Darry isn't expecting to come home, aching and head full of the day's events, to see Dallas sitting on the couch with a serious expression on his face.

Not that he's been happy to see Dallas lately at all. Whenever they've had to be in court, Dallas has been forced to sit outside. Having him in there as Ponyboy's mate would be a mistake, and further, Darry didn't think he could trust Dallas to keep his head on straight as this progressed.

Two-Bit has been the one filling Dallas in, when Darry or Soda haven't. And no doubt, Ponyboy has told him too. Between it all, they've been at the edge of each other's spaces, hackles seemingly halfway raised, a current of anger and distrust between them. Distrust that Darry feels very, very entitled to given what had taken place.

He has to get a grip on his deep feelings of annoyance and even deeper level of unease he feels when he realizes that Ponyboy is tucked beneath Dallas' jacket, snoring on Dallas' lap as the television plays in front of them. Dallas' eyes have that cold, angry expression to them that hasn't changed in the slightest since he'd come back with Ponyboy and Darry starts shrugging off his jacket, keeping his voice quiet, "Has Pony eaten dinner yet?"

"He ain't hungry," Dallas says, raising his voice, right above the sound of the television, steady. "We need to talk about keeping him on lock down."

"We?" Darry pulls his coat off, glare sharply focused on Dallas. "We don't need to talk about anything. He's my brother —"

"And he's my mate," the words are snapped off threateningly, Dallas' dark eyes growing colder, angrier by the second. "Think that comes before brother now."

Darry clenches his fist, then reconsiders it given the hole in the wall he'd had to fix himself days before lingering in the corner of his eye. Ponyboy dozes on Dallas' lap, none the wiser, forcing Darry to exhale. Dallas tightens his grip on Ponyboy's shoulder, pressing on. "He's a kid, Darry. He can't just sit up here and just go to school and go to court for the next week. You gotta let him do something else. Let him go to Buck's with me or let him go to the bonfire this weekend. Anything other than keeping him cooped up here all the damn time. Either place, he'll be with me."

Darry scoffs, unable to keep it to himself. "You being with him is why we're in all of this mess! It's your fault for messing with those Socs at the theater and wandering off —"

"I'm not talking about that," the hitch to his voice, the rising hostility in his scent is a warning signal. Dallas doesn't have the decency to look the least bit guilty, raising his voice, "Pony ain't doing well with all of this. Just let him go with me —"

"No," the word is thunderous out of Darry's throat, booming in the room with the force. "No, I'm not letting him stay with you or go to the bonfire. You have done enough as is, Dallas! You know what happened the last time he just went off with you?"

"Pony was crying —"

"No," Darry moves to the hallway, brushing past Dallas and Ponyboy both. Whatever Dallas has to say to follow up with, he doesn't want to hear. How could he even be sure Dallas was telling the truth? "He needs to stay out of trouble and he's in enough with you as is. It'd be crazy letting you two run off again." He hangs his jacket up, fuming as he does it. "He goes to court, school, home. That is it til this is over!"

He slams the door to the closet. He can tell Dallas is pissed enough to spit nails, and it doesn't get much better the rest of the night. Dallas simmers, glowers angrily around him the rest of the night and Darry does his best to ignore him as he goes about washing court clothes, ironing them, and getting to the bills.

If Soda or Ponyboy know why they're so tense around each other, they don't acknowledge it. There usually isn't much time anymore, given how early they have to get up. What Darry gives begrudging credit to is that Dallas doesn't distract Ponyboy from his homework, he does the dishes and he doesn't get in the way when they have to get everything together for the next day. He even does the decent thing and showers after everyone else does, having to use the cold water rather than the hot.

For all of those good points, Darry is reminded of other failures: Dallas' hand on Ponyboy's mating mark, the way he refuses to do anything Darry asks directly, noticing how Dallas hasn't cleaned Darry's plates. It itches at the back of his neck as he watches Dallas get in bed with Ponyboy and Soda, his back facing the door, a pale arm wrapping around Ponyboy's shoulders. The spare room, collecting junk, would have to get cleared out if possible just to make sure Dallas couldn't always do that.

