the house is silent, save for ponyboy, in the kitchen, hands shaking as he washes them beneath the sink's faucet. no matter how hard he tries, he can't stop crying as he cleans his hands up.

he doesn't want to cry anymore. he feels wrung out as the cold water sluices down his skin, as he tries to comprehend the last few hours in their entirety. it's a jumble: of forcing dallas into the basement, locking the door behind him and pretending not to hear dallas' snarls, hearing him ram against the door, of helping two-bit off the floor and having to assess his injuries, having to get ice for the burn, the swelling, the way two-bit's eyes had fixed on him as he'd done it.

the last thing he'd done, after dragging two-bit up the steps, after getting him in bed, was this, finally tending to his own wounds. he can't keep himself from crying, can't keep the wave of despair, of intense panic from hitting him. the way that his wrist throbs, the blood that still wells up makes him shake, in a way that he hadn't shaken in years.

he knows that he's suffered worse, physically. has the scars, the aches, the pains to prove it.

eventually, the blood seeps down the sink. even the nail beds are free of blood now, but all he can do is stare blankly at his trembling hands, at the bite mark that dallas left. the water gushes — the sound of dallas banging against the door grows louder, his cries less than human, no words forming anymore, just snarls, just desperate animal sounds that pull at ponyboy. he should go get him, open the door, tell him it's fine, that— that—

that what?

that he'd harmed two-bit so badly that ponyboy had thought about compromising them all and calling a hospital. that the bite felt like there was intent to mate with the force. that with one action, the metal hitting skin, breaking bone, that they no longer had a future like this.

that ponyboy had been stupid. ponyboy had been foolish and naive and now things couldn't be fixed anymore, that there was no way to get the pieces back. his hands start to shake again, the smell of chlorine coming up his nose again, the blood thickening and before ponyboy can stop himself, he's retching into the sink the same way he'd wretched in the park after he had understood he was looking at a body and no longer a person.

It's impossible to know how long his body wrings itself out over the sink. only that by the time the thin, yellow bile is washed away beneath the faucet, ponyboy is sure that there is nothing left in him, finally. that his body is done for now.

he sinks to the kitchen floor, puts his head on his knees and dully realizes that dallas has stopped banging on the door.

time moves on, spins. his eyes shut, and ponyboy puts his head against the sharp tops of his knees. his mind keeps circling back to the sound, the feeling of darry's hand striking his cheek mixing with the flat, awful sound of the skillet in dallas' hand cracking against two-bit's face. the scent of blood tainting both memories, the fall out from darry having him run, run, run. that he can't do that now, his wrist aches and his throat is sore and every inclination to not think about the future is gone now.

all he has now is to look at it. the way he eventually had to look at johnny's body and understand that he was dead. the way that he looked at darry's cold face and understood that they could never go back to what they were. the way he had looked at andrew when he told him that he couldn't be on suppressants all the time.

he has to look. he has to decide. he has to move forward even if it's hurting him. even if he wishes for his parents, for soda to hold him, tell him what to do.

he's on his own, now.

ponyboy draws in breath after breath. call. he has to make a call, now.

he struggles to get up, doesn't feel as if his body is his own as he goes to the phone. there's a fleck of blood on the receiver as he picks it up and dials the number he needs. the phone rings and then it picks up. "andrew, it's ponyboy. things— things have changed." a pause. "escalated."

"escalated?" andrew's voice colors with worry on the line.

ponyboy grips, ungrips the receiver, grips it again. "i need you here. tomorrow. i'll pay every penny, but this can't wait." his voice trembles, and he wishes it wouldn't, eyes pinching shut. "please — please, andrew."

there's a shift on the other line. ponyboy thinks he can hear movement in the basement. "when you say escalated—"

"i mean — i mean people are hurt," the words are said quietly, with shame. "so i need you to pack. i'll book your flight, get a car. please."

for a moment, his faith in andrew wavers. he thinks he might be sharp with him over the phone, that he might have his frustration boil over. "i'll clear my schedule and i'll wait for your call. it might be best to ask for private services, for what i'll have to bring to assist you all."

"i'll do that. thanks, andrew," ponyboy hangs up, then.

if there is a scrape at the basement door, he doesn't hear it.

it's going to cost a lot to fly andrew in. ponyboy still pays every penny that is demanded of him, and calls andrew back quickly. by the time everything is settled, even though it's only been calls — things he's been able to do routinely since about eighteen — he feels exhausted by it all.

the only thing he has left to do now is to check up on two-bit and to clean the kitchen. two-bit doesn't do anything but keep his eyes shut when ponyboy puts down some more aspirin and water. he can't tell if he's actually asleep or not.

the rest of him is stuck in the kitchen, having to scrub off the blood from the floor, from the phone. getting as much blood out in small places it had been sent to, wringing the sponges and towels out. having to clean the skillet (remembering the way it sounded against two-bit's face, how it had sounded hitting the floor), the table.

he does it until he has to open the window, air out the smell of cleaner.

going up to the bedroom that had become his and dallas' nest isn't an option. going to the spare room that had been dallas' before wasn't an option either. going back to the motel is too far — so ponyboy lays on the couch, hating the way he and dallas' scents are still there, hating the way that a day before, they'd been on his couch, reading. hating that when he shuts his eyes, he knows that nightmares are going to be what greets him and not a good night's rest. all the aspirin is up there with two-bit and he doesn't know if he can even trust himself with the bottle when he had to wake up in the morning to get andrew.

he goes without; as predicted, the nightmares hook themselves into him as soon as his eyes shut and his body drifts off. the dreams swirl together: darry hitting him that night in the house, but the sound is mixed with that of the skillet coming down on two-bit; the flash of bob's rings mingling with the sight of dallas illuminated by lightning; the smell of blood in the kitchen, the sight of johnny staggering, eyes wide for the last time, blood seeping out of him; ponyboy in the shower, crying despite soda being beside him, only when he turns around it's two-bit's swollen, bruised, blood face.

