this takes place in my trampsverse, which is omegaverse with dallas as an alpha, ponyboy as an omega. previous installments can be found on my profile or at my ao3 account of greasers. this will have graphic depictions of violence and some sexual content.
The noise that Daniel's spoon makes as he stirs his spaghetti — always sloppily cooked, always brought in on a Wednesday — makes Ponyboy's stomach turn as he hears it. The way the noodles, the sauce mix together in the tupperware is loud, and instead of the scent of the sauce that Daniel always makes, Ponyboy scents something else: blood.
It feels like it's invading his nostrils, suddenly everywhere and instead of food, instead of that innocuous meal, he thinks of the sound of a head meeting the linoleum floor of his kitchen, thinks of the crunching sound of bone and flesh, scenting blood and Dallas' enraged pheromones and—
"I'm gonna eat somewhere else," Ponyboy pushes away from the desk in the library break room. Daniel just nods, doesn't notice the way that Ponyboy is breathing heavily or the way that he stumbles out.
And no one is there when he throws up into the toilet in the men's room, his stomach turning, his shoulders shaking. He doesn't know how long he's there, the breakfast he'd has before coming up, sweat pouring down his forehead, tears coating his cheeks.
The only good thing about the library is that at least the bathrooms here were usually clean — Ponyboy breathes in deeply, trying to gather himself, trying not to cry again, even though the sound of the head meeting the floor, the sound of the skull giving away, the snarl from Dallas coming from him still echoes in his ears. His sweater hangs off the hook, having the wherewithal to tear it off, just in case he got anything on it. The undershirt he has doesn't protect him from gooseflesh, arms wrapping around his form.
All he wants in this moment is Dallas. He wants Dallas holding him, he wants to be able to bury his face in his neck, he wants to be able to collapse against him.
Dallas isn't here, though. He wouldn't be around the library until that evening, and Ponyboy had hours to go.
He has to get up, go back out there. Pretend he's not thinking about what happened only three days ago, and that things were fine, normal.
That wasn't the first time he'd been attacked. Not the first time someone he cared about had killed someone in front of him.
None of those times had ever been in his own home.
That thought — of it being his home, of how vulnerable he'd been — makes the hairs on his neck stand up again, makes him whimper. His fingernails dig into his side, and Ponyboy forces himself to swallow, to not let the bile come up again.
Ponyboy had to get through the rest of the day. He had to.
So he flushes the toilet. Puts his sweater back on, and opens the stall door, walks to the sinks. In the mirror, he can see that he's got bags under his eyes that are mottled and deep. He looks pale, and his hands shake when he puts them beneath a shock of cold water. It's enough to jolt some feeling back into him, splashing it on his face, rinsing his mouth out.
It's not enough to make him feel better, though. The rest of the afternoon is spent on autopilot, as if everything was happening to someone else, and not himself. Making phone calls. Guiding people where to go. Shelving book after book. Answering questions.
All of it is distant, unreal, and none of it really matters. Not until the clock hits 4.45pm and he catches Dallas' scent, mixing with the smell of french fries and hot wings. Ponyboy looks up from the catalog cards he's fixing to see him there: the gash on his head still bandaged up, his dark eyebrows in a relieved line, his hand clutching the bag of food, his own dark sweater peeking from behind his leather jacket.
Relief sweeps through Ponyboy, leaving the cards behind to wrap his arms around Dallas, to lean into the firmness of his chest, into his comforting scent. Dallas ducks his head down to nuzzle into Ponyboy's hair, voice rumbling out, "Hey, kid."
On Sunday, that afternoon, he'd been in the main living room, the television down on low. Andrew had left a few minutes earlier, needing to get back to his apartment. They'd put the television on to catch up on a program that Andrew had wanted to see, Ponyboy half interested in that documentary. He'd mostly just been wanting to catch up with Andrew, work out some of his assignments.
Andrew was always a good ear with it, and Ponyboy had simply left it on while he'd gone to his room to look for a book. Reading so much for assignments and not having anything fun to read simply for himself had been wearing on him — a pulpy little book with two cowboys on the cover that had been about twenty-five cents when he'd gotten it from a half price store seemed like it'd pair well with dinner.
Dallas was going to be home that evening, after a few days on the road with his brother Antonio and Two-Bit. Ponyboy was already planning on cooking barbeque chicken, cornbread, green beans — just the thing about Dallas saying he'd be home in the evening was always just a toss up time. It could be five, it could be six, it could be earlier.
It was getting closer to evening, and all he wanted to do was start before Dallas got there.
He's searching through the books beneath the bed when he hears it: a squeaking window.
A smile flits on his face at that. Dallas sometimes climbed in a window for the hell of it, liking to surprise Ponyboy. This time he didn't seem to realize he'd been had already — so Ponyboy continues searching, wanting to keep the game up, pretending to not hear.
The footsteps on the carpet were a bit louder; Dallas clearly wanting Ponyboy to struggle, to tease him. There's enough dust beneath the bed that his scent is obscured, and when his hand touches Ponyboy's back, Ponyboy jumps, turning to grin up at him saying, "C'mon Dal—"
Except the person looking down at him isn't Dallas. His face is thinner, sallow, his hair a stringy faded blonde, and his other hand is holding a pistol that makes Ponyboy's blood run cold as he looks at it. Every detail about him sharpens, narrows down from the shoddy suit jacket he's wearing with stains on the white shirt beneath to the ratty jeans that have so many holes in them it's a miracle they're still worn, to the derisive, sharp sneer on his face. "Dallas ain't here, sweetheart."
The hairs on Ponyboy's neck go up. Terror runs through his body in a way it hasn't had in years as the man yanks at him, forces Ponyboy completely from the floor. This isn't just some hood, he knows it – the suit is something no ordinary hood would wear in Oklahoma. It has to be someone who knew him from the mob, who had a grudge.
"Didn't know the mate he's been keeping is a pretty little omega," The pistol is aimed squarely at Ponyboy's chest, even though he's got the shakes of an addict. Ponyboy holds his hands up the way he has in countless robberies, throat dry. "No wonder he put in all that work to keep it quiet. Be nice to have some fun with you before Dallas comes home, hm?"