Darry goes to bed, pretending as if he'd never had responsibility too, for all of this. He pretends as if every time he clenches his hand, he doesn't remember what it had felt like hitting Ponyboy, he pretends as if every morning his heart isn't caught in his throat.

He pretends that Dallas isn't doing a better job than him.

"Something went on last night that Dallas and Darry aren't sharing," Ponyboy frowns as Molly covers up his mating mark as usual in the courthouse bathroom. "They were all mad, tense last night before we went to bed."

"You think it has to do with you because...?" Molly is surely playing a little dumb, eyes focused on Ponyboy's neck and shoulder.

"They always fight over me," Ponyboy sighs out, trying not to slump his shoulders. "Are they gonna fight over me for the rest of my life?"

"Maybe," Molly puts the last finishing touches on him, her freckles stark on her face in the light, looking at his face. "Didn't you guys make some pact or whatever not to fight? Maybe that's why they aren't telling you."

Ponyboy reaches out to touch his hair, then thinks better of it when Molly raises her eyebrows, settling with just rubbing his hands on his thighs nervously. "Thanks, Molly. You — you wanna meet us for lunch today?"

"I dunno," she smooths down his lapels, the way his Mama would've done for his father when they were alive. "I'm heading home Friday, might be better then."

There's something on her face that Ponyboy wants to know about. Something full of unease.

They don't have time to talk, though. The tell tale knock to begin the proceedings comes, forcing Ponyboy to square his shoulders up, going in step with Molly to the door where Dallas is waiting as always. His face is stormier than usual, his scent clear in his discomfort to see Ponyboy's mating mark covered up.

As always now, Dallas walks with him up to the court room doors, falling back when Ponyboy goes through. Ponyboy turns his head, unable to keep his eyes off of him as he walks behind Johnny's wheelchair. He wonders what Dallas must be thinking, feeling.

He knows what he's feeling, what he wants now: to turn around, to go somewhere else and be a kid with Dallas again. Not to have that embarrassing crying scene he'd had the day before, or at the very least, only have it in front of Dallas and no one else.

The doors shut. Everyone takes their place, Johnny beside him, looking steadier than usual, Eugene with glasses on today, and Randy going back on the stand in a suit that's newer than the one from the day before with how immaculately pressed it is. His curly hair seems a little limp from where Ponyboy is sitting, his mouth in a tight line, his hands clenching at the podium.

Eugene stands up in his black suit, his gold rimmed glasses glinting beneath the light. "I want to continue our conversation from yesterday, Mr. Adderson. But I want to go back a few steps, if you'll oblige me. From what you and the previous witness stated, it seemed that drinking was not an uncommon activity between you and your friends. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Randy's voice is clear in the courtroom, steadier than it had been no longer cluttered with tears. "We drank a lot. Probably - Probably once or twice a week we'd go out, get as drunk as we could. However we could."

"Right. And yesterday, you stated that you, at times, had a lot to drink. You also conceded that at times you lost your tempers and that at times, it altered you temperament. Was that whenever you all drank or was that only sometimes?"

Shaw looks as if he wants to interject as Randy thinks, frowning. "I... are you asking if we got too drunk?"

"I'm asking if you were in control of your actions when you were drinking, no matter how much you drank or what," Eugene is patient, drawing out his words a little. "And if you were aware of what you had done after drinking?"

"Not — Sometimes?" Randy struggles, averting his eyes from Johnny and Ponyboy as he does it. "Sometimes we — I mean yeah. Sometimes we drank too much, sometimes we got a little too hot while we did it. And sometimes... sometimes we got into fights. Fights that we-we started." Randy's face goes a little red, frustration mounting. "I said that, didn't I? We'd get in fights with each other, mostly with greasers. We got into it with the kid with the scar once, before everything." The words tumble out and Ponyboy isn't sure why Shaw's face morphs into surprise and then disbelief.

Eugene pounces. "Could you tell me about that?"

"Objection — relevance?" Shaw almost barks out the words, his mustache trembling as he speaks.

The judge glances at Shaw. "Hall? Relevance?"

"Pattern establishment," Eugene says confidently. "If there was a prior altercation, it is relevant to the one we're in court for particularly as he stated previously that they wanted to scare my clients and others."

"Sustained," the judge gestures for Randy to continue who's looking nervous. "Answer Mr. Hall's question fully."