when he wakes up, it's almost four in the morning and every part of ponyboy's body aches. there's a cold wind in the house, damp sweat on his forehead, and he's shivering. he's cramped into the couch, the wind is loud outside, and he can hear a scrape against the door of the basement. it's dallas — and he's sure that he wasn't quiet in his nightmares.

he turns on his side, lets his eyes fall on the door. it hadn't been easy to get dallas down there: his eyes had been wild, dark, teeth snapping angrily, almost completely overpowering ponyboy. it had taken every bit of training, every subtle remembrance of how dallas had moved when they were kids, every ounce of control to have gotten the door open and shoving him inside.

ponyboy had thought he would break down the door with the force of dallas throwing himself against it. how dallas didn't even sound like a normal person anymore, the ferality chewing him up, turning every instinct on fire and refusing to let dallas go.

he had banged against it for almost hours and now it was just the sound of scrapes, no doubt him clawing at the door.

he wants to open it. he wants to get up, open it and pretend things were going to be normal again. that things were going to be okay, and the rest of him knows now that it can't happen. that if he does that, there's a good chance that not only would he would miss picking andrew up, but if he came here in the morning, found them, ponyboy and dallas both would be mated and it wouldn't be gentle. it'd might even be like one of those horrible crimes ponyboy had to work on, a mating so violent that it kills one or both.

it's less frightening to him, than it should be that it could be that violent. all this time he'd spent suppressing his own dynamic, all these years of choking it down and now his dynamic felt as if it had risen up, grasped everything and controlled it all. how else could he explain that the idea of it, of a mating that was bloody, that could maybe kill him sound appealing? how else could he still want dallas, still want him above him with those dark eyes, fangs bared, hands pinning him beneath him?

ponyboy brings his hands up, digs his palms into his eyes.

the scraping goes on.


he gets to the landing strip at five-fifty am and the drive does not improve his spirits. ponyboy hardly had it in him to get dressed, to get to the strip in his car. he's sure that once andrew sees him, he'll see the bags beneath his eyes, catch the utter exhaustion on his face in ways other people wouldn't. andrew was like that, and it suited him given things.

ponyboy leans against the car, waits as the plane lands and andrew disembarks. he was one of the few people taller than darry by a good four inches, but while his height said one thing, the rest of him said another. he wasn't an alpha; he was a beta, and his glasses are as thick as ever when his eyes land on ponyboy. they're green, but in a more analytical way than ponyboy has ever seen on anyone else, and he shakes hands with the pilot as he disembarks.

it's easy to close the distance, ponyboy reaching for some of his bags, not quite ready to speak. just seeing how many of them are clearly for medical purposes makes his stomach turn, grateful that he hadn't and anything to eat.

"thank you, ponyboy," andrew picks up the biggest one, his voice as kind as it ever was. but kindness on andrew wasn't the same as kindness on everyone else. ponyboy nods, putting the bags in his car, andrew helping him.

once the doors were closed, once they hit the road, the silence between them thickens. ponyboy doesn't even reach over to play the radio, andrew shifting in the passenger side, taking off his glasses to squint at them. "would you prefer to tell me now what your 'escalation' means or would you prefer that i see it myself and then you give me the details?"

ponyboy swallows, hand clammy on the wheel. it's the coward's way out he takes. "better for you to see it."

he can hear andrew put his glasses back on. ponyboy presses his foot on the gas, ponders some small talk. "flight was okay?"

"as fine as it can be," andrew humors him, eyes running over the horizon, tone as solid as ever. "i've been taking more flights than usual in the past year, regardless."

"that so?" ponyboy bites at the inside of his cheek. "they keeping you real busy?"

"if by they, you mean myself, yes," andrew leans back, one knee propped up. he's almost too tall for the car, one arm slung over his knee, "i've advanced my research, launched a program to study dynamics on a more personal level than before. a shame i'm not able to pry you from work — you're an interesting case yourself."

the laugh ponyboy is the first one he's had in days, and it's dry. andrew doesn't laugh though, as serious as ever.

when they get to the house, andrew steps out first, to rake a critical eye over it. his hands go into the pockets of his jeans, and he seems to look for something ponyboy doesn't know. he busies himself with taking everything out of the car — and the moment he enters, dallas starts banging against the basement door again with that alarming strength of his.

the door still holds up, but dallas sounds angrier, worse as ponyboy moves the bags in quicker, and andrew crosses the threshold. most people might've pretended to ignore the banging. not andrew; his head turns around immediately, and he stops in the middle of the living room, watching, listening as dallas throws himself against the door, as he snarls.

andrew gets that look that always told ponyboy he was either going to receive some bad news or some news that would be complicated, where his eyebrows work together, his two fingers going up to touch his chin. it's that look that's much too observant, much too piercing for ponyboy. he's never liked that look, and having it here, it makes his stomach turn. whereas socs — bob had looks on them that made ponyboy uncomfortable, he at least knew some of what to do. usually he could tell what was coming could be dealt with.

not with andrew. whenever that look happened, whatever was going to happen after was going to be hard to manage.

"the escalation must've been quite violent," it feels like the obvious — yet the way the words from andrew feel startling to ponyboy's ears. "that alpha sounds like he's feral and has been for some time."

the thought of tell me something i don't know crosses ponyboy's mind. the rest of him wishes andrew wouldn't do this. and that, well. he has to. "he ain't the only one."

