Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two-Bit isn't looking for Ponyboy when he's driving back down town. His mother finally roped him in for a few Thanksgiving errands, and despite the fact that he didn't even have a license, she expected him to get off of his ass and get it done. Ever since Johnny and Dallas had died, she seemed to have made more of an effort to try and help him out in the day to day instead of leaving it up to him.

On one hand, he didn't mind it. He had always done right by his sister, and he'd always done his best with his mother, trying to be self reliant enough that she didn't have to worry about him on top of all of her other day to day needs. She was a single mother, she had to work and fight all damn day to make something of herself, to keep a roof above their heads. On the other hand, it was almost nice to have her do this again. Even if he was technically old enough to move out on his own, leaving her and the rest of the gang just wasn't on his list yet, and his sister was getting older. She needed her brother as close to her as possible and unlike his father, he wanted to actually be there for her.

Getting a decent job though, that was still not quite on the table. Running errands for Buck and Tim was about all he permitted himself at the moment both because it was lucrative to do so and because it gave more money than any other bullshit job out there he could get. He looked the other way about their dealings; it wasn't his business and he'd been very clear about his level of involvement.

So he's not thinking about Ponyboy when he's driving back. He's thinking of the easiest way to pick up his sister, Katie, and then when he needs to be at Buck's.

When he stops a light, he almost doesn't recognize Ponyboy, glancing up once, simply seeing a shambling figure carrying brown paper bags. Two-Bit glanced back to his dash, and registered a moment later that it was Dally's jacket, the one Ponyboy had been wearing ever since it had gotten cold.

Then he'd glanced back up, intending to greet him. By that point Ponyboy was much closer, and Two-Bit could feel something cold seize his stomach that had nothing to do with the cold air. He finds himself immediately putting the car into drive, going a few feet and making a reckless U-turn, pulling up next to him. "Pony!"

Ponyboy continues to walk forward in that strange shamble, as if he can't hear Two-Bit yell at him from the car. Two-Bit pulls up to, and then on the curb, swearing as he parks. He scrambles out as Ponyboy keeps going on, and he comes in front of him, hands up to catch Ponyboy. His fingers on his shoulders don't even seem to phase him, as he looks up at Two-Bit with blank eyes that seem bluer than they normally would. He's a fright to behold: there's blood seeping out of both of his nostrils and down his front, with bits of glass in his hair and on his shoulders. His hands are gripping the bags too tightly against him, knuckles white, and his teeth chatter uncontrollably when Two-Bit stops him from moving.

He's not sure if Ponyboy has been in a fight or what. If he has, it was a hell of a one, with the way Ponyboy's chest is heaving, and the blood running down his front.

"Ponyboy," Two-Bit says his name slower, concern making his voice shake, "Can you— can you hear me?" He looks at his eyes again, but there are no tells that shows that he's high. He just continues to chatter his teeth, eyes vacant, not at all focusing on Two-Bit.

He thinks of the way Soda has told him about the dreams Ponyboy has had. How terrible it had been for him, and this felt different from that. The glass, the way the blood keeps streaming down, Two-Bit considers taking him to the hospital, and then reconsiders: maybe it's a new drug he doesn't know about even if that's not like Ponyboy at all, and the thought of the brothers with more bills to pay outweighs the rest.

Carefully, he tries to steer Ponyboy away from the street. He moves easily, walking with Two-Bit with no resistance into the passenger seat of the car. It takes a solid pull to get the groceries bags out of his lap, putting them in the back. Two-Bit fumbles as he gets the seatbelt on Ponyboy, who's fingers now dig into his thighs, eyes still staring into nothing.

There's no joke he can crack as he drives them down the street, to his own house. Not once in all that time does Ponyboy talk, not once does he do anything except stare ahead. Two-Bit can't even make himself try to talk, more concerned with getting him inside.

It proves to be just as easy to get Ponyboy inside as it is to get him into the car. All he needs is for Two-Bit to steer him inside, walking up the steps with stiff legs.

"Go on, sit," Two-Bit carefully tries to press him into sitting on the couch, and Ponyboy seems to drop like a rock onto it, fingers finding themselves back on his thighs. Two-Bit moves quickly to get the food inside, and then, he goes to the laundry room, pulling down freshly clean rags, something his mother wouldn't miss.

He makes his way back to Ponyboy after starting the faucet. Letting it heat up, he feels an itch for a beer. Thinking better of it, though, he starts with the most difficult task first, pulling out the glass from Ponyboy's hair. He hasn't greased it in weeks, making it all the easier to pull out the shards. He even uses his mother's comb to make sure it's all gone, and moves to his shoulders, his pockets.

Once it's clear and the water is so hot it stings, he takes the rag, and goes about cleaning Ponyboy's face off. The complete lack of reaction from Ponyboy still spooks him as he mops up the blood, scrubbing as much as he could. The overflow is over; it's just a rusty red remains that he cleans up from his nose, his chin, and his neck. "Jesus, your brother's ain't gonna be happy about this," he mutters.

Ponyboy's mouth moves, but no words come out.

