"C'mon, Winston. Get down," the firm hands of the cop push him towards the curb until Dallas is forced to sit there, some sweat trickling down his face, mixing with the blood and dirty already there.

The anger that had been keeping him propelled for so long, that had made all of this explode, is a dull roar in his ears now, calming down more and more as he's forced to sit down, his shoulders heaving with it. The hits to his face, his body that he'd taken all start to fade for a minute, Dallas breathing slower than before, keeping himself steadier now. That buzzing anger he'd been feeling ever since he'd crossed the county line begins to fade, and Dallas knows that what he's done is going to get him into hot water with Texas in a big way.

He doesn't think he cares anymore. Not as the police lights wash over him, not as he slowly comes to himself more, to where he was, to the feeling of the muzzle on his face that had been fitted on him when he'd still been in a whirlwind of rage, intent on beating the piss out of Curly Shepard.

The air in front of him materializes in a cloud, the cold enough to make his mouth close sharply, even if the muzzle on his face wasn't keeping him from opening his mouth fully anyway. Slowly, his vision fills up wider, away from the pinpricks of alpha rage, away from the need to be violent. The world gains color, definition, clarity, widens from the trailer where Curly Shepard was groaning in now, probably set to piss blood for the next week, into a neighborhood in one of the worst parts of Tulsa. Spotty green lawns, raggedy fences, cop car after cop car, police tape and curious idiots fill up the horizon as he spits through the metal grate of the muzzle onto the ground.

The wash of blue and red lights on the curb isn't exactly unfamiliar to Dallas, not after all these years of being arrested for everything from petty theft to aggravated assault. Nor is the feeling of the way the muzzle fits into his face, from the straps uncomfortably close to the back of his scalp to the way the metal bites into his cheek and chin area that press down enough that it truly does feel as if the metal is slicing vindictively into his skin — his injuries be damned, apparently. It feels as if this particular muzzle was made just to hurt all the more, forcing his mouth closed, his fangs to cut into his cheeks and lips, and his nose flaring up uncomfortably trying to fight against it.

It's not unfamiliar at all — the issue is that he's been caught in the one place he knows he has a strong possibility of running into people he doesn't want to all because Curly had decided to be a fucking idiot and steal from the Sicilian Mob.

Even Dallas had underestimated how stupid he was.

Maybe it made him stupider, for getting so pissed that he'd come down here himself to take care of it, only to get into one of the worst fights he'd had.

At least one person he knows he has a chance to run into is Tim Shepard, even though that ship has very much sailed, seeing as he'd been the one to get away before the cops showed up; Dallas wouldn't be surprised if it came out he'd be the one to have called to make sure his shitty little brother didn't die at Dallas' hands.

Whether or not he'd outrun Dallas' brother, though, was up in the air. There was no way he wasn't going to get caught soon enough, given how many people he'd burned on his way to the top of the drug world of Tulsa and how seriously Dallas' father took theft from them.

It makes him smile, honestly. Tim would be lucky if he still had his balls by the time they caught up with him.

More calls, more radio, more police traffic. One of them barks something at him. Dallas ignores them, even though the uniform reminds him that there is one other person he doesn't want to run into here. One that he doesn't want to see him like this, cuffed, muzzled, waiting for transport. It was always rote about this time, when they would come pick him up, take him to the county holding before sending him to the actual jail where he'd go.

Not that it would be for long; he knew that as soon as he'd get there, he'd get his Zio Carmine on the phone, that lawyer more than worth his salt in resourcefulness. Then he'd be out, back to working for his father, and all of this would be quietly cleaned up, the way it always was.

They'd never see him. Never.

So Dallas tunes things out — the sound of police around him, the various radios turning on and off with voices and static, cars coming to and fro. The cool autumn air helps to clear his head even more, seeping down his throat. The scents of the crime scene around him is something he prefers to concentrate on rather than the scent of blood on him or the start of discomfort in his arms. There's so much gun oil, the scent of dirt and cleaning supplies in the air, various people coming and going.