"Please," Ponyboy can feel himself struggling to keep himself focused, keep himself, here, "I don't know nothing. I don't."
"You think I give a shit what you know?" The intruder's voice climbs. "I'm here to send a message!" He grins savagely at Ponyboy. "First though: where's his money? I know it's here and it's mine."
Ponyboy can feel his throat dry out, mind racing. Because there is money here.
And so is the money counter. It was about the size and weight of a typewriter, and if he could just get to it, he could at least try to get in one blow, one hit enough to stun.
"It's under the bed," he has to force his words to be steady, convincing. "I was —"
"Get it," the man barks, spittle flying. The fact that Ponyboy can't latch onto his scent, even like this, bothers him. "All of it."
Carefully, Ponyboy keeps his hands in front of him, keeps in front of the man as he gets down to the carpet ground. As he looks at the nest — bereft of Dallas that morning, had been for days — and then looks at the bed, where there's a bag of emergency money stuffed near the back and the money counter is bulging right beside it. Only to get it, he'd have to wedge it out, have to turn his back to get it.
In other words: if he turned his back, that guy would try and shoot him, if anything else. Fuck.
Ponyboy moves carefully, grasping for the bag of emergency money, keeping his eye on the intruder. Taking in his soiled clothing, the way his hand has to grip and regrip the pistol. His palms are clearly caked in sweat, and he has to be on a suppressant of some sort to keep his scent in line.
He hands the bag over to him, putting his hands back up. "That's it. We don't got nothing else in the house."
Whatever amount the guy is expecting, he's angry about it. Even though it's still hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars in that bag, he's not satisfied when he looks at it. Angry enough that he snarls, shoves Ponyboy back, making Ponyboy stumble against the side desk, the wood digging into his upper thigh. "That ain't enough! Where's the rest!"
"That's it," It's hard to keep his voice under control like he does for the hoods he knows. "That's all we have! He doesn't keep —"
Click.
Ponyboy freezes, expecting a shot, for flesh to tear, for something, anything.
There's nothing. The man had pulled the trigger, expecting a bullet, and so had Ponyboy. But the gun either jammed or is empty.
The moment that realization hits both of them — the man in shock and Ponyboy in fear — the tables flip. The gun isn't loaded, isn't working, and that's enough for Ponyboy to knee the man in the gut. It's not a great hit, just enough to get the wind out of the man, for Ponyboy get away from him, and start running. He throws the door closed behind him to give himself some time, heart racing.
Just cause the gun wasn't firing didn't mean the man wasn't dangerous or desperate or plain fucking stupid. Ponyboy knows that, as he tries to head to the kitchen, get to the front door. But luck isn't on his side — his feet hit something near the door to the kitchen that feels awfully like a shoe, and he goes sprawling onto the floor. He can't get himself up in time, the man on him in seconds, screaming rage.
Ponyboy tries to buck him off, tries to get away, trying to land a punch, a blow, something.
Maybe the man's high, maybe he's just determined or crazy cause he stays, pinning Ponyboy to the floor with an unexpectedly heavy weight, getting his hands around his throat in a grip that's horrifically vice like. Ponyboy can feel his eyes bulging as he kicks, tries to yell, get air —
Pain explodes in the back of his head, goes down his body like an awful current. The man is saying something about Dallas, about money, about getting his due, but Ponyboy can't parse it into real sentences. All he knows is that the man's eyes are frighteningly blue, wide with anger, spittle hitting Ponyboy's cheek. All he knows is that he came into his home, that he was going to kill him on his kitchen floor if Ponyboy couldn't do something, anything.
Spit lands in his face. Ponyboy chokes, tries to move his arms, but his vision is narrowing, his chest is burning and all he wants is Dallas to come through that door, Dallas to please, please not come home to his body, don't let him see him like this —
His vision darkens — then the vice like grip on him is gone. His vision opens up and he's moving without thought, until his back hits the counter. There are shapes moving in front of him, and they solidify into Dallas snarling, his hand in that short blonde hair, blood gushing down Dallas' face, slamming the man repeatedly into the floor. The man is no longer talking, just letting out garbled sounds as Dallas slams his skull harder and harder until there's an awful crack, then something wetter, meatier until Dallas drops what used to be a head but is now just a mixture of red grit and fluid onto the floor.
Blood is splattered on his face, smeared on his hands that shake when he clutches Ponyboy's cheeks, and says, "Pony?" His eyes look dark in his face, the blood on his face a bright red stripe, that's almost down to his chin, his face pale. "Pony, baby, it's me."
His hand touches Ponyboy's throat, and Ponyboy feels tears roll down his cheeks. Dallas' name is stuck in his throat, and this time when he wills his arms to work, he pulls Dallas closer, until their foreheads are touching, until his scent covers him, mixed with that of the pool of blood that is growing and growing on the floor.
A pool of blood that is shockingly, horrifyingly similar to Bob Sheldon's, all those years ago.
The wings are hot, the way he likes them. The fries are crunchy too, and Ponyboy appreciates every bite he takes as they eat quietly in the back of the library, in his favorite spot. Sunlight always hits just right here, and usually, Ponyboy looks forward to it.
Right now though, he just wants to concentrate on his food, tearing at the chicken, drinking the soda that Dallas got him. It's quiet, after hours, and no one is going to get mad when they find him here.
"Talked to Antonio, Texas," Dallas reaches into Ponyboy's container, taking the bones he's discarded. "I'm off the hook rest of the month, not leaving the state. House is gonna be done with the clean up tomorrow."
It doesn't soothe Ponyboy the way it should, those words. Just shifts his eyes away as Dallas bites into the marrow, cracks it. The sound is so close to the one from a few days ago that he has to force himself to swallow, knowing he threw up breakfast and hadn't eaten lunch. "Did they find out who he was?"
"Yeah," he grunts around his hot wing, sucking at the marrow. "Some junkie named Joey I pissed off in Yonkers — was part of another family we work with Seemed to think he was owed a lot. Won't have anyone come looking for him."