Two-Bit decides not to speak again as he finishes, the rags going into the trashcan when he's done. He gnaws at his thumb in nervousness; he wanted to take Ponyboy's shirt off, but with the way he is at the moment, it seems like a bad idea.

Instead, he grasps Ponyboy by the shoulder, leads him to his room. Carefully, he sits Ponyboy on the bed. He looks pale beneath the light, fingers still clutching at his thighs. Two-Bit grasps a blanket, and loops it over Ponyboy's shoulders.

"Can you lay down, Pony?"

Ponyboy's eyes rove, land on him. He blinks for the first time, and a vague sneer shows on his face. It looks odd on his face; he can't really think of a time that he's such an expression on Ponyboy's face. "Two. Twos, two." The words come out strangely, half distorted in a static like way that makes even the hair on his sideburns raise. "Twos."

"That's me, kid," Two-Bit says, trying to roll with it. "Ol' Two-Bit."

A laugh tumbles out of Ponyboy's mouth that sounds grating and harsh, hysterical and altogether otherworldly. He laughs, intertwining, Two, twos. In his gut, Two-Bit feels sick as he watches, listens to him. The sneer on his face feels so familiar, so taunting and so like—

"Pony—" Two-Bit reaches out to seize his wrist, and the contact is the wrong thing to do. Immediately, he gets flashes of lights popping, a tasted of searing rage, and blood seeping into the back of his mouth. At the same time, before he can process it all, Ponyboy seizes up, his arm flinging back and he lands a sucker punch on Two-Bit's mouth.

Two-Bit has been in fights with Ponyboy before. He's seen him land a punch, he's felt a playful punch. But as he's left on the floor, dazed and bloodied, he thinks he's never felt him punch him that hard in his life. It's a punch suited for someone much bigger than him with the way it rattles his jaw.

He doesn't think himself, just slugs back from the force of it, the adrenaline working before sense does to punch Ponyboy back square in the nose. It would be almost comical, with the way it shoves Ponyboy back against the bed, and Two-Bit knows that no matter state Ponyboy was in now it couldn't have been the right move.

They both seemed stunned for a moment, Two-Bit panting on the ground, Ponyboy swaying above him, his hand moving upward to his nose which is gushing blood again. It's odd to watch him blink once, and twice, eyebrows screwing together, looking down at Two-Bit with a confused expression he associated more with Ponyboy not getting a joke or being too occupied in his damn head to realize something rather than a terrifying situation like this.

"...Two-Bit? Where'd you come from?" He looks more present than Two-Bit has seen all day, blinking in bewilderment.

Two-Bit can't help but throw his leg out for a kick, Ponyboy yelping as he goes down like a sack of potatoes.

Chapter Text

The beer Two-Bit has is cold, and it helps Ponyboy get a grip in the moment, fingers clinging to the brown glass. The silence in the kitchen is deafening in it's own way as Ponyboy tries to root around for a way to describe the past few hours.

It would be easier if he could even remember it. He couldn't though, beyond flashes of blinding lights, that coil of anger and frustration and what he didn't dare want to think was lust. All of it wrapped around Sylivia and the grocery store.

What was worrisome too, as he grimaced at how Two-Bit was pressing a cold beer against the bruises on his face, was that Dallas wasn't here to explain either. No matter how much he tried to reach out to him, no matter how much he tried to pull Dally back, there wasn't anything but wisps. There was a panic building in him that Dallas wasn't reachable, that the gap of time was there and his leg was starting to bounce from the tension, the frustration of it all.

And Two-Bit, with probably the worst bruise Ponyboy had ever seen on his face, was growing. He didn't remember doing it, and it was clear that he'd hit him. Even if the way the bruise was forming seemed…

It seemed too big. Too much force behind him.

Ponyboy took another swig of beer, and tried to think up a lie. He was getting so sick of having to lie, having to work around what was happening to him (and he didn't even have a real grasp of what was even happening to him) and now…

"Y'know kid," Two-Bit ruminates, "Easier ways to see me than this, you know." The smile he makes is more of a grimace. So is Pony's in response. "All you had to do was pick up the phone."

"Sorry," it doesn't really cut it in the moment, feels sour in Ponyboy's mouth. His mind seems to cast a wide net, bringing up more memories he wanted to forget. Of Two-Bit kicking around, bruised up face, eyes wet but no tears flowing down. Talking about the switchblade. His fingers flex on the glass, and he swallows. "I just — I got into a fight. Think they hit me harder than I thought."

It's such a bad lie. It's so flimsy, so stupid and his stomach turns. Ponyboy so desperately doesn't want to resort to a lie here and now. He wants to be honest, wants to let Two-Bit in. But there's so much of him that doesn't find himself able to. From sounding completely insane to…

To a small part of him that doesn't want to share. Doesn't want them to know that Dallas is back, that Dallas is here with him. He doesn't know what to do with it, knowing that a part of him is selfish enough to want to keep Dallas from them, even if he knew it would make things better, even if he had the assurances that he wouldn't be perceived as insane.