Beside him, Johnny nudges Ponyboy. He's understood before Ponyboy has as Randy looks bewildered, and suddenly going pale. "We — We got drunk and uhm. The little guy, with the scar —"

"My client, Mr. Cade? Can you point to him?" Eugene presses.

Randy's eyes rise up, meeting Johnny's own. Ponyboy can see there's fear, shame in his gaze, when he points to Johnny. "Him. Cade. We ran into him a few months ago when we were good and drunk. He – he was just smoking in that dingy lot they have. Looked like an easy enough target. Uhm, so we. Bob is the one who did most of it, that day. We roughed him up, and Bob's rings cut into him." He averts his gaze again, Ponyboy feeling that old familiar anger rise up in him. Cherry in the movie theater flashes across his memory and the realization that she had known the instant he had mentioned the rings to him. She had known Bob had attacked Johnny. "I know we shouldn't have done it. We told him — told him if we saw him again, we'd do it again. Or worse."

A murmur runs through the courtroom at his words. Ponyboy looks at Johnny to check how he is: he's still got a level of paleness to him, and he shrinks under the gaze of people who are looking at the scar still raised on one side of his temple. There is no buckling though, no attempt to lower himself — just a small wave of shame that Ponyboy can feel, yet no fear beneath it.

Pride swells up in his chest, despite the anger in him, the disbelief.

Randy seems as if he can't stop talking though, barreling on, "I don't – we didn't set out to go target them. We just saw them, after they were messing with Cherry and Marcia. I don't know, I just. I got so angry looking at them, seeing those greasers." There's some disgust in the way he says the word, greasers. "That kid and his omega friend I – I remember Bob saying we hadn't omega hunted in awhile. I told him we hadn't, and it could be fun, chasing them. Then things — things got out of hand."

Eugene hums, walking back and forth, pacing with all the finesse of a caged lion. Ponyboy thinks that he's playing with his food now as he raises a finger. "You state that you were upset about the movies, and at Mr. Cade. That does not cover Mr. Curtis, my other client. You cited something called omega hunts; could you tell us what that is?"

Red blooms in Randy's face, rolling his shoulders. "It means... it's not a big deal. Just means that if you find – if you find an omega out at night, you chase them. Until you catch them."

"What happens when an omega is caught?"

"It — depends," Randy's voice goes a notch quieter, hands twisting. "Some friends just pin them down and mess with them. Sometimes an omega's into it. They wanna... you know. Have- sex."

The faces of the adults all seem to shift; Randy's mother looks offended from her place on the bench and even though Ponyboy knows she's probably not an omega, he can see a clear dislike in her face. The judge's face turns, her mouth dipping downard in disapproval. Eugene hums. "No further questions, your honor."

"Mr. Shaw? Do you have any further questions?" The judge's voice is pointed, her dark eyebrows raised.

Shaw considers Randy's sloped shoulders, the atmosphere. He stands up, pacing in front of Randy for a few moments. "You were inebriated with a friend. You were upset at a night at the drive in — would you have performed any of the actions you had done that night if you were sober?"

Randy shakes his head, remembers himself and says, "No, sir."

Shaw nods. "No further questions." He takes his seat and a silence overtakes the courtroom.

The judge checks her watch. "We'll dismiss early today. I'll see you all back here tomorrow."

Ponyboy stands up, his eye catching the other side where the Soc families sit. Cherry is there, her head bowed, in the same black dress she's been wearing every day of the trial, her parents flanking her. Her mother doesn't pay attention to Ponyboy, her father meeting Ponyboy's gaze. He's got red hair, nodding curtly as he helps his wife and daughter stand.

Bob Sheldon's parents are on the other end, his mother with a blank stare. His brother, Dick, however is glaring venomously at Ponyboy. He's Bob in miniature, down to his scowl, and the hatred he has for Ponyboy feels very, very real as Ponyboy grips the back of Johnny's wheelchair to help get him out.

He refuses to look at Randy. He does, however, see Randy's father — the way Dick is Bob in miniature, Mr. Adderson looks like a bigger, rounder version of Randy in a tweed suit with a face that would be kind, maybe, in another life.

Something in his face is painfully human, as he looks at his son with clear feelings of disappointment.