Quietly Ponyboy says, "S'good."
It doesn't feel good, though. Not one bit. Not when he has to consider that he hasn't been home in days, not when he looks at Dallas, at the bandage on his head, at the way his hands are so clean now.
"I need to take a look at you," he dips his wing in ranch, finally looking at Dallas' face again, at how tired he looks too. "Just need to check, like Andrew said."
Dallas usually would protest. This time, he just nods, reaching for another wing. His fangs crack the bone again, and Ponyboy bites into his own food.
Ponyboy's hands are shaking as he tries to stem the blood flowing from Dallas' forehead. He knows some of it is smeared on his own face right now, from the reflection in the bathroom mirror. Ponyboy doesn't care as he tries to hold a dish towel to the gash on Dallas' anyway, trying to stop crying as he does it.
The more he tries to stem it, the more he tries to get any sort of control over the situation, the more feels utterly helpless in the situation. The more Ponyboy tries, the more he can't remember the basics of the situation, the more he thinks of Bob's body lying on the ground with blood pooling out, of Johnny gripping the knife and saying I killed that boy, the more he thinks of the man in the kitchen whose face was was no longer truly a whole face on the floor now from Dallas' blows and the more he feels his teeth rattling as he says, "I c-can't stop it. It won't —"
"It's okay, it's okay," Dallas' voice is soothing, or tries to be. In any other situation it would be, only the blood is flowing down his chin, pooling in his clavicle and his hands are covered in it. "You can't do it kid, we need to call Andrew."
For the third time, his hand comes up to try and get Ponyboy's wrist. For the third time, Ponyboy moves his hand away, presses the cloth against the wound, to see the cloth get redder and he sobs, vision overflowing with tears.
This isn't how it should be going. This isn't right — he knew what he'd signed up for, he knew that things weren't always going to be easy, that being a mate to a man who was involved with crime always carried a risk that he was willing to see through. And here is, crying, unable to fix things. Unable to have stopped that man, unable to defend himself right.
And there's Dallas again, finally getting Ponyboy's wrist down, pulling him closer as blood sleeps from his wound, as he runs a hand on Ponyboy's back. "S'okay. We're gonna call him, he's gonna come. S'okay, Pony. You ain't a nurse, I can't ask it."
"You're my mate," the words are half strangled by tears, by hysteria, by the swelling that's starting. "I should – I should be able to d-do this!"
Dallas squeezes tighter. His scent grows stronger and Ponyboy shakes. "Go on, cry. Then call Andrew, okay?"
As if the phone simply knows, the ring shatters through the house. Both of them jump, moving closer to each other. And then Ponyboy remembers: Johnny was supposed to have called tonight, to talk about seeing them. "I got it, I got it," he swipes at his face, smearing some more blood on him. The lights from the mirror show that Dallas' eyes are still mostly a dark ring with a bit of brown around them. He pulls away, leaves Dallas in the bathroom.
Unlike before, every sense is dialed up, heightened as he walks out of the bedroom, out to the hallway. Everything being on the same floor in the little flophouse has never bothered him before, yet now, he feels like he can feel, hear everything in it. Ponyboy has to swallow back tears, move around the body — the blood has finally stopped growing in that ever red pool of blood — to pick up the still ringing phone.
Johnny's voice pours over the line, "Hey! Ponyboy, that you?"
(I killed him. I killed that boy.)
"Yeah, Johnny," he injects false cheerfulness into his voice as best he can. "I can't talk too long."
"Why? Everything okay?"
(They ran when I stabbed him. They all ran . . .)
Ponyboy looks at the mess that is the kitchen, the blood smeared on the floor, on the cabinet from when they had stood up, made their way out. "Dallas got sick," he lies, "I'm taking care of him tonight and I can't stay on the phone too long."
"Shit," Johnny sounds surprised. "Must be something goin' around. When should I call back?"
"I'll call you. See you, Johnnycakes," Ponyboy hangs up the phone before Johnny can say more. His head is starting to pound, and he tries to get himself together, breathing heavily, looking at Andrew's number on the fridge.
What he's about to ask is more than what he's ever done before. They've known each other since Ponyboy's freshman year. Andrew has never, ever asked questions whenever Ponyboy has asked about how to stitch someone up, how to deal with a bullet graze, how to fix a dislocated shoulder. He's always been able to pick up on the fact that what Dallas was involved with wasn't normal, that Ponyboy needed him in a different way than other friends.
This was going to be different, though, as he dials out. This was going to require more than what he'd ever asked of Andrew.
He trusted him. He did. He had to now, as Andrew's voice finally comes on the line, "Andrew Polasky, who's calling?"
"It's me," Ponyboy breathes into the line, his head starting to pound. "Need you to come over. Dallas was in an accident."
"An accident?" Andrew's voice takes on that tone Ponyboy prefers: curious, clinical. "How bad?"
"Head's just... it's bleeding everywhere," he can't keep the fear from his voice. "Can you come? Now?"
If Andrew were going to back out, now was the time. The only time. Ponyboy clutches the phone tightly, in anticipation of a yes or a no. It only takes three long seconds for Andrew to say, "I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Thank you," Ponyboy breathes out. "Bring a big kit."
Andrew hangs up with a click.
Ponyboy puts the phone back on the receiver right as he hears the hallway closet door shut. He turns to see Dallas setting sheets on the table. "After Andrew's done, we gotta get rid of him." His voice is clipped, not quite the way it is in drop. Some of the blood is seeping down his face sluggishly now, and he shakes out a sheet. "C'mere, help me cover him."
There's something comical about this, the parody of doing laundry together, only instead of working step by step to fold a sheet to put away, they're instead working together to cover a dead man in their kitchen. The first sheet soaks through almost instantly. The second one is a lot less, and the third finally has no blood seeping through it.
"I got a cleaning kit in the car," Dallas speaks soothingly, wiping at his face. "We're gonna have to wrap him up, get him in there, dump him. And then I'm gonna clean up the house, get you in a hotel until I can pay someone to get in here, replace everything."