"no, i wouldn't think so," andrew focuses his eyes on ponyboy. "if i had to guess, he didn't exert that aggression on you; people still think that most alpha aggression is focused on omegas and that isn't true. it would be another alpha he'd express it with this sort of ferocity after." his eyes drift to the kitchen and then to the stairs. "i take it the alpha he expressed it on is upstairs?"

mute, ponyboy nods.

andrew hums, as if they're talking about the weather and not people. "i'll take my big black bag. could you get some coffee started? eggs, scrambled, too. i don't think i can work on an empty stomach." ponyboy offers his bag, and watches andrew ascend the steps, the banging from dallas growing slower and slower.

he doesn't stop watching andrew until he knocks on two-bit's door, and opens it. then he's back in the kitchen, hand shaking as he starts to make shitty coffee and eggs.

it takes half an hour for andrew to come back down. the banging on the door stopped at the fifteen minute mark and doesn't start back up when andrew comes back down. his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and when ponyboy offers him the coffee and plate, his hands almost miss them, having to reach out a second time to get them, and set them on the table.

ponyboy sits opposite him, cigarette in his mouth, still feeling exhausted. andrew has the courtesy to at least get mostly into his meal when he finally wipes at his mouth and says, "mr. mathews wasn't fully cognizant when i spoke to him. however, he did tell me some important details — i'm rather shocked he doesn't have more damage to his face."

"only cause i didn't let dal go in for a second hit," ponyboy mumbles out, feeling sick as he says it. "he'd have finished it there if i let him." he looks at andrew's face as he says it, how his expression remains placid, mild the way it always was during appointments with him. "what else did he tell you?"

"due to the injuries, not as much as i would have liked to know," andrew takes a sip of his coffee, humming after he swallows. "if i would have to guess, from him and the alpha in the basement, this was an act of violence brought on by some slight — real or imagined — with regards to territory. you, namely." his finger points at ponyboy's still bruised, finally starting to heal, neck. "you have all the markings of an omega in the process of feral reclamation. i've also known you since you were eighteen years old, and almost every year you have told me that you are not open to the possibility of mating nor were you ever. you fought me tooth and nail to stay on suppressants even when i warned you that doing so would give you a heat disorder so disabling you might have to quit your job ten years early. even then," his voice grows sharper, "you tried every work around until you went off of them. so this? this is quite the surprise to me."

when andrew sets the mug down, the way it scrapes the table feels like a gunshot.

shame pools in ponyboy, and defiance, too. because andrew wasn't wrong, he never has been wrong. they had spent so much time haggling with each other, fighting over ponyboy's career before, over his health. "it ain't like this was a one night stand i took up with just anyone."

"it's not?" andrew leans back, challenging, using the same tone he'd always take when ponyboy would say something that andrew could squash in just six words.

ponyboy works his jaw. "you know— you're the only one who knows. about johnny. bob. the pack i had as a kid." he can't bear to look at andrew's face, eyes looking at his shoulder instead, at the white fabric that had clearly been ironed with care. "he's — both of them are from that pack. i… i didn't want to have to… it's—"

it feels so trite to say that things weren't what they seemed, that things were complicated. except they are. there are so many things to untangle at once, so many things tearing at him in different directions and he can't possibly pack it into one trite phrase, into one thing.

there's a scrape of andrew's mug on the table. "hard. complicated. difficult. words i have heard from you over the years, often. i'm used to you being a conundrum, marshal. i think that's probably why i like having you as a patient." andrew gives a slight smile that makes ponyboy not feel all that much better. "so why don't you start at the beginning, and i'll be the judge of it's difficulty to understand."

"you're going to need more coffee than that," ponyboy takes the mug from him.

it takes longer than he would like to explain to andrew. he can't always look at andrew in the eye as he speaks, looking over his shoulder or at the table beneath him, or at his own mug of water or his cigarette. more than once, he has to stop, throat going dry or emotions making his words stick in his throat, trying to convey everything to andrew.

in all that, andrew remains very andrew about it: at some point he'd pulled out a pen and a notebook. he'd write things down here or there, without interrupting ponyboy a single time, drinking coffee and then switching to water. when ponyboy finally finishes, allows his voice to trail off into silence, andrew taps his pen against the paper, humming in his throat. in all that time, there's been no noise from the basement door, and two-bit hasn't come down at all.

he's not sure what he's expecting now. ponyboy has told it all, has wrung himself out dry and andrew is sitting opposite him, eyes sharp, pen scratching at the paper, with questions on the tip of his tongue.

"i noticed in all of that you haven't gone to see dallas since you cut him off," andrew intones. "are you afraid of him?"

"no," ponyboy frowns. "i ain't been scared of him since i was a kid." he glances at the door now, and then back at andrew. "i just… i don't know how to get it to him and— and not— "

free him. touch him. tell him that it was his fault, that they should run away together. they whirl around in ponyboy's head all at once.

"mate him?" andrew answers bluntly from the other end of the table. ponyboy's eyes flick to his face and then the wall. he pretends he can't see andrew's hand go up to touch his beard, back down again to the table and then back up again, sighing heavily. "so you at least understand what happened here, don't you?"

ponyboy nods grimly. "dal must — he got territorial. i ain't see it and now two-bit's barely keeping his face together and dallas is in the basement like a dog." he lets his voice tinge the last few words with bitterness, unable to keep it out.

there's a scrape of his chair as andrew shifts. "when you were first referred to me, do you remember what they told you i specialized in?"

the urge to push it away, make andrew speak concisely tugs at ponyboy. except whenever andrew engages in this kind of talk, it's always ponyboy can't resist even if he's frustrated. "abnormal dynamics," ponyboy chews at his lip. "over my heats and suppressants. you said you treated anyone with it." he remembers the office, the too blue teal walls. the way he had bounced his leg, wishing he'd remembered to bring a spare book with him, not knowing what to do.

"right, i tend to all dynamics, broadly. which as you know, there are several areas that i have an interest in — ferality in dynamics, being one of them," andrew keeps his tone even, but firm. "you know because you have asked my advice, you've been very curious. most of my patients don't tend to ask much, but when we started talking you had many questions. now, what stood out to me was that you always looked at my feral alpha charts, called me twice for clarification on a case, but not much than that. which leads me to believe that you have some familiarity with feral alphas."