Two-Bit's eyes narrow on him, and Ponyboy feels like shrinking into himself, yet hikes his shoulders up higher. He knows he looks like the hell he feels, he knows that everything today has gone wrong, it has gone so, so wrong. That Two-Bit has every right, every reason to not accept the lie, that there's no way in hell that Two-Bit should believe him.

"Tell you what," Two-Bit sets down his beer with a firm, serious look that seems to be on his face too often now, "You go to a clinic with me, get checked out, and I won't say nothin' to your brothers, you dig?"

Ponyboy relaxes as much as he can. That's a fair trade. "Okay. I can do that."

He hopes that this will be the last of it, even as he keeps desperately trying to call Dallas back to him.

Chapter Text

The house is bustling with people. Sandy and her toddler, Kelly, are welcomed in with easy arms by Soda and Darry. Steve and Evie have brought over some casserole that doesn't look too bad, and while Darry cooks outside, Ponyboy is inside the kitchen, checking on the cornbread and trying to keep himself together.

It's been over a day and Dallas still hasn't shown back up. He had spent all night and day trying to reach inside of him, tugging and calling for Dallas, trying to pull Dallas back to him. Trying his damndest to find a way to contact the hood again, to get him to reply.

Anything. Everything.

Nothing had worked. There was a distinct absence in the air, in his very being now where Dallas had begun to occupy that was now achingly, distractingly empty. It wasn't like when Dallas had died; it felt worse, the more Ponyboy sought him out. That he had been there, in his grasp. He has been with Ponyboy for weeks now in a way he had never been and Ponyboy couldn't reach him, couldn't pull him back and this time…

This time the darkness of it all, the inevitability of it all was different. Reality hadn't felt the same since Johnny had died. He had denied it over and over again, until he had been forced to acknowledge it, had been made to choke down on the gruesome reality of Johnny's death and Dallas' last act of defiance, his words echoing in his ears. That had at least made sense in the end, two human deaths.

As Ponyboy stirs the food in front of him, he is trying to adjust to reality shifting beneath his hands again in a way that he never anticipated. He's trying to get his bearings, trying to remember the right way to operate, but he can't. He can't focus on Darry and Two-Bit's outside conversation, on Steve's skeptical glances to Sandy or Kelly, perched in Soda's lap.

He should be here. He should be present, happy.

Instead, he felt as if the more he gripped the ladle, the more reality might finally fix itself. Dallas would appear at any moment now, any second. He'd come back, and he'd haunt Ponyboy again, like he had before. He'd be there, and things would be—

Normal?

It's insane that this is normal now. That Dallas Winston, haunting every step of his was normal now, that Dallas Winston had somehow burrowed his immortal soul into Ponyboy's, and now that he was gone, it wasn't normal. It had become his normal and now he was panicking, trying to go back, to pull Dallas back and— and—

"Pony?" Two-Bit's hand claps his shoulder, pulling Ponyboy back to the present. He cocks an eyebrow at him, his hand already gripping a glass bottle of beer. "You doin' okay, bud?"

"Yeah, Two," Pony gives him what he hopes is a convincing smile, "Can you look over this real quick? I gotta go."

Two-Bit cracks a smile, "Sure, man. Just don't mind if I dip my finger in one or two." He pushes Ponyboy out, and it's hard to keep his legs steady, making it down the hallway, each footstep faster than the last until he's finally in the bathroom. The door is locked behind him, and his body finally rebels, and he retches in the toilet.

When he comes up for air, it occurs to him that for the first time in weeks, he finally feels warm. The thought makes his eyes sting with tears, body shaking even more as he stands up, makes his way to the sink.

Ponyboy shuts his eyes, fingers clenching the sink tightly. He can hear Kelly and Soda in the living room, the slam of the door as Evie and Steve walk in. The voices of them all cascade over him, and he wants to scream, wants to vomit again.

There's nothing in his body to give.

He looks up at the mirror, at his own reflection and can't help but notice how pale he looks. How his eyes seem less vivid than before, how his hair, usually in those greased curls, is loose. The pendant hanging from his neck, how one hand looks strangely bare, without the ring on it now. His entire body seems off the more he looks at the mirror, and Ponyboy takes a deep, shaking breath.

Wildly, he thinks of those stupid, kid rituals of calling Bloody Mary. Thinks of looking at his strange reflection and saying his name three times, to will Dallas back.

The first syllable almost leaves his lips—

—and then there's a bang on the door. "Ponyboy! You done? Kelly's got to use the bathroom."

"Yeah, yeah, hold on!" Frantically, he flushes the toilet, turns on the faucet and rinses his mouth out twice with the mouthwash and water. His hands run through his loose hair, trying to push it back, and then he flings open the door to Sandy and a very antsy Kelly.

"Sorry," he shifts past them, shotting Kelly one smile, and takes his place back in the kitchen.

He can do this. He has to do this.

And Ponyboy does. For all the sickness he feels, for all the soul stirring emptiness inside of him, for all the world that he pleads for Dallas to come back in all his difficulty, he forces himself through Thanksgiving. He makes jokes, he cooks, he eats, and he acts like the self they expect as well as he can.

When he goes to bed, he hopes that he will wake to the feeling of cold, that he will see Dallas, beside him.

He does not.