Numbly, Ponyboy nods. He should be disturbed by how easily Dallas knows the process of this, by how simple it is to talk him through it. Instead he's simply relieved to hear it, that Dallas knows what to do, how to do it.
When he reaches out to touch his mating mark, Ponyboy relaxes, can ignore the pain that's starting to flare up around his neck. The knock at the door springs him out of it, his nerves unable to take the sound, flinching. Dallas turns his head to it sharply, holding his finger up to his mouth.
Not trusting himself, Ponyboy puts his whole hand over his mouth. Dallas nods, silently going to the drawer nearest him, withdrawing a kitchen knife. He walks in equal silence, in loping steps, towards the door, looking out the keyhole.
He's done this before. He's had to have done this so, so many times before.
He lets out a sigh of relief. "It's Andrew." The knife goes to his side, and he opens the door. "Get in here."
Andrew doesn't seem upset initially by the knife, by the blood. What does seem to upset him as he walks into the kitchen, is the sight of Ponyboy. The body warrants a long glance, yet Ponyboy is who his eyes fix on. At the bruises on his neck, at how he must look.
There's a shove from Dallas, towards Ponyboy. "Fix him first."
Pulling out his glasses, Andrew spares a glance to him. "You're the one with the headwound. That needs tending first."
Dallas flashes his fangs at the shorter alpha. Ponyboy speaks up with a croak, "Andrew. Get him first. Please." The glare that Dallas levels at him would make other people flinch. Ponyboy bares his own fangs back at him. "Him.;"
"You heard him," the words are sharp, acidic. Dallas glares at them both, and throws himself onto the chair at the table. Andrew looks at the body, as if looking to see if there's breathing.
"He's gone," Ponyboy stresses. "Just us now."
The body isn't looked at by Andrew again. He concentrates on staunching Dallas' headwound, his voice steady as he explains, "This needs to be held for fifteen minutes. Ponyboy, could you get your timer for me, please?" The timer is pulled out of the drawer, wound tightly. "Alright, come here, hold this. I can look at you while the time winds down."
Ponyboy comes to replace Andrew, to put the right pressure. While he keeps the gauze on, Andrew checks his neck, his expression not the normal schooled one he has. He looks something close to upset as he examines him, brows furrowed behind his enormous glasses.
Guilt is what Ponyboy thinks he sees on his face.
The bathroom light is well enough for Ponyboy to look at the stiching. Most of it's looking okay, and he breathes out, running his thumb beneath it. "It's okay. You'll be fine I think."
"You ain't talking too much?" Dallas looks down at him, Ponyboy pulling the bandage away to apply a fresh one. "Like he said?"
As an answer, Ponyboy nods. The door is locked; no one else except the janitorial staff is left so it's safe to talk. He reapplies a fresh bandage onto Dallas' forehead. "Can we stay here tonight? Instead of the hotel?"
"Why?" Dallas stiffens, on high alert. "Something wrong with it?"
"No. I just... It's impersonal," his thumb brushes the edge of the bandage. "They keep changing the sheets, and I keep having to get comfortable every night and I can't — can't sleep as good." Ponyboy swallows, knowing he's not entirely lying. Night after night, Dallas has been beside him, soothing him, trying to help him adjust to the freshly washed sheets that weren't anything like home. "I still got some stuff from the last time we slept in the new building, the old seminary rooms."
A soft noise leaves Dallas' throat. "Sure, kid. Lemme go get our stuff, we can stay here the night." He reaches for Ponyboy's still bruised neck; Ponyboy doesn't protest, only leans in closer to bump his forehead against Dallas' own, noses rubbing together for a moment, their breath mingling.
This is safe, right now. Being close to Dallas, feeling his hand against his skin, having him this close, having him there at all. Dallas soothes his nerves, his fears. He's his mate, always has been, and the terror of almost dying, almost losing each other is still so raw in him that every tough feels more necessary, more desperate than it normally is.
It's Ponyboy who kisses Dallas first, the one who draws close first. It's him who fists his hand into his shirt, who slides his tongue into Dallas' mouth. It's him who needs the comfort, who takes it, and all he wants to do is live in this moment, in Dallas' arms. He doesn't want to leave this room — he wants to shove Dallas back, climb into his lap and claim him. Bite his mark until Dallas is gasping, scratch at his back until he bleeds, needs his knot inside of him, keeping him close.
"You mean it?" Dallas breathes out, and too late Ponyboy realizes he's voiced his thoughts, half in Dallas' lap, his hand gripping his waist. "All of it?"
"Yeah," he dips his head, his sharp teeth finding Dallas' mating mark, biting down hard enough to draw blood. It's beautiful to feel Dallas' throat vibrate with his groan, to feel his hand reach behind, squeeze his ass, rocking against Ponyboy. For the first time in days, Ponyboy doesn't mind the scent of blood as he opens his mouth wider, and bites down more fiercely than before, and this time Dallas swears, bucking up with what Ponyboy knows for damn sure is an erection.
"Fuck the hotel," Dallas hisses out, fangs flashing. "C'mon."
Later, Ponyboy isn't sure how they were able to stumble out of the bathroom together. He knows that by the time were in the elevator, he was slick, and Dallas had him pinned against the back of it, hand in his hair, gripping it tight. He knows that by the time they got off, he was lifted off of his feet by Dallas, and he'd gotten one of his shoes off, the sound echoing in the hallway. He knows that by the time Dallas had forced open the door to the seminary room they used, Dallas had gotten Ponyboy's sweater off, and Ponyboy got his other shoe off, his jeans coming off last.
What he knows the most is that when Dallas had his jeans off, he'd put him in the nest there rough, nothing like home. He knows that when Dallas had thrusted into him first, there was some pain and he gave it right back, sinking his teeth right back into the column of Dallas' neck, drawing more blood, his nails digging into the beautiful expanse of his back as Dallas had fucked him harder than he had in a long, long time.
More than anything, he knows that he is safe here. He is safe safe safe in the seminary room, digging his teeth into Dallas' neck, he is safe with Dallas wrapping himself around him, he is safe with his knot inside of him, pressing Ponyboy close to him, keeping him exactly where he needs to be.
He is safe here, physically at least.