"i always knew dallas wasn't like other alphas," ponyboy huffs out, "i knew he was feral, here."

andrew nods. "but you didn't understand the extent of his ferality." the stress on the word extent makes ponyboy wince. "feral alphas are heightened in many ways ponyboy — i know that you know this. what you might not understand is that with your friend, he's over a certain threshold of ferality. if he is behaving violently, if it is something that you are unable to predict, and if he has been violent with you—"

"i was stopping him—"

"— even in a moment involving protection, he is too biologically impaired to escape with you," andrew doesn't even raise his voice. "his senses, emotions, and body are not manageable at this moment. if you go with him like this, you risk harming yourself more than others. if you're asking me for an easy solution to that, i can only offer one thing as the only way to get him back to a basic threshold would be to mate."

the words drop down heavy, unsettling. mate. ponyboy looks directly at andrew now, at the serious look on his face. they both know how heavy that word is, the amount of times that they've talked around it, the times that they've both known that that word has been one of contention. and andrew voices it, "you and have both had talks about that. how many times your own issues might've been straightened out by mating, and your resistance to it. you have turned that down many times in favor of suppressants until i had to have you withdraw from suppressant usage. the first time i mentioned it to you, you proceeded to get into a ten minute conversation with me about your resistance to it." andrew leans closer, eyes narrowed. "which brings me to this: are you seriously considering that option, now?"

ponyboy doesn't want to have to say it outloud. he doesn't want to acknowledge that yes, he is. that the moment in the hotel bed, when he had thought the first time that he wanted to mate dallas, it hadn't ever truly left his mind. that he wanted to dallas to bite him on the right side, that he wanted to be with him — and that it outweighed almost everything else. that it hadn't stopped bearing on him since that moment, and his hands flex and unflex. his throat goes dry, and he can't make his mouth work.

it's in his face, though. he knows that andrew can read his expression, his intent and andrew shakes his head. "twelve years, you've been my patient," now his voice does start to climb. "you've been my patient for twelve years, and in all that time, i have given you suggestions, i've helped you with your suppressants, and your potential for disorder. i've known you for twelve years and you would never have thought about it otherwise. and now you are. for him," andrew keeps driving the point in, as if the repetition will suddenly illuminate things.

it doesn't. ponyboy knows this, eyes glancing back to andrew, his chest tight. "this isn't like those times, andrew. he ain't — it's not like that. dallas is different, all of this is different."

andrew huffs, tense. "i understand that you didn't walk in here thinking that this situation would happen. i understand that you are not versed in this the way that i am and i don't think that your efforts aren't commendable — as usual for you, i can see that you demonstrated more empathy than what is expected of you. i believe that you love him." the words are said so matter of factly that ponyboy hardly grasps onto them being said at first. "and if you really do love him, you're not going mate him. mating him can stabilize him but i don't want you to throw away what you've worked so hard for. i don't want all those years go go down the train for you, marshal."

"then what else is there?" ponyboy almost begs, desperate. "i can't let him go back to prison, to bob. i can't let him on the streets, he can't go anywhere like this, you even said. what — what else can i do except mate him, andrew?"

a breeze picks up, the sound of the trees rustling filling up the kitchen for a moment, andrew's expression firm behind his glasses. "ponyboy, you are not wholly responsible for him."

"i feel like i am. i should be," ponyboy thinks of the way dallas had run from tulsa, of the way he'd looked when ponyboy had told him the truth. thinks of the way they'd argued, and ponyboy had come back, to talk to him, still. thinks of the sound of the skillet hitting two-bit's face, how he should've told two-bit to stop earlier, that it was his fault the talk had gotten out of control.

"you aren't," andrew pushes back. "there's only one thing that can be done for him if mating cannot be done and that is releasing him to me for long term treatment elsewhere." the words fall out, each one sharper than the last, so matter of fact that ponyboy's mouth dries out. "and the care that he needs isn't short; he needs long term care — care that can take years to provide for him, in an environment that can truly help him be the person you know he is — because right now, he isn't. he's running only on instinct and he cannot survive like that. and if you love him, ponyboy, you are going to let him get that."

if he were younger, ponyboy is sure he would hate andrew in this moment in the same way he used to hate darry or steve with the frankness of his words. but where darry and steve were his blood brother and packmate in those cases, andrew was his doctor and his friend. he knows that of anyone else, andrew has what's best for him, for dallas in his hands in a away neither darry nor steve understood. it doesn't assuage the hurt entirely, ponyboy dipping his head into his hands, trying to control his breathing, the urge to cry.

he had asked for help. this was the answer. it chokes up his chest, makes him shake, but this is it. this is the answer. andrew didn't play around the bush, he didn't sugarcoat.

this was the answer, and all it does is open up a black hole in his gut. "release him to you," he repeats the words, tense and unhappy. "when you say that what — what do you mean, andrew?"

he's never seen andrew grimace before. he does now, eyebrows working together, mouth inching upward in discomfort. "i mentioned my program in the car, earlier. that program specifically studies ferality — i meant it to study them in different dynamics across the board, but only alphas were approved for the study. i could bring him in, but that treatment is not something in the short term. we are looking at as far as seven years in order to fully rehabilitate him."

seven years. it could take seven, long agonizing years for dallas to be better. to be fully better. and yet, it is better than a jail sentence, it's better than death.

and it's not as good as the idea of going down to the basement, offering himself to dallas. to throw it all away, to mate him is still there. to simply let it happen, to give it up and yet… ponyboy puts up his hands, puts his head into his palms. he breathes, hard, mind a mess of emotions, of thoughts. that he can't take dallas in cuffs, that he'd be setting his own career on fire, that there wasn't any feasible way of running that wasn't going to end horribly.