The adrenaline, the elevated hormones begin to dip. The sky comes into sharper focus, dregs of the evening fading into a deep night.

This will all be over soon.

He'll be going back to New York, back to his own life soon enough. Even though he knows none of this should've happened in the first place. Even though he knows that it's starting to wear on him, working for his father like this, having to run into old faces he'd been starting to forget, even though he was starting to think that maybe, this life wasn't something he could keep to after all.

Even though he knows that this is something that Johnny wouldn't like. Johnny and someone else that he's been trying very, very hard not to consider.

Dallas stretches out one leg, carefully on the ground. He looks at the glass, and grinds his teeth beneath the muzzle, wishing it wasn't pressing down on him so harshly. The way his tongue feels in his mouth is a little stale, the taste of blood around his mouth starting to copper.

He focuses on getting some of it off of his teeth, keeping to just that — until he catches a scent in the wind that he shouldn't.

For the first time that night, he freezes, the cold finally making some gooseflesh erupt on his skin. His gaze is fixed at his legs where his dirt and blood stained boots press against the broken glass, and doesn't dare look up. Every ounce of bravado fades from him for a moment because even though he's trying not to see, even though he's trying to keep his heart from pounding more, he knows that familiar gait coming towards him, cutting through the sounds of everything else. Those boots were familiar as the palm of his hand and when that honeyed voice hits his ears, Dallas knows he can't deny it forever.

"Thanks for calling me, I can take him off your hands," that familiar lilt, the softness there makes Dallas want to retreat into his skin in the sudden shame that washes over him. The kindness there shouldn't be there coupled with that delicious scent that seems to nestle in his throat with need and longing. "I'll make sure he gets where he needs to get to."

Only for a moment does Dallas consider getting up to run, to do anything and everything to not have this happen. Anyone else would be rough with him, would yell at him and he'd yell back, allow him to lose his head a little, to get into a fight. All that aggression would feel so natural in him, would animate him the way he should be.

That split second isn't long enough because those boots are in front of him, then behind him, a hand smaller than his, grasping his elbow. "C'mon, Dally. I know you ain't comfortable like this."

There's no wanting of a fight in that voice, in that grip. Any fight that Dallas could have for him, ebbs right out of him. The word his brother would use is the word docile, and Dallas hates how apt that is. How that scent creeps beneath his nose, making him want to shove his muzzled face on that familiar neck to both find that scar he's had since that fall in 1965 and to inhale it until he's satisfied.

At this moment, Dallas has lost.

There's no choice for Dallas as he's helped to his feet, legs shaking for a moment. He's forced to look at the scene around him of the trailer were EMTs were carrying a bruised and battered Curly out on a stretcher, groaning from his wounds. Where people were staring, one of whom he recognized as Two-Bit's younger sister, Katie with her red hair a mess. She's staring at them both, in recognition.

Is the shame he feels for a moment because of her, too? Is it because she looks at him and thinks of her brother, of Johnny, of all those hoods who've scattered to the wind? Does he feel apprehension because of how much she looks like her mother? Or is she looking at the man behind her, who she knows too?

A finger runs across his wrist, where his glands are. That soothing feeling flows over him like a wave, pushing away the usual discomfort that comes with handcuffs. It's a deliberate reminder of what was happening.

Dallas stares back at her only for a moment, then he keeps walking, being led to a car that wasn't like the other cop cars. It's a rather unremarkable, almost non-descript silver car. It's the most boring thing most people could look at, which made it perfect. No one would look at it and think it'd be driven by someone with a badge, which was the point.

The car door for the passenger side is opened, and instead of just ducking in, Dallas speaks for the first time, "Pony, you don't have to do this. They can just take me in."