In dreams, he is not. As much as he tries to fight it off, happy and warm with Dallas' knot inside of him, with that electric, happy pleasure of an orgasm, he knows that if he drifts into sleep he will relive everything. He knows that he will fall into a nightmare.
And fall into one he does, where the colors are muted, where there is no sound. Where he relives the memory of wrapping the body up into the sheets, rolling him together with the sheets as Dallas tells him the best way to do it. Where he is helping Dallas put the body in the trunk of a beater car that Dallas never usually used, his heart racing as they drive it away, away from the city.
In the dream, they are at a dump, where other things have been burned, disposed of. Where in the dark of night they dig and dig a hole until his arms hurt, until he is shaking, unwilling to leave the duty to Dallas.
He knows that he signed up for this as Dallas' mate. He wanted this at fourteen, at sixteen, at twenty one. Wants to be with Dallas, even as they throw lighter fluid onto the body that has blood seeping out of the sheet, as they light it on fire. In the dreams, the flames don't move correctly, even as they burn, even as he remembers what the heat was like, so close to it he was. In the dream, he thinks he sees the church on the horizon, can hear the kids asking for help.
But the dream is at least merciful. It reminds him how Dallas had held him, as the fire burned. It reminds him how Ponyboy had reached over to take his hand in his, and even though there is no sound, Ponyboy knows he told Dallas I love you; and Dallas had kissed him, same as any time before.
Where the dream is not merciful is after that when Dallas pulls away. That is when Ponyboy notices the full moon hanging in the sky, and his eyes drop down and there is no body in a grave. No, he is at a fountain then, and he realizes he is shivering cold, water all over him.
Then he sees Dallas is gone. In his place is Bob Sheldon, holding his midsection. The switchblade is in Ponyboy's hand and he drops it in shock. Bob Sheldon falls, and blood seeps out of his body. It doesn't stop like it did in real life, even though Ponyboy panics, tries to run. The blood simply expands, greater and greater, until Ponyboy slips in it, shrieks when it sluices over him, feeling like he's drowning all over again.
The nightmare is not kind, in the end. What is kind is waking up with Dallas still inside of him, with Dallas nuzzling against him, voice warm, deep in his ear. It's feeling his hand stroking his stomach, his thighs, until he can fall back into a sleep without dreams.
"Shit, it's good," Ponyboy looks at the new linoleum admirably. "It looks perfect."
The grin that Dallas hooks on his face is a lot more like his normal one, less exhaustion and anxiety. His mating mark is dark against his skin, not bothering to even patch it up. "Yeah, guy's great. He's never done a bad job." The kitchen looks almost better than when Dallas had simply set up shop in the place, for them both. Even some of the cabinets have been refitted, repainted with new knobs on it all.
There's no evidence a murder took place here. No evidence that Ponyboy had been assaulted. It's the picture of their home, the way it had been.
He knows that as they both seem to try and fall into their normal routines, as they both attempt to go back to living normally.
Normalcy is hard to come by. Despite the cleaned up carpets, despite their normal blankets and sheets, despite everything being placed right back where it belongs, it isn't the same. In the middle of the night he finds himself awake, listening.
Not to the normal night sounds, like Dallas softly snoring every now and then or the neighborhood dogs or cats or the wind through the trees or the sound of the A/C. Ponyboy holds his breath as he grips his blanket tightly, listening for something else: listening for feet that don't belong to Dallas on the kitchen floor or the carpet; the sound of the window creaking open when it shouldn't be; trying to catch the moment a shoe squeaks on the linoleum; waiting, shoulders tense, for the sound of a switchblade being flicked open in the dark.
He waits, minute by minute, hour by hour until he's forced to sleep by his body, and is capitulated into the dream, beneath the moon, beside the gush of blood.
Sometimes the body is Bob Sheldon. Sometimes the body is Joey.
There's only a swath of blood, the full moon hanging. Only snatches of sleep until he's being gently nudged by Dallas, telling him that it was time to get up for class, and then work.
Sometimes he can tell Dallas wants to say more, to do more than reassure. To talk to him. And Ponyboy knows he should, that they need more than what they have right. He's not ready to; he wants to feel safe again, wants Dallas close, wants to be sure he's alright, to try to have the sense of safety that had existed before.
It doesn't come.
Every mundane morning task seems haunted by every step of the assault: the chairs scraping across the new floor make him remember how close he was when he tripped, the spot where the body was he tries to walk around as if it was still haunting it, the cabinets look odd to him remembering how they were one of the last things he thought he'd see.
All of it is more complicated by how Dallas behaves, always behind Ponyboy by mere steps, scenting him all the time, making sure that he's making every sound. He's never had to do this at home, be this protective shadow that he is in other places. At home, it never mattered before that Ponyboy could hear him walking, that he made sure to make an extra sound when he was making breakfast or getting his keys in the morning.
When Ponyboy steps out of the door, to get to the car, it hits him how much better he feels to be outside of the house. How less on his guard he is just making his way to the passenger seat with his lunch, shoes in hand.
Tears swell up in his eyes that he has to hide as Dallas climbs into the car.
He isn't safe at home anymore. The thought lands in him so heavily as Dallas puts the car in drive, eases them away from the curb. Ponyboy keeps his blurring vision on the house — on the grey outside that he'd liked the moment he'd seen it, at the windows that he once thought were charming in their own way, at the lawn that was a little wild but theirs, at the stoop that he'd enjoyed hanging out on with the neighborhood kids.
All he can think about is struggling for air on the floor, about the burning body, about the click of a gun going off over and over again.
A hand wraps around his. Ponyboy sniffs, blinks back tears and turns to look at Dallas, at his worried expression. The bandage is finally gone, the stitches cut out last night. The skin still looks tender, Ponyboy wanting to lean over, kiss the scar that will form there. "Y'okay? You can take the day off."
The concern on his mate's face is so real, so ready to accommodate him. Dallas always worries about him, always wants to do right as a mate.
The words, I don't want to go home get stuck in his throat. All he can do is croak out, "I'll be fine."
"If something's going on, I'm home," his voice is deep, intent. "Just call me, and I'm there."