he breathes through his hands, feel his eyes grow hot. "i need to think."

andrew's chair scrapes against the floor and then ponyboy is alone with his thoughts.


it takes half an hour for him to make it to the door. he's sure that if went to find andrew — who's preoccupied in the kitchen now — he'd tell him not to do this. but it's been days, hours since ponyboy put dallas in the basement. he needs food, he needs water, and most of all, ponyboy can't make this decision without him. even if dallas isn't in his right mind, even if dallas isn't well…

he can't do this without talking to him first. ponyboy can't just hand him over to andrew like a wild animal being sent away. he's not a pet, he's not some base thing. he's dallas, who used to shove ponyboy to the ground when they played as kids, who had pulled ponyboy into his bed days ago, who trusted him. who ponyboy still hoped trusted him as his hand grasps the knob, and he turns it.

he doesn't know what to expect when he does it. darkness greets him, though and the long slope of steps going downward into the darkness. the light switch beside him has deep, jagged grooves when his fingers flick it — and sickeningly, the grooves are revealed to be there from dallas tearing at it. elongated, sharp finger nails that were more like claws were hallmarks of ferality and that's the same here.

carefully, ponyboy goes down the first two steps, turns and shuts the door behind him. the door is even worse, his heart dropping at the state of it. he's not sure how dallas could have done this without harming himself: the door has been scratched up horribly, there's bits of stained, dried blood on the wood, and some of it is so deep that ponyboy can feel his stomach roil in horror at it. it's layered together, and it's all he can do to turn and get down the steps as quick as he can.

some of the steps have blood on them in drops, some the same scratches. by the time ponyboy has reached the bottom of the basement, he's calling out, "dally? dallas, where are you?"

he fumbles for the second switch, casting around as much as he can. the basement is expansive — too expansive if he thinks about it too long — and when he flips the switch, the rest of the basement floods with light too.

when he had gotten dallas in here, he'd only thought about getting him away from two-bit, away from him. had only thought the basement wsa the safest place in the house from them all, and the attic — if there had been one — was too far away.

the basement has a concrete floor that has dried blood on it, a bathroom that had the door half torn to shreds, a bundle of clothes in the middle that pony boy can see is a halfway done nest — denning, as it was called when alphas did it. it looks like it had been started, torn apart, and then started again more than once.

there are paint cans that knocked over, that are mercifully dried out, some tvs pushed into a corner, all kinds of clutter. dallas' scent is all over and ponyboy turns, tries to look for him. "dally!"

he's about to put the plate down when he hears a growl from a darkened corner, furthest away from him. ponyboy turns his head — and feel his heart drop. dallas is there, looking gaunt and furious at him. his fingers are gripping his arms, bloodied at the ends, but ponyboy doesn't know if they're just from the doors anymore. they seem to be digging into the whites of his flesh, his teeth bared at ponyboy. there's anger there, hunger, too, and not for food.

it doesn't occur until he holds up a hand that dallas might not be verbal anymore. that he might be beyond words, be beyond negotiation. beyond the ability to make a choice.

ponyboy swallows, sets down the plate carefully not before him, but on a stack of magazines beside him. dallas growls from his place in the shadows, the way his face is, throwing everything into a dark relief. there's blood smeared around his mouth, on his wrists and hands, and he pants. the light is too dark for ponyboy to see, but he's sure that if he could, he could see that dallas' pupils would be blown wide, roving in his face. ponyboy keeps his voice low, soft, unsure if he's able to use his own pheromones as he comes closer, "dally, it's me. it's ponyboy. i'm — i'm just here to check on you."

he hates this. he hates that dallas looks at him with suspicion, with wariness that ponyboy has never seen on his face before. he thinks that the bite marks on his arm pulse in response, as if they know that dallas is close, as if his very body wants to have dallas' teeth sinking back into him.

ponyboy doesn't like the thought that it would be easy, alone, to offer himself here. to let dallas shove him to the ground, pin him there and sink his fangs into his neck. that he would welcome it, and damn the consequences. that he feels so close to doing it when he finally gets within arms reach, fingers tentatively touching dallas' cheek where there's still blood smeared there, where ponyboy realizes it's still horrifically, painfully, fresh.

there's a moment where he thinks that dallas might bite him, that he might tear into him as his arm comes up, as he grasps ponyboy's wrist tightly in his own. ponyboy tries not to tense up, tries to relax, voice low, "dally —"

"get away from me," the words are grounded out, at the very bottom of his throat, as if it takes every bit of concentration to say it. dallas is there, he's cognizant, and ponyboy pulls his arm back as soon as he says it.

at least, some of himself is still there. at least some of dallas is still able to recognize things, and ponyboy shakes his head, even if he pulls away his arm, aches and all. "i can't, dally. not when i put you here."

"and why's that?" dallas growls out, and his fingers dig deeper into his skin, dragging against his arms. "you with them now?" the territorialness of his words stings, more than it would have at any other moment.

it would have been easy to fling it back in his face, too, if it weren't for the fact that the smell of fresh blood rents the air. "you know i ain't," ponyboy's eyes sting with tears, "you know i wouldn't. i'm trying to— to protect the both of you."

it hurts even more to see dallas' face contort. to see him wrench his eyes away, breathing hard. to smell more and more fresh blood, and be unable to do anything except watch, the way he watched bob stab johnny, the way he had to watch so many awful things happen. ponyboy reaches out again and dallas snarls, snaps at him. "who is it?"

it's not a secret as to who that is. the only person he's been around for the past few hours is andrew. if he weren't a beta, he's sure dallas would be even worse. "he's just my doctor. he's here to help all of us."

it doesn't seem to help, dallas still baring his teeth, claws still dragging down his arm. his eyes flick over to ponyboy, and then back at himself, shaking his head harshly. he backs away, further and further from ponyboy. "ain't touching me." his eyes flick to ponyboy's wrist, back at himself. "not me. no muzzle, nothing."