"Yeah, I do," that honeyed voice is still soft, kind as ever. "You and I both know that if I let you get taken in by anyone else, you'd be at risk. C'mon, Dally. Soon as we get to the county line, I'll get you out of this."

Dallas doesn't know what to do with the feeling in his chest at that moment with how it swells with an ache he's been trying to quell whenever he runs into Ponyboy. Doesn't know why he feels so deeply still for him like this, even though they both know where they were with each other. Still, he bends down, gets into the car as best he can. When he's in, Ponyboy reaches over and adjusts the seat so that Dallas can use all the leg room available.

Once he's settled, Dallas is forced to look at him for the first time: at the big hazel eyes in his face, at the almost auburn hair he has, the long eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. He shuts the door behind him, walking around the front, taking his keys from his jean pocket. Someone must've called him as soon as his name was mentioned on the radio — Ponyboy's still in a pair of blue jeans and blue flannel that looks good on him, with a tank top beneath. Nothing about him screamed a U. S. Marshal at this moment, even though Dallas can see a glance of the outline of the badge in his back pocket.

Ponyboy settles into the front seat easily, turning on the car with a turn of his key, the car purring to life beneath him. Quickly, he adjusts the dials to finally bring some heat in the car, Dallas appreciating it.

This close, his scent is overwhelmingly good. The urge to tuck his nose into his neck is stronger, to get just a taste of what he can't have grows. And not just that, really: he wants to just tuck himself into Ponyboy's slim body, to touch those burn scars he knows exists, to kiss him until Ponyboy's gasping, to slip inside of him, and stay there.

It's been so long since they've been so close together, been so long since they have been able to be in the same room together, let alone the same space. He wonders if Ponyboy is feeling the same way, if he's holding his breath the way Dallas is at this moment.

The radio crackles on, and Ponyboy glances at him. "I can't take the muzzle off. I can take the handcuffs off, though right now. You want that?"

"Yeah," the word is unstuck from Dallas' throat, and Ponyboy takes the keys out of his pocket. Dallas leans forward, and with a turn and click, his hands are free. He's not dumb enough to lift them or brag; however, when Ponyboy puts the car into drive, eases onto the road, he reaches over and grasps Ponyboy's thigh.

Ponyboy looks at him, his mouth curving into that familiar, sweet smile that has always looked at home on his face. There is softness, tenderness there that Dallas knows he hasn't earned in a long time, and certainly not tonight. There should be anger there, disappointment, a harshness that he's never liked on Ponyboy's face. Any real hood would have it, yet it's never appeared on Ponyboy's face no matter what's happened.

The radio plays softly as the Ponyboy drives past the crime scene, past all the people watching. Not once does Dallas pull his eyes away from him: looking for the scar on his neck from the Soc's, looking for the St. Christopher medal on his neck that Dallas had given him years ago and finding both marks of time, of care, still there.

He doesn't deserve it — and knowing that, he still loves it, still loves that Ponyboy loves him that much.

Carefully, Dallas moves his fingers from Ponyboy's thighs, to touch his hand on the stick shift to find that his hand still fits right with Ponyboy's just like puzzle pieces do.

As if he could read his mind, Ponyboy says, "You always fit me."

The drive in the darkness is taken mostly on backroads. Dallas has been intimately familiar with them ever since he was about twelve, hardly able to see over the wheel to run alcohol to dry counties bootlegging for Buck Merril. If Ponyboy is doing it to simply keep prying eyes away or if he's doing it to help Dallas later, he doesn't know.

What matters is that he's doing it at all, that he isn't moving his hand away from Dallas' own as they keep going. The radio is at a steady quiet volume as they go, and Dallas doesn't know if he wants to break the silence or not with what he wants to say, with what he could say as he gets more and more lucid, the aggressive alpha pheromones from earlier fading more and more.

With the fading of that comes the slow precision of his wounds: the ache on his cheek, the slow trickle of blood fading to nothing, the ache in his jaw having a twinge to it. The pressure from the muzzle isn't making it any better, and he grinds his teeth as they make their way closer and closer to their destination.

