponyboy quietly pleased to see.

he comes beside dallas, mouth resting on the cool skin of dallas' arm, right where a scratch mark is still a little raised, still a little pink. dallas clicks the lighter, and ponyboy murmurs out, "where'd you lose it? the st. christopher?"

a dark eyebrow moves up. ponyboy doesn't lower his eyes. "mississippi. down in union." he shifts, hands ponyboy the kool. ponyboy takes it from him, takes a drag as the wind kicks up, the sound of the trees around them rustling. "fuzz got pissed. fucker took it off my neck." he points, though he doesn't have to, grin on his mouth pleased as he says it. "took three tries." the laughs he gives is low, teeth flashing in the night. "said it was disrespectful."

ponyboy rolls his eyes in response. "fuzz ain't that smart."

"you feds are?" dallas retorts; his grin widens when ponyboy nips at his arm in response. "know you spread your legs." his grin turns a little sharper at ponyboy. "don't know bout smarts."

lightning flashes again, and ponyboy can't help slicking up at the reminder. "kind of hard not to, with someone that insistent on getting between 'em." the look dallas gives him is sharp, enough to tell him that he has a half mind to make ponyboy spread his legs then and there. "y'miss having it?"

dallas' fingers brush against his as he takes the kool back from ponyboy, the scent of rain getting stronger, richer. "yeah. had it since i was seven," his free hand reaches out to pull ponyboy closer, thumb on ponyboy's back. "ring, too. lost that…" dallas goes quiet for a moment. " '71. missoula."

"missoula?" ponyboy's eyebrows raise at that, still not sure how he could envision it, hungry for the details. "what were you doing all the way up there?"

"hitchhiked," the answer is short, which only makes ponyboy huff in frustration that dallas won't say more. which almost feels like the point, dallas' grin getting wider. "lost it up there."

not satisfied, ponyboy pries for more as thunder rumbles. "when you'd go? what for? it's cold as hell up there."

"you been?" dallas asks, watching when ponyboy nods in affirmative. he goes silent again for a moment, the thunder rumbling around outside. "chasin' something for tim." he frowns deeper, the cigarette burning like a lit ember in the evening. "he hit me. square between the eyes." dallas' thumb brushes up between his eyes, along the fine hair between his eyebrows that ponyboy used to draw diligently. "woke up, was gone." the cigarette is passed back to ponyboy. "found him. couldn't find the ring."

he thinks he can see it in his minds eye: dallas dazed, angry. beating the man back, demanding where the ring was, angry. snarling as he tries to get the ring out, the cold around him. he takes a drag, feels dallas shift so that ponyboy is half slotted against him. he knows if he could find their shadows now, he'd be able to see them as intertwined as they were the first evening, in the backyard.

"you miss it more than the necklace?" ponyboy can't help to ask, with more courage he would've had at fourteen years old, just curiosity on his face. he's sure dallas hasn't ever been asked this either, with the way he glances down at him, the expression on his face making his brows work together, his scars striking. he doesn't answer verbally, choosing to shake his head. ponyboy huffs, wanting to pull more words out of dallas — and then wondering if this was how dallas felt sometimes, when he was a quiet kid.

thunder echoes over the distance, louder than ever. lightning tears at the sky. dallas' form illuminates, and then he leans downward to catch ponyboy's mouth in his. it's not as sharp as his other kisses have been, less bite and more softness to it than what ponyboy has experienced when they hadn't been in the bed together, in that strange space between them.

his heart speeds up, and he barely remembers not to drop the cigarette. desire coils in him for more, a hunger for more than just this. when dallas pulls away, ponyboy moves forward — he's the one who nips down on dallas' bottom lip this time. the cigarette he snubs out, using both hands to fist dallas' shirt in his.

it feels good, to bite. to be the one to dig his fingers into dallas' side as more thunder rolls through, as there's finally a drizzle of rain that spatters against his cheeks, that he sees on dallas' scarred face as they part. he can tell dallas likes it too, his hand coming up to caress ponyboy's neck, palm cool against his skin.