it feels as if ponyboy's stomach bottoms out utterly at that, the mention of a muzzle, the idea that that he would allow andrew to muzzle him. words leave him completely, unable to think around anything except the fact that andrew was right. there wasn't anything else to do now, there wasn't any way that he could even get dallas to agree. not now, not like this.

and still. still ponyboy swallows down his tears. he knows now that there's nothing he can say to convince dallas. his mind is too frayed, running on instinct and not logic. anything he says can be misinterpreted, can be twisted by dallas' mind now. and of the two of them, dallas was less for words and more for actions. so, he backs away, fumbles for a moment to get his shirt off. he lays it down, a tiny nest that isn't like the one they had in the bed, but it's his. it's off his back, it's offered for dallas. then he gets the plate of toast and the glass of water he brought and sets it all down in it. dallas doesn't look up, doesn't move.

and ponyboy goes back up the steps, away from dallas. he doesn't turn off any lights, doesn't look back. the tears that track down his face are salty, hot, and when he shuts the door behind him. he waits for a moment, hoping that he can hear dallas moving.

he does not.

locking the door is painful. he sinks to the floor, puts his head against his arms, brings his knees up and lets out all of the sadness he's been carrying since he had to push dallas inside of there.


"so you went to see him, did you?" andrew looks at the tear tracks on ponyboy's face from the doorway of two-bit's bedroom. ponyboy can see two-bit rolled away from him, a compress on his face. there's a smell of antiseptic in the room, and a bit of a breeze. "that was ill advised."

"tell me something i don't know," ponyboy sniffs, wiping at his face. he's sure that his face is still red from the tears, still a mess. he's put on another shirt — dallas', from a few days ago that he'd pulled out of the stack of clothes. it fits as well as anything else does now, and his scent is what ponyboy needs at the moment. andrew carefully shuts the door behind him and ponyboy clears his throat. "is he okay?"

"as fine as he'll ever be," andrew leans against the door, looking down a ponyboy. "i gave him pain medication, and he'll need more time to heal up. i don't think there will be any lasting damage to his bones — he'll have a scar or two to tell friends about. i take it that dallas wasn't able to give you an answer?" ponyboy shakes his head. andrew doesn't seem surprised at all. "which means the decision is still in your hands and yours alone."

a decision that ponyboy hadn't wanted to make all on his own. a decision that no one can else make. he can feel the weight of it on his shoulders, wishes for time. more, more time to think, more time to decide. he'd begged for storms and had received it before. but this? this he knew he couldn't beg for more time for. andrew was on a timetable, dallas was unravelling day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. the bathroom door was destroyed; who knew how long the basement door itself would hold up under his assault?

a headache begins to web itself on the right side of his temple.

andrew pulls away from the door, turns down to the kitchen. "i bought some food — the seafood here is overpriced, but i think it will be a fine enough dinner for us. you might feel more up to decision making afterwards."

it's a polite way to let ponyboy off the hook, for now. so he takes it, going to his room — what used to be his and dallas' room — to have a smoke. it's perhaps not the smartest thing to do: as soon as the door opens, their mingled scents hit him like a wave. the memories associated with them come, too: of how it felt to fall into bed with dallas, how his face had looked illuminated by the shadows and lightning alone, how it felt to touch dallas' face, for ponyboy to wrap his legs around dallas' waist, wanting him inside as hard, as deep as possible.

ponyboy doesn't take the smoke he wants. he curls into what remains of the nest as andrew cooks below. he breathes in deep of the memories, of the way they had fallen together, of the way dallas had accepted that they'd leave together. and now… now they weren't.

now they were going to leave separately, on two separate roads. they would diverge again and never would their shadows meet again after this, never would they be able to be together the way that ponyboy had so desperately wanted. they could never come back together — and even as ponyboy thinks it, that part of him that remained that stubborn kid who watched sunsets still, who still dreamed about johnny's big, scared eyes pushes back. thinks that maybe it won't be seven years, maybe they won't love each other again the way they had here, maybe they could see each other again, write to each other, be friends, be pack.

maybe in the future it would be enough. maybe in time, it would be something to cling to, it would be something for them both.

not now, though. not when ponyboy aches to have that future that was starting to feel less like a dream and more like a reality. not when he knew that it couldn't happen the way he wanted.

when andrew calls up for him, he climbs out of the bed slowly. he hovers at two-bit's door and decides that no, he can't face him just yet. he goes down the steps to andrew washing his hands off with a rag. in front of him is a plate full of sautéed shrimp, some rice, and a mixing of vegetables with a glass of water. things he wouldn't cook, at all, not like this.

it makes it easier to look at andrew, as they eat to say, "i'll help get him for you."

andrew shakes his head. "it's a two-man effort, at best. and you're compromised."

ponyboy accepts that, digs his fork into the shrimp and bites into it. it tastes good, but it doesn't erase how he feels.

it's a slow preparation that makes his stomach turn as they do it, the hours running late as they coordinate everything from andrew's calls to ponyboy trying to gather as much as their things as possible. he peeks into two-bit's room once — he's still asleep. bruises are still on his face, giving him enormous, awful black eyes, the swelling of a cheek and a clear burn m ark that was still healing.

once again, there are no words ponyboy thinks he can say to fix this. he leaves water, some pills on the dresser, intending to leave, to get to it. instead, he hears the bed groan, and two-bit's voice comes out thinly, "ain't good beside manner, leavin' without so much as a hello."

ponyboy's hand drops from the door knob. he feels emotion swell up in his throat. he caused this, though, and so he turns around to face two-bit. his eyes are slits, tracking ponyboy's movement more than looking at him. "thought you were asleep."