A single red light is between them and the station when Dallas finally breaks the silence with, "You gonna process me all by yourself? Ain't it a holiday?"

"Wouldn't be the first time I've had to process someone all by my lonesome," Ponyboy responds, his hand warm beneath Dallas' own. All this time and he's never released the stick shift, even though the car's an automatic. "It'll be easier, honestly." The light goes from red to green, and Ponyboy presses on the gas, crossing over to where the station is with it's boxy form and imposing lines against the horizon. It's not a regular police station, it's not even one most people use if Dallas remembers correctly — it's bigger, a little newer, yet hardly used compared to others.

Granted, as he's been reminded for a long time, Ponyboy isn't a cop. He's a Deputy U. S. Marshal, different from the regular dumb beat cop who'd be after him. He's someone bigger than that, able to go after scumbags like Randy Adderson whose face was plastered on every billboard he could get for his office.

It doesn't make the building any easier for him to look at, to approach though.

Ponyboy's car is the lone occupant in the parking lot when he gets there, even though the lights are on. There's an obvious reluctance to him when he extracts his hand beneath Dallas', his other hand hooking into the door to get out. "I'm gonna have to —"

"I know how this goes, Pone. You ain't gotta apologize," his eyes avert from Ponyboy's own. That's enough for them both.

Getting Dallas out of the car is easy enough, a groan leaving him at how good it felt to stretch out. In the night, illuminated only by a street light, Dallas remembers for a moment how things had been years ago: Ponyboy beneath a streetlight, his eyes wide, his face a bruised up mess, the shock of blonde hair, the purple hoodie riding up on him and determination setting on his face before he'd jetted forward in the night, intent on getting to Dallas before he'd raised the gun.

That kid is here, though the blonde hair and bruises are gone, only transformed into a different kind of determination: older, a little hardened, yet still looking at Dallas the way he had that night knowing he didn't want him dead beneath a streetlight.

Slowly, Ponyboy walks him up the steps to the building. That blue flannel jacket is half off of his shoulder and it's the one with the burn on it from the fire. It's been such a long time since Dallas had seen it up close, the way it looked almost like a hand. Of course last time, they'd been younger, and he'd been kissing it in a bed that both of them could hardly fit inside of.

The doors open with a click, and Ponyboy nods towards the inside. "I gotta cuff you again just for this. They don't have cameras out here but they do inside. Soon as I'm done, though, they'll be taken off."

A huff leaves Dallas. "You making sure to cover your tracks, Marshal? Sounds like you can't keep your hands on an outlaw."

"Ain't my hands you should be thinking about," Ponyboy grins.

The first time Dallas was booked, he'd been ten years old. The cuffs had been too big on him, and his cousin had been in the other room, terrified. The cops had all towered over his small form, not a drop of sympathy or care in their eyes. To say that rarely changed afterwards would be a joke: the looks became more disdainful, more spiteful, and eventually, Dallas had responded in kind. He cursed at them, he spat in their faces, he laughed at them, until he became amused.

Same cogs, different machines.

Right now, everything is different with only him and Ponyboy here as he goes through the motions of it all: from the fingerprints, to the handcuffs, to the photos. Each is done as if Ponyboy has never done it before, as if Dallas never has, explaining each and every process, his voice soft, his grip tender, his movements never threatening, never mocking, never dismissive.

It's almost as if it's a conversation, to a point: You don't have any other names you go by?

'Course not. Wouldn't if I even wanted to.

I wouldn't like it, anyway. They talk to you about your rights and all?

Please. What is this, amateur hour? I don't want my phone call yet. Better wait til morning.

You sure?

Damn sure.

Even as they talk, even as it's a conversation between them, though, there's still an itch in the back of his brain: Ponyboy's pissed at him, angry he's found him like this. Angry that he got called in the middle of the night, that Ponyboy was going to have to clean up after him.