who're you scenting me for? ponyboy wants to ask. instead, what comes out of his mouth is, "we gotta make sure the door's locked, closed. don't want the wind to blow it open tonight."

as if two-bit's not coming back. as if he wants two-bit to stay away.

maybe he does. they take time to get downstairs, to make sure the doors are closed, the windows shut. it's when ponyboy is trying to go check the front door, to make sure that rain couldn't get through, when the lights flicker, and then they all go out at once.

every mild hum of appliances winks out; when he glances outside, he can see the entire block is out as heavy rain begins to lash against them all, the lighting and thunder beginning to occur closer and closer together. a part of him wonders if two-bit will be okay in this, wishing there was a way to reach out to him — the rest of him feels a thrill knowing that more than likely, with the way the rain was coming down, the wind was picking up, two-bit wouldn't travel in this. he'd stay at work.

which left him and dallas, alone for even longer.

it's almost juvenile, the excitement he feels. he knows that they can't do this, that they can't keep just falling into this, and yet, once he checks the door, finishes lining up the towels, it almost feels like a storm in tulsa. there had been more than one, and sometimes, the pack was stuck with each other. in those times, before his parents died, sometimes they exchanged stories to pass the time, to ease off the sense of danger in storms. after they had died, there hadn't been many storms to pass with the pack as it was; then once johnny died, it was a lonelier affair than before.

"dally?" ponyboy calls out, trying to make his way to the kitchen. "dal, you know where the candles are?" there's a boom of thunder overhead that cuts into some of the excitement — the way the wind sounds in the trees doesn't help. his hands flutter around, trying to figure out which drawer was which, trying to find candles.

admittedly, the house was spare. it probably had to be, ponyboy cursing when his fingers land on a knife's business end. there's a loud rustle of trees outside, a crack of lightning that illuminates the house for one fine moment, washing everything in an eerie light. the light's enough to show him the drawer is the wrong one, and he slams it shut as thunder rumbles out.

he curses, the rain lashing harder than before, the trees swaying outside. the house seems to groan around him, pulling open drawer after drawer, looking for—

a hand lands on his shoulder. ponyboy jumps, reaching for a gun that isn't there.

"no candles here," dallas can hardly be seen in the darkness, and ponyboy doesn't want to think about the fact that his scent is so embedded in the house (in him) that he just can't find him in the dark the way dallas seemingly found him. "they're upstairs."

ponyboy can't help but snort a little. because why would two-bit make sense, and keep them downstairs? dallas' hand keeps a firm grip on his bicep, moving them out the kitchen as the rain picks up. in a few minutes, dallas has two honestly shitty, stubby candles lit in their room. ponyboy puts one on the meager little dresser he's got, and the other one he decides to keep unlit, just in case. the whole house is filled with the smell of rain and their own scents — the second a little stronger when he finds dallas' arm around his waist, pulling him into hs lap on the bed.

it's a move plenty of alphas have done, have tried to do with him. he's never enjoyed it until now, when he slots against dallas' body in a way that feels natural, a way that he knows should set off alarm bells in the back of his head but doesn't as another streak of lightning illuminates the room briefly. this time he can see the way their bodies look in the shadow the light casts, his legs and dallas' legs, their torsos connected.

the light fades, and despite the warm feeling in him that blooms when dallas' nose presses against his neck, he can't help a question that's been lodged in his throat for years finally coming forward, safer to say in the darkness of a rainstorm than a cheery morning. "you ever want to come back?" ponyboy licks at his lips, voice lifting, "i mean — did you ever want to come back to tulsa?"

it's not what he should have asked here, in this moment. a thousand questions were easier, less packed than that one, yet it's a question that's been sitting with him, a question he's had since he saw dallas' face again for the first time. no matter how good things felt, no matter how much he wanted dallas, there would forever been those lost years between them, the feeling of anger and and emptiness and abandonment that had nestled inside of him since he'd heard dallas had left. no amount of sex, no promise of a future in any direction could erase it.

he wanted, and deserved to know.

he feels dallas' leg beside his, his breath on his neck. the air grows thicker from the rain. dallas' voice cascades over him, deep, slow, "sometimes. before two caught up with me." the wind comes through, and dallas' voice remains steady. "never went back. couldn't."

it's a loaded statement. "you still got caught, though. in oklahoma city."

dallas hums. "close as i got." ponyboy wants to pry more. ask about the bus, the escape. if he and curly had done more than exchange words, if at all.