The smile Ponyboy gives him is weak. "I'll be home tonight, by six-thirty. They need me a little late."
Dallas reaches over, and slots his fingers against the mating mark. Calm sweeps through Ponyboy, and Dallas never pulls his hand away from his neck from the rest of the car ride.
The sky is dark when Ponyboy looks at the clock and realizes it's fifteen past five, pushing the book cart where it needed to be. Most of the staff would be filing out, waiting for the janitorial staff to fill in for the night.
His hands grip the cold handles of the cart, and knows that he has to go get his jacket, go to the bus stop. It wouldn't be a long time to get to the house, to go inside. Dallas would be there waiting for him, probably ready to feed him risotto on a night like this.
Usually, he can close his eyes and smile thinking about it, Dallas grinning at him, asking if he wanted to watch tv with him while they ate or if they wanted to read. Thinking about leaning on the couch afterwards, talking about whatever paper Ponyboy had due or talking about work.
Instead, his hands go clammy. He thinks about a figure with blonde hair walking behind Dallas, face half cleaved in, holding a gun that has a bullet in the chamber this time.
No, he can't do that. He can't go back there right now, and Ponyboy goes to the main phone and dials out. The phone rings and rings, and Dallas picks up on the third, saying, "Hey."
"I – I'll be home late," his palm presses into his eyelid, and he scents chlorine he knows isn't there. "They've got a lot of work for me to do, and Daniel called out."
"Alright. Just let me know when you're gonna make it home," Ponyboy can hear Dallas shifting the phone. "Weather ain't looking too good right now."
"I will. I love you," he says it into the phone with as much love as he can muster, as much tenderness as he can. "Call you later."
"Talk to you later, Pone," Dallas says, and then Ponyboy hangs up the phone before he can go back on his lie.
That's when rain begins to lash at the windows. His hands shake, his heart thunders in his chest, and he drags the cart behind him, back to the elevator. If he can pretend for a little while, stall, it'll be easier.
Over an hour later, though, the rain transforms into thunder and lightning. It's coming down hard enough that Ponyboy knows that going to the bus stop isn't going to work, and asking Dallas to come out here is going to be impossibly hard.
"Dally," Ponyboy says into the receiver, shoulders hunched, "I'm staying over tonight. It's bad out here."
He can imagine the unhappy look on Dallas' face, who sighs. "Call me in the morning, soon as you wake up. You got food there?"
"Yeah, I didn't finish lunch. I promise, I'll call," he hears thunder crack, swears. "I'm gonna get off now, think the power's gonna go out. Love you, bye."
When the phone hits the cradle, there's a boom. Ponyboy jumps, and decides now is the time to eat, and go to the seminary room to sleep. If he even could sleep.
He pretends that he didn't feel utter relief when the rain had begun to lash the building, that he didn't feel so much better the instant he realized he'd be staying the night in the house. He has to pretend, for now.
It gets harder to pretend that he doesn't prefer the library when he finds himself waking up ten hours later, with no nightmares running circles in his head, no feeling of tension in his shoulders, no need to listen for foreign sounds. And even harder when he finds himself unhappy at the thought he'd need go to go home, shower, and get new clothes.
The pretending has to go on though, for Dallas' sake. When he shows up to pick him up, he looks worried as ever, hand raking through Ponyboy's hair, burying his nose in his neck. He's fine, perfectly safe — the way Ponyboy knew he would be, how he should be.
Going home is something he has to do for him, for Dallas. It's safe.
The lies begin to transform after a few days. Not in leaps or bounds — We're working late, I have to make sure to pack dinner for it. Don't worry. — they transform in inches, in small changes.
It's work or bad weather or both. It's never twice in a row, he tries to make sure to come home, stay a night, a few hours. Pretend that he isn't tense listening for sounds of an invader, that he isn't looking for the moon hanging in the sky with a body waiting for him on the ground, that he isn't terrified that just by being here, he was endangering Dallas.
That is the thought that makes him sickest, of all things.
It's also a thought that keeps coming back to him as he tosses and turns, as he tries to fall back into a familiar pattern. The man hadn't been coy; he'd said he'd come specifically to harm him, to get to Dallas. Exactly the way Ponyboy and Dallas had been warned about before, directly and indirectly by Dallas' father. It hadn't been about Ponyboy himself, really. It had been about what would tear Dallas apart.
That was how the mob operated. They didn't restrain themselves, they did whatever they could to harm each other. Before, that had never, ever been a problem. That had changed.
And the thought keeps come back, louder and louder every time, no matter how Ponyboy tries to push against it — with the amount of time, with how the man had been killed before anything worse could happen.
It had happened. It could happen again.
It's been five days of this, of hiding in the library. He keeps the blanket that still has Dallas' scent wrapped around his middle, hearing cars honk and screech outside against the rain that keeps coming in angry torrents. There's no book that can pull him out of his thoughts, no music player here with something he wants to listen to.
Ponyboy is here with his thoughts and his thoughts alone. And they pick up right where he'd left them, despite the times he's been trying to push them away.
The facts of the matter were this: ever since Dallas had told him about the truth of his parentage, about who he was, he had accepted that there was danger associated with it, that there was always a possibility that things could go wrong. He'd known, he'd always known in a way. Changing Dallas had never crossed his mind, had never been something Ponyboy did.
That didn't mean he never thought about what Dallas had done, was doing, would always do for him. That if Ponyboy wasn't around, he could go back to New York City on his own once his exile was up. That he could live a freer life working for his father rather than being tied down – or hell, he didn't even have to go work for his father, maybe, if he didn't have Ponyboy.
For a long time, Ponyboy had quelled any doubt about them together. But hours alone in the seminary, hearing the rain lash the windows, looking up at the ceiling, he thinks that maybe that's the problem. Maybe he should've had doubts sooner about this, about one salient fact that was very, very real: Ponyboy was a weakness for Dallas.
That man had wanted to hurt Dallas, by hurting Ponyboy. He wanted to send Dallas a message by taking the money, by harming his mate— and it makes him sick thinking about what harm he could've truly been capable of if he hadn't been so lucky.