No one could make him care like this. No one could make him hesitate like this. Except him, even though Ponyboy never says it, even though he never raises his voice about the bruises, about the violence he'd inflicted (rightfully) on Curly. Even though Dallas knows him like the back of his hand, even though Dallas knows Ponyboy doesn't like the violence he does, doesn't like the way his father commands him like a dog, doesn't like that Dallas has done everything opposite of that letter Ponyboy had read to him from Johnny all those years ago.

He knows it. Dallas fucking knows it as he searches his face from time to time, as he listens to Ponyboy speak, as he watches him move.

Some part of him has to be furious, some part of him has to be disappointed at all of this, at Dallas, at what he's doing now.

But the shoe? It never drops. The condemnation, the anger, the disappointment seem to be entirely absent.

All he does is guide Dallas through it, adding small touches where he shouldn't from the brush of his fingers against the inside of Dallas' wrist to touching his neck discretely when he adjusts the plaque with his name and designation.

(All things no camera could really translate.)

Not once does he ask about the arrest in detail. Not even when he pauses to do some of the paper work at the front desk, allowing Dallas a moment to just stand there. Nothing about Curly, or Tim or his father. Nothing about how he'd gotten back to Tulsa, nothing about how he might be violating a parole or not.

Dallas doesn't know what Ponyboy is thinking here, only that he doesn't mind being so close to him, doesn't mind watching him roll up his sleeves to reveal those burn scars licking up his forearms. That stupid kid — he'd taken off the jacket Dallas had given him at Jay Mountain, just to run into that fire. It'd gotten him hurt, and he'd never kept up with the regimen to make them less prominent on his skin. They look like an almost odd spiral up his forearms, the skin raised and over smooth.

He wants to touch them again. He wants to run his mouth along them while he's inside of Ponyboy, wants to rut deep into Ponyboy and sink his teeth into the column of that pretty neck of his until Ponyboy goes boneless.

That thought should be tucked far, far away in his brain. It shouldn't occupy the front as Ponyboy flips paper signing them, shouldn't make him think about how Ponyboy had slammed his body into his, forced him down the hill out of sight. Shouldn't make him think about how Ponyboy had all but dragged Dallas out of the sight of firing guns, his eyes bright with tears as he had hissed out Shut up, Dally! They don't know it's not loaded! and clamped his hand over Dallas' mouth.

Dallas had wanted to be as dead as Johnny. Ponyboy had wanted him to live, and he'd gotten what he'd wanted that night, his will stronger than his.

The click of a pen drags him out of that memory of mud and dark lights, Ponyboy announcing, "Everything's done. I gotta take you to lock up."

The rules of lock up mean that he is uncuffed yet muzzled still. Most places stipulated it for alphas in particular, and God knew that Dallas had a record for it. It's located right in sight of the office, and Ponyboy seems to hesitate a moment as he looks at the clock and then Dallas. His fingers tap at the clipboard in front of him, his teeth pulling at his bottom lip, eyes flicking to look at Dallas' face. "When's the last time you ate?"

"Five hours ago," Dallas shrugs, "Why? You covering me at your little vending machine you got here?"

"Maybe. Come here, I can show you," grasping his elbow, Ponyboy guides him to the elevators in the lobby. Dallas steps inside, and as soon as he does he realizes that one of the cameras there isn't working. The light isn't on, and it's drooping at an angle.

Jesus, this kid.

Ponyboy presses the basement level button, the doors slide shut. "The Chinese place is still open at this hour. You up for it?" He glances up at Dallas, his smile widening. "It'll be on me, since you're a cheap date."

"It had better be," the words are half growled out, Dallas leaning closer. "You got a plan to —"

"Ssh," a finger goes up to his lips. "Don't worry about it." As the elevator plunges downward, Ponyboy's eyes find his. "I'm not — Just take it for what it is for me, okay? Just tonight."