"you ever—" light floods the room again, and then thunder rolls by, the storm almost on top of them now. "i mean… you ever think about it? johnny's grave? the rest of us?" he feels as if dallas would have had to. ponyboy had thought about it in passing, on and off over the years. the way he had to pass by johnny's grave on the way to school, after track meets, sometimes just to go to a grocery store.

he couldn't even say that he'd gone to the funeral service. he'd only known about johnny's mother glaring daggers at them all, of her being furious from sodapop days after.

there's the press of dallas' fangs against his neck. ponyboy reaches down, sinks his fingers into the side of dallas' thigh. "sometimes." dallas almost sighs the word out against ponyboy's skin. "yeah. sometimes."

his fingers sink further into dallas' thigh. he wants to know more. wants to pull out more words than what dallas could give. needs it so badly. "why ain't you ever come? never known you as a coward."

the way dallas' fangs sink into his skin then is sharp, punshing. ponyboy leans back into it, urges it on. at least he can ask. at least dallas can answer.

he can hear rain spatter against the floor. the silence stretches on for a bit, until dallas' voice fills it out, slow, deliberate. "thought about it. didn't feel right." ponyboy thinks about it, about the way dallas had reacted that first morning, a lifetime ago. how his fingers had dug into his skin, the scent of blood. the sense dallas had given him of failure.

that it was all too late to truly fix that, undo johnny's death, the time at the movie theater. more rain filters in, and the wind picks up. the silence stretches on until dallas breaks it. "why'd you run?" he shifts, palm against ponyboy's side. "ain't just a marshal convince you."

dallas' fingers dig into his skin; ponyboy remembers what he promised. no bullshit. only honesty between them. "...darry." he's never told anyone this before, never thought of it. and yet, it feels safe, as the rain filters through, as dallas' fingers ease only slightly as lightning and thunder being to resonate together. "we- we were out that night, cause darry hit me. we were leaving together — y'know the way we used to talk, when things got bad." that isn't all, though. he knows it and dallas must certainly know it with the way his hands go entirely slack. "after that… just felt like the house, tulsa wasn't home anymore. darry never hit me again, but it was…. was like something was lost. couldn't get it back."

even doing this, even sharing makes his chest tight, eyes wet and hot. remembering in the days after how darry wouldn't reach out to touch him. how he couldn't trust himself around darry anymore, how even looking at darry in the eye was difficult. how it had gone from one hit to the face to never exchanging hugs with him again, never shaking his hand, to that moment at soda's house, wary of him around benny even if the rest of him knew it would never happen again, that the night had never repeated itself.

that he and darry weren't pack anymore, not in the way they should be. they would never be pack again.

it's not until he feels dallas' tongue on his cheek that he realizes he's said the words out loud, the remembrances, the emptiness. he shuts his eyes, tries to collect himself, but dallas doesn't do anything except lick at the tears, ponyboy turning to face him.

he shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have let it out all at once. but.

no bullshit.

he allows himself to let dallas clean him up. lets himself be cared for after so many years of ignoring it, as the rain continues and the lighting and thunder simply roil out together.

there's no more talking in sentences, just bodies: ponyboy and dallas finding each other in the dark, only occasionally caught by the light.


a dreamy little chapter but, well, it won't stay that way.

thank you guys so much for reading! i love comments, anything you guys have to ask or feel like saying. there's one more chapter for this and i appreciate everyone's patience and interest in this as i love this series a lot. once again special shout out to hearthouses and aishitaeru for their respective support and input on this.