"hoped i was," two-bit corrects him. and he's right. ponyboy swallows, steps froward, closer to the bed. the chair andrew has set up feels like it's too formal, but ponyboy sinks down into it anyway. two-bit clears his throat — ponyboy grasps the water, and helps him as best he can to drink from the glass until two-bit pushes it away.

the glass goes on the dresser and he flexes his hands on his knees. he's not sure what to say, admittedly: that he's sorry for what happened, that he should've listened to two-bit that he was stubborn, prideful and wanting and…

"yeah," his voice tumbles out. "i hoped… i hoped you were. cause i ain't… you were right." the words feel trite in his mouth, delivered too late. "you were right about it and now i got you and him in a worse mess than before." ponyboy feels his hands go clammy, remembering the sound, remembering how two-bit had hit the ground, remembering how he had looked when ponyboy had pulled him upstairs. the way he groaned, the smell of blood in the air.

two-bit doesn't say anything for a long moment. ponyboy thinks he's fallen sleep until his voice comes up weakly from the bed, "i ain't blaming you for wanting it. when he came back, i was just happy to see he was alive." ponyboy looks at the difficult way he swallows, at the swollen, shining skin. "i should have turned him in the first time he snapped on me. i shoulda got you out of here, instead of letting him through that door."

ponyboy shakes his head; it's all turning into a circle of blame now, a circle of blame that shouldn't even exist. "two—"

two-bit sighs, the sound rattling, wet. "ain't nothing else we can do now, though, is there?"

for a moment, ponyboy thinks about telling him what he and andrew are going to do. thinks of trying to tell him what is in store and decides that no, not now. "all you need to do now is rest. let me and andrew fix this."

two-bit gives a dry, grim laugh into the pillow. "guess you ain't running away this time, huh."

the smile ponyboy gives is biter, sad. "no. guess not."


the sun is almost coming up when he and andrew meet up at the door to the basement. andrew's face is a little pinched, he reeks of coffee, but nothing of ponyboy. his glasses are still on his face, sleeves rolled up and as stable as ever. by contrast, ponyboy is in one of dallas' shirts, a pair of jeans he'd left. there's no gun, no switchblade, nothing on him. he looks at andrew, thinks over the plan they have. he thinks maybe about talking, about checking but…

andrew is steady, reliable. and if he talks again instead of actually doing what needs to be done, ponyboy thinks that he might throw up instead. so, he opens the basement door, the knob freezing cold against his palm as he does it.

the lights are still on; dallas hadn't bothered to shut them off. there seem to be no new scratches anywhere as he descends, well aware that andrew is behind him. deliberately, ponyboy makes sure that his footsteps are loud, a warning to dallas as they move. andrew, he's sure dallas can simply scent, and sure enough when they reach the bottom of the steps — andrew three behind, dallas is there, mouth pulled in a distrusting scowl.

what makes ponyboy's heart leap painfully in his chest, though, is that dallas is wearing ponyboy's shirt, the one he'd left before. there are bloodstains on it and he wonders for a moment if it was hard for dallas to put on, hard for him to realize the meaning. but he's wearing it, and that's what matters when ponyboy stops, hands up. "it's just us, dally. we ain't gonna hurt you."

his eyes don't leave ponyboy's, growling low in his throat in response. he's crouched, body tense, hair in his face, stubble starting to get past a five o'clock shadow. "make him go."

"i can't," ponyboy keeps his hands up, hoping dallas realizes what he's wearing, that he's not hostile, that there's nothing on him that can hurt dallas. "he's here to — to make sure we're both alright. i told you before, dally, you remember? he's my doctor." dallas' eyes dart to andrew, and then back to ponyboy. "please, dal. he ain't hurting nobody. just— just here to make sure we're all safe."

he can see the way the words sink into dallas, the meaning of we're all safe. dallas' face twists, mouth warping uncomfortably, claws gigging into his arms, and for the first time, ponyboy can see a bit of red on his tongue. "two-bit?"

there's an inclination to lie. to soothe. ponyboy doesn't take it. "you can still hit," he inches forward a little. "he got two black eyes, nose and cheeks messed up. he ain't dead, though." the scent of blood hits the air, thick and ponyboy can feel his hands start to get horribly clammy. "right, andrew?"

"he'll heal up on his own," for once the way andrew speaks is useful, just facts, nothing to dress it up. "i got here in time to care for him, thanks to the marshal."

dallas still gives a slight growl, shaking his head, wincing. "still hurt — he still —" there's a noise of frustration and ponyboy comes closer than before, within arms reach, close enough to see how the light glints off of dallas' blood stained teeth. "two's pack—"

andrew descends fully into the basement. ponyboy can feel him moving behind him, keeps his eyes on dallas. "you know two. he ain't gonna hold it against you for long."

"he should," the anguish is almost completely buried beneath the anger in dallas' voice. "he's pack. my pack." even as dallas says it, ponyboy can see the way his eyes fall on him, can see that dallas recognizes what ponyboy's wearing, what it means.

"but he's not me," ponyboy comes closer and closer, until he can touch dallas' cheek, feeling the stubble there, finally able to truly see dallas up close again. seeing the scars from the muzzles intertwined with the scratches on his face, with flecks of blood there. he can see better how dallas has torn at his own body now, at the way he's been punishing himself all this time and ponyboy hates it. he hates it as his hands settle on dallas' arms, on his shoulders.

it should be him. he knows it should be him; it's him who ignored the warning signs, it's him who chose running away over acknowledging that things weren't perfect, it's him who knew better and dallas was paying for it here and now.

deliberately, ponyboy reaches out, brushes his fingers against dallas' neck, keeping his voice low as andrew moves around them. "you wanted to be with me. and i — i want to be with you, too. ever since that afternoon, that's all i been wanting." he deliberately scents dallas, deliberately pulls him in closer.

and dallas comes. he seems to finally let down his guard enough to fall into ponyboy's arms, to let ponyboy hold him. his nose presses itself against ponyboy's neck, his bloodstained hands grasp his side and he relaxes into ponyboy's arms on the floor of the basement. for the first time in his life, ponyboy hears dallas give a whine — a quite admittance that he wants too, and that all of this is so hard.

ponyboy closes his eyes and rubs dallas' back. he doesn't want to see that andrew is behind dallas now, not yet. "we're still pack, dally. you and me."

dallas breathes against his neck, warm breath fanning against his skin. "just us."

it digs into him like a knife. just us. the scrape of andrew's shoe has to deliberate, a way to remind ponyboy of what he came here to do. what he doesn't want to do — it would be easy, to easy to just let dallas' fangs — his mouth so close against his skin, so near — to bite into his neck. to let dallas claim him, to mate him hear and now. it would be so good, it would feel like everything he's wanted.