You need to stop this. A voice in the back of his head urges Dallas. He's gonna fuck up his career for you, you stupid fucking hood. You can't let him do this for you when you wouldn't let him do it for anyone else.

Dallas goes quiet. The elevator hits the very bottom, and the doors open. In front of him is a bottom parking lot, that contained a single car parked in the corner: a black, sleek 1970 Camaro. Where the other car had been fairly boring and non-descript, this one is clearly something more suited to a former greaser — all muscle, all speed and power, and Dallas finds himself grinning.

And as he suspected, there's no cameras here. Just bright lights that buzz as they step out into the concrete bottom. He makes two steps outward before Ponyboy grasps his hand, drags him beneath one of the brighter ones. Instinctually, Dallas ducks his head down, bending a little to afford Ponyboy the room to reach up and unbuckle the straps around his head.

Despite him being shorter than Dallas, his fingers are long, pretty like as they undo each and every buckle. He keeps his eyes on Ponyboy's face, at the careful concentration there as he undoes each and every one, the sounds of creaking buckles filling the parking lot. Slowly, the muzzle loosens, until the pressure is finally off of his face, and the metal loosens it's grip, that sharp bite finally giving away. "I'm sorry I couldn't take it off sooner. I didn't want them to get the footage." There's a creak, the muzzle coming fully off. Ponyboy pulls it off carefully, throwing it to the floor once it's fully disengaged from Dallas' face and hair.

What Dallas isn't expecting, what makes his heart leap in his chest is the careful way Ponyboy's fingers touch his skin. The indents are hard, obvious with the lines the muzzle has left: along the bridge of his nose, both cheeks, the bottom of his chin and some on his neck. Ponyboy's long, gorgeous fingers trace those lines, his eyes huge, apologetic in his face. "I'm really, really sorry. You look a fucking mess."

There could be words exchanged. He could say something stupid like It ain't the first time or Ain't your fault. S'the law, right?

They're cheap, useless.

Dallas doesn't need them. He didn't need them when Ponyboy had tackled him to the mud, didn't need them when Ponyboy had kissed him for the first time in Buck's all those years ago, hadn't needed them when they had buried Johnny and he'd reached for Ponyboy's hand.

There's only a need to close that agonizing distance between them when Ponyboy cups his cheek, looking for a bruise. As always, Ponyboy's true nature leaks out the moment he's not being seen by anyone else's prying eyes: absent minded, missing the forest for the trees, unaware of what Dallas wants until Dallas kisses him first.

He should've stretched his jaw first, should've let it click.

Still, for all the stiffness, the sudden life given back to him, he kisses Ponyboy in a way that makes him gasp again. Always that little gasp of surprise even though it should've been obvious what Dallas had wanted all along. Yet, as soon as Dallas kisses him, he knows exactly how to follow along, how much Dallas likes kissing him, has missed it.

Two puzzle pieces, again. Just kissing now, with all the heat they've missed for years, able to taste the barest bit of whisky, inhaling his scent all the while, tongue sliding into Ponyboy's mouth easy as anything, where he's supposed to be. Right where neither of them should've left.

His hands fist that pretty blue flannel, Ponyboy sighing into his mouth and before Dallas can shove his hand up his shirt, before he can show Ponyboy how much he's really, truly missed him, it's Ponyboy who draws back first. Even though his eyes are bright, even though he clearly wants more, he says, "Let's get you some food, Dally." Dallas licks his lips, very intent on doing just the opposite when Ponyboy adds with a half smile, "Be a good boy for me, hm?"

Well. Dallas had forgotten that Ponyboy likes to cheat sometimes. That's all he needs to pull his hands away, to move his jaw, get reoriented and nod.

He'll be good. Just for Ponyboy, and they both know that. "Just 'cause you asked real pretty."

thanks for reading! i love comments and this will be a two shot.