Rain lashes the windows. Thunder rumbles and Ponyboy stares up at the ceiling above him. Stares and stares because his mind doesn't want to deal with the conclusion of that sentence.
He's never, ever had the thought before that maybe they shouldn't be mates. That all this should end, for Dallas' sake.
As soon as it crosses his mind, it makes his chest twist, makes him shiver in the seminary cold at the finality of it, at the reality of that sentence. Their bond, their love for each other is harming Dallas. It is hurting him — it is the one thing that Ponyboy can't abide, and it's as if a dam breaks in him. Every tear he's been holding back since the initial break in, every terrified thought that's raced through his head in the past few days, every insecurity he's never had before bubbles up, bursts out of him in a wracked, choking sob.
Desperately, he slaps a hand over his mouth, trying to choke the noise, the thought. It doesn't hold, shoulders racking, sob tearing through him. Ponyboy is alone as the tears flow, as he takes gasping breaths, as he knows what he has to do.
The one thing he'd been adamant he'd never do, even though Dallas' father had pushed for it, looked down on mates. The thing Dallas had stood up against when he'd rejoined his family in New York.
He has to break his bond. He has to leave Dallas. He has to go, let him be safe without him, to do this. Dallas had built so much of his life around Ponyboy, from choosing to come with him to Oklahoma City to having to turn down jobs that Ponyboy knew were better than what he was getting. And that was what he knew — there were so many things he didn't know about, so many things he could be missing.
(And how selfish is he, though, to still think I wish Dallas was here. How shitty was he, to sob, knowing what he has to do, and still want Dallas there, still want reassurance? To wrap his arms around himself, to wish Dallas was there instead?)
Without him, everything would be easier for Dallas, he knows it. He just can't face it, can't bear it.
"Mr. Curtis?"
Ponyboy cradles the phone, scratching at his cheeks. It's the next afternoon, and he had only given a small phone call before he had gone to the YMCA down the street to shower, change. Then he'd gone to breakfast at the Waffle House nearby, then come back to work, as if he'd actually gone home the previous night.
The night's revelation made him less inclined than ever to go home. Not with what he had to do, not with what he was resolved to do. There was no way Dallas would say it himself, and Ponyboy knew he had to be the one, had to voice what had to happen for Dallas to be safe. So he'd regulated himself to the library downstairs basement, among the stacks. Getting a phone call down here on the private library line was easier than having people run back and forth, and he grunts out, "Yeah, Daniel?"
"Your mate's up at the front desk. Says he's comin' to see you in the stacks," the way Daniel says it makes Ponyboy full aware of the fact Dallas must've just blown past him and headed right to the steps. "He looks prett—"
"I got him," he snaps into the line and hangs it up, trying to scramble to figure out what he needs to do. The cigarette he's been smoking is hastily put out, Ponyboy moving around the desk to intercept Dallas. He'll be angry, upset, questioning about Ponyboy not being home, and if Ponyboy could get to him first, if he could get in a word before Dallas did...
Maybe he could do what needed to be done.
Because if Dallas speaks first, if he says anything before Ponyboy can, he knows he wouldn't be able to say it, wouldn't be able to go through with it.
The door bangs open before Ponyboy can get around the boxes and Dallas' scent hits him like a brick wall. He's stressed, he's clearly upset, and Ponyboy takes a step back when he comes into his view. Some of his hair is wet from the rain, the drops shining beneath the lights, his face half thrown into relief from it. His hair needs a cut, he clearly needs a shave — Ponyboy's stomach drops, recognizing this look. It was how Dallas had been after he and Johnny had been on Jay Mountain for a week.
The realization makes Ponyboy's gut clench – a feeling that worsens when Dallas is just out of reach, eyes flicking around Ponyboy's face, his form. Looking for harm, looking for an answer. "Why ain't you coming home?"
The answer he wants to give is lodged in his throat. That it was his fault, that this was hurting Dallas. Silence stretches between them as Dallas waits, the plastic shifting in his hand. He still brought food for Ponyboy, had anticipated it like he anticipated so many things and it hurts, it hurts the truth of what he has to do.
"Can we — Can we talk? After my shift? It ends at five," It kills Ponyboy how bland it sounds, as if it were in a bad soap opera. The words of someone getting ready to hurt someone else by revealing an affair or some other bullshit. Not the words of someone trying to buy some time before something inevitable.
"Pone —"
"I can't do it now," Ponyboy interrupts, even though Dallas looks more upset, wounded than before. "Please, Dallas. I'll... I'll tell you everything. After work."
Even though this will hurt worse later, even though he shouldn't do it, Ponyboy reaches out to touch the mating mark. To let Dallas turn his nose into his wrist, lift up his hand to wrap his fingers around Ponyboy's wrist as tight as he can. Dallas' skin is so pale against Ponyboy's fingertip and he wishes so badly that he didn't have to do what needs to be doing.
But if the result is that Dallas isn't like this, that Dallas didn't have to arrange so much of his life around a mate who was keeping him down...
Ponyboy thinks one last touch is fine. One last scenting. He blinks back tears as Dallas offers the food he'd gotten. "I'll stay here, til you're done."
No escaping him, no matter what.
No escaping this choice.
Hours pass by after that in a way that's both too slow and too fast for Ponyboy. There aren't a lot of people to help, and much too often, he finds himself on his toes, well aware of where Dallas is within the library: shuffling through a few books, sitting in a corner quiet, or just within eyeline of the front desk where Ponyboy ends up at the end of the day.
There's only once that he leaves, twenty minutes before they're due to close. More than likely, it's to grab food for the end of the day — the care there makes Ponyboy feel more guilty than ever, at the fact that he's going to have to end this.
In all the hours he's had to try and come up with something to say, with how to say it, stringing the words together is harder than ever in the face of this, of what Dallas had always done for him. He has always cared for him in ways that were immeasurable, and it makes Ponyboy all the more miserable once the clock shifts to 4.55 and Dallas walks back inside with food that Ponyboy wants.