"look at me," he tugs at dallas' hair. reluctantly, dallas pulls away from his neck. the light from above throws a beam down, letting ponyboy see the glimmer of brown in his eyes that would otherwise only look back. he looks the most present he has since ponyboy put him down here. "i ain't say it — i didn't—" ponyboy strokes dallas' cheek. "i love you, dally. i l—"

dallas lunges forward. the kiss he gives is hungry, crushing tasting more of blood than anything else. ponyboy thinks that he can even feel the cuts on his tongue as they kiss, and his arms wrap tightly around dallas. he shuts his eyes, grip tightening when he hears a scrape of feet and swallows up the sound of surprise from dallas.

when he opens his eyes, he can see the shocked, confused look on dallas' face. dallas' fingers dig into ponyboy's side, but he can't even bare his teeth as andrew withdraws the needle from his neck.

it's painful to see dallas' expression slacken, to see him try desperately to stay in the moment. andrew keeps a steady hand on his shoulder, pulling him back despite dallas' fingers trying to dig themselves into ponyboy's side. "i love you," the words are choked, awful as they come up. ponyboy doesn't know how he gets the strength to pull dallas away from andrew, despite the warning look andrew gives him, despite the angry, confused one on dallas'.

he just can't give him up so easily. he just can't.

so he holds onto dallas as the sedatives take effect, unable to keep his tears in cheek. "i love you — i love you, dally."

dallas mouths something back, but ponyboy can't make it out. he just strokes dallas' hair, his cheeks until his eyes shut and his whole body slackens.

and then he cries. he simply can't help but cry with wracking, awful sobs, even after andrew gently lifts dallas away. he's left, alone, crying harder than he ever has in his life.


he turns out every light in the basement himself through a haze of tears. by the time he gets to the door, he's missed andrew putting dallas in the truck. that's probably better that he hadn't seen — plausible deniability and all.

as is, andrew is at the door, talking to the assistant who'd driven in to pick up dallas and two-bit both. ponyboy pretends that the salt tracks aren't on his face, looks away when the assistant peaks at him curiously. he doesn't look at anything but the wall until andrew touches his shoulder. "everything's ready. the clinic will take your friend two-bit and alex will transport dallas to our site." he pauses. "i think it would be cruel to ask you to see either of them — they are, however in good hands."

"yeah, i know," ponyboy sniffs, finally looking at andrew. "i… i owe you a lot. more than i can ever make up for."

"the research you've given me is invaluable," andrew says it and ponyboy almost cracks a smile at how on point it is for andrew, to view research overriding all else first. "and what you have done for someone you love is invaluable as well. giving him up is something that most people would fight against. it isn't a weakness to do this for him nor is it a betrayal."

ponyboy doesn't voice that it feels like it. that the first and only time he'd told dallas he loved him, he allowed someone to dose with him a tranquilizer so strong it could take down a horse. instead he nods. "can you… can you at least keep me updated?"

andrew hums. "we'll have to see what we can do about that, in the future." he claps ponyboy on the back. "we have to get going, now. i'll contact you when i land. and please — take some time off. as a friend, and a doctor, you're not in any state to go back to work."

the smile he gives is utterly serious and ponyboy almost gives a hysterical laugh.

andrew and his assistant turn, leave.

ponyboy gives a look around and then cries out, "wait! wait!"

andrew turns around as ponyboy runs to the living room. he opens a bag, sighs, and turns. "can you give this to dallas? when he comes to?"

andrew looks down at the contents: some of pony's clothes from the other day and more importantly, the copy of the last unicorn, earmarked at the point where they had been a few days ago. he nods, and then he's on his way out. the door snaps behind him and ponyboy is left with a house to clean, with a marshals office to contact and lie to, and an uncertain future.

he wishes he could have something else, anything else. he wishes he could turn, run from it all.

except he can't anymore. running is impossible, now. all there's left is what's in front of him, and ponyboy wipes at his face, and goes to place the call to the marshal's office first. after that, he could lie to bob sheldon easier.


phew. thank you absolutely to everyone who read this fic and finished it with me. i know this ending is a lot — this fic had some twists and turns but this ending was certainly how i wanted it to end. i'll have follow ups after this in a few webs from a fic about molly and steve that involves ponyboy to some background stuff, to how ponyboy deals with this fall out and more further down the line.

in particular tho, i'd like to thank:

(1) aishitaeru who was with me every step of this from me absolutely agonizing over how to tag this to helping me make a decision on how this fic would go to encouraging me — and also agonizing over this ending too and speedbumps through this. (and who rooted for a happy ending, saw me choose this one and then talked me out of choosing a happier one bc she knows what point i was trying to ultimately make!)

(2) hearthouses, who also helped me pick a direction with this fic and was very encouraging of this! (and rooted for a happier ending andal;ks SORRY)

and of course, readers! thank you for reading this adventure, for being here to the bittersweet end. thank you very much and i hope you guys enjoyed it — or if it made you cry or anything else, i hope the feelings resonated with you. 💖