There's an urge to stall, to draw it out. But once five more minutes pass, his stomach drops, and Ponyboy is forced to come from behind the desk despite his sweaty palms. Dallas stands up from the table, reaching out to touch the small of Ponyboy's back. "Think we can go up to the seminary?"
Mutely, Ponyboy nods.
There is no pulling away when Dallas leans on him, walking to the elevator. No drawing away as they stand in the elevator, half nuzzling each other, having missed his scent. His mate, since he was fourteen years old, right here. This man that Ponyboy knew he loved more than anything, who he wanted to be with, and all Ponyboy can think as they elevator pulls them upwards, is that he wishes they could be suspended here in this moment for a little bit longer. That they could stay, bodies pressing against each other in a line.
The elevator door opens. Dallas gently nudges him forward. Ponyboy walks out, heads to the room where he's been sleeping in for more nights than days. In the afternoon turnijg to evening, it makes him wince. There's no mistaking that he's set up a nest here: the blankets, the mixture of clothes, the stack of books.
Dallas notices it too, shoulders tensing at it. He sheds his jacket, the leather cuff that Ponyboy more prominent than ever on his forearm. "Go on, eat first. Don't want you doing this on an empty stomach."
The you hurts. It shouldn't; Dallas is gentle as he sets the cups down on the desk. Pony moves the chairs they have so they can sit opposite each other. Truth be told, he doesn't want a bite of food; Dallas needs it more, yet he's deep in his alpha instincts. He'll never eat before Pony, so Pony opens the carton and feels a surge of guilt overwhelm him near immediately. It's a meal Dallas only gets him close to a heat: tons of french fries, the crinkle kind with seasoned salt, an burger that he knows is almost rare with just the right amount of tomato and onions and a slice of chocolate cake.
"Dally. You shouldn't..." he gives Dallas a warm look, looking at Dal's own food, with a lot less fries and no cake.
Dallas shrugs. "You ain't been home. Couldn't think of nothing else."
All manner of attempting to prepare for what he has to do, it's gone. His face flushes, his eyes sear with heat from tears. "I can't go back. I'm sorry, I know – I know you've done everything but I can't. Every time I do, I can't sleep, I don't feel safe. I keep having nightmares about – about it all."
He expects an explosion, a denial, anything but the open despair on Dallas' face. Its an expression he's never seen on him before, the way he crumples into himself. "It ain't your fault, Pony. Please —"
"It is my fault," he cries out. "Dally, he'd never have broken into the house if he hadn't been trying to hurt me." A pin could drop now and they'd hear it with how still Dallas gets, mouth half opened. "If you weren't with —"
"I ain't leaving you!" Dallas snarls the words out — just not in the way he would if he were talking to an enemy. No, it's desperate, angry in the same way he'd been on Jay Mountain. "Pony – no, no. I don't wanna leave you cause of one incident."
The tears on his face are hot as they fall, Ponyboy shaking his head. "What if it's not just one? What if they – what if they find me again just to hurt you again? Texas is right—"
"He's wrong!" Dallas slams a fist on the table, making them both jump at the sound for a moment. Tears continue to flow down Ponyboy's cheeks, and Dallas looks paler than before, upset. "I'm sorry, kid. I didn't... Texas isn't right. And you aren't, right now. It was my fuck up, not protecting you better. Mine, not yours. We promised to be mates, and part of that is that I promised to protect you. I didn't do right by you, Ponyboy. I should've been more careful about what I told to who, about who I pissed off."
It sounds wrong to Ponyboy, what he's saying. All that blame on his own shoulders, and he sniffs, wiping at his eyes. He wants to talk, wants to say more. "Wouldn't it be easier, Dallas? If I wasn't there, holding you back like this? You could be there with them, in New York. I wouldn't tie you down."
"Easy? Easy?" Dallas moves from the opposite side of the desk, to come touch Ponyboy's cheeks with shaking hands. "I always – I don't give a shit about easy. It wouldn't be easy to live without you, without having my mate. We chose each other, and I ain't done." He swipes at Ponyboy's tears, his voice quiet. "Please, please Pone. Just cause someone goes after you to hurt me doesn't mean you need to take yourself out of the picture." He's never cried — his voice however, wobbles, on a thread, his eyes shining like it had in the car on the way to the hospital as he gets down on his knees, between Ponyboy's legs. He looks at him with desperation, with need. "Don't hurt me like they tried to do. Please."
It feels like his chest is being torn into as Ponyboy listens, as he turns over the words. They're both trying to protect each other, they're both trying to do what's best for each other. Even at the expense of parts of themselves.
"I'm sorry," he wraps his arms around Dallas, bends his head against his, and when he feels salty tears — he knows they aren't his. They can't be and that makes him hold Dallas tighter. "I love you, I love you."
He slips out of the chair, and Dallas holds him closer, his nails digging into his skin. Ponyboy takes the pain that he knows he deserves, stroking Dallas' back. "I love you, Dally. I love you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," Dallas says again, words wrapped in his own emotions, his own tears. He pulls back, his eyelashes wet, the stubble dark against his cheek. "You want to get out to protect yourself? I get that. I put you in danger. But leaving... leaving cause you wanna make it easier for me? Easier to do what? Be alone? Not have nothing, no one to do any of this for, to come home to?" He shakes his head, fingers carding through Ponyboy's hair. "No. Nev–"
He kisses Dallas then. He knows what he's saying, what he means, and he needs to show it. Dallas kisses him back, half smashing their noses together when he does it.
Ponyboy doesn't mind, doesn't care. "I love you, I'm sorry. I ain't leaving, I'm not." He says it between kisses, between the push and pull of their bodies and he means it, every word.
There is no solution he has in mind at the moment, no ability to immediately fix this. But there is no breaking of their bond here, no parting ways.
It was going to them. It always was.
this has been sitting in my head forever as a fic idea. it's finally coming to fruition. thank you to monstrology in particular for some amazing dialog incorporated here and for dealing with the fact that i wrote this in about three days, crafting the summary, and being a fantastic editor as well.
this will have a companion one shot piece, which i hope to have out by the end of this week if my job doesn't suplex me. thank you everyone for reading, i love kudos and comments! 💖