Work Text:
Ponyboy Curtis was an expert at stalling. He’d already walked from school, around the neighborhood a couple of times, and was presently standing in the driveway of the Shepard house humming in agreement as Curly complained the only way Curly knew how - loudly.
He was a good friend and all, but geez.
Curly Shepard was an expert at stalling too. What Curly was avoiding, though, Ponyboy had no idea.
He watched as the younger Shepard kicked rocks with the toe of his sneakers. They were obviously hand-me-downs. Pony looked down at the fraying laces of his own hand-me-downs and felt his toes press against the inside of his shoe. He’d wanted to ask for new shoes a while ago, something sturdier that fit his feet. They were almost the same size as Soda’s now. It would have been easier to ask his mom. Money was tight and he couldn’t bring himself to ask Darry for anything.
“It’s bullshit,” Curly griped, probably a little louder than he needed to.
“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Pony agreed quietly, although he hadn’t been listening to half of what Curly was going on about.
There wasn’t anything in particular that Pony was avoiding. Maybe homework, but there wasn’t a lot of it left to do. He’d had time to do most of his and half of Curly’s during study hall.
He’d been thinking about home. Specifically, what he was going to do when he got there. If he could hold out until 4:30, then he could have the house to himself. He’d carefully timed out a 30 minute window of solitude between the time that Darry left for his second, part-time job and the time that Sodapop came home for the evening. The possibilities felt endless.
Okay, so maybe he was avoiding both of his brothers. And would he continue to do so? He sure would try.
“It’s not like it matters, anyway. Ya know?” Curly kicked another stone, and it bounced off the side of the house with a loud thud.
“Mhmm.” Pony twitched at the peculiar feeling of sweat racing trails down his back. God, was it hot outside.
The front door creaked open and out stepped Tim Shepard, looking madder than a puffed toad. He stayed in the shadow of the dark house, eyeing the two of them with a tired, bored expression.
“Curly, quit your jabberin’ and come inside the house. I know good and well you have schoolwork due tomorrow.” He paused, acknowledging Ponyboy. “Curtis.”
“Hey, Tim.”
Whereas Pony would rather chew cemetery dirt than get on Tim’s bad side, Curly only climbed up the first step and leisurely leaned against the side of the house. He looked Pony up and down. “You coming in or what?”
Ponyboy decided the “or what” sounded like a better option.
Both of the Shepards - well, all three of them really - had these amazing eyes. It was like staring into a lake on a clear night. Plainly blue, but dark. Seemingly still, but dangerous. Ponyboy had a hundred adjectives he could use to describe them. There was always an undercurrent of wild to Curly’s teasing blue, and a feral to Tim’s stern.
Pony could see the feral running under them now, the dark waves a piercing warning.
“Nah, maybe next time. I gotta get home. See y’all around.” Does he know? He can’t know.
He turned to walk off before either of them could see the color start to flush its way across his face. Pony could hear Curly huff with indignation, and eventually, the sound of the front door creaking closed behind him.
The next day he found himself in the Shepards’ driveway again, listening to Curly grumble. And the following day, and the one after that, too. And each time, Curly would slouch to the side and ask Pony if he was gonna come in or bathe in his own sweat, and each time Pony would squint up into Tim’s watchful eyes, and back out, claiming some excuse or other.
Chicken, he told himself.
--
It wasn’t on purpose, but he’d made a little routine for himself. Walk from school, goof off with Curly, avoid eye contact with Tim, and head home.
And when he was home alone for those precious 30 minutes of freedom? He did what every teenager would do with a little slice of solitude.
He went into the backyard and trained with his wooden stake. Literally.
It was a great routine. It served its purpose - a distraction from the usual (and often embarrassing) daydreams that plagued him this time of day, and the opportunity to hone his combat skills. The smooth wood felt familiar in his hand as he attacked the only tree in their small backyard. Blow after blow, he let out his frustration until he was too tired to think about Tim Shepard. Or what a scaredy-cat he was around him.
And everyday without fail, Soda would get home, and Darry soon after. And eventually one of them would ask, “So…?”
And Ponyboy would be forced to face the problem head on. No, I didn’t do it today. I’ll try again tomorrow? No, I don’t need your help. I promise I can do it by myself this time.
It wasn’t a big deal. It was just Tim Shepard.
And that’s why it was a big deal. It was Tim Shepard.
He’d spent hours over the last few weeks agonizing over how to get that shade of blue exactly right in his sketchbook. He never could. He’d blend and smear the colors until his thumbs were stained dark. He thought if he could just get close enough to see them clearly, Tim’s eyes, then maybe he could get it perfect.
He got the chance one day. Instead of complaining or making plans to do something that would definitely land him in the reformatory, Curly proposed they play chicken. He held his cigarette up to Ponyboy and cocked an eyebrow.
“Sure. Put money on it?”
“Got a dollar?”
Ponyboy frowned. “That’s about all I have.”
“Good, I’ll be taking it either way.”
“Yeah sure, you’re all talk.” Pony rolled his eyes. They weren’t even in his neighborhood yet, but he stopped on the sidewalk and lit a cigarette of his own. “At the same time?”
“C’mon, then.” Curly thrust his hand toward Ponyboy, motioning to which finger he wanted Pony to burn with the end of his cigarette.
Ponyboy held his hand out toward Curly, doing the same. He clenched his teeth as soon as he felt the embers smash into the pad of his finger. They stayed like that for much longer than Pony would have liked, glaring at each other with the coolest grimace they could each muster. Curly was tough, sure enough, but Pony was determined to hold out longer than him. Even if that meant he had to bite down on his own tongue to keep from hollering. He could smell the flesh of his skin burning under Curly’s cigarette, and bit down harder.
In an instant, Pony’s feet swayed out from underneath him as Curly’s head collided into his own with a loud crack.
“Ow!” Curly cried out, straightening up immediately. He swiveled around, facing the hand that grabbed him. “What was that for?”
Tim held on to the back of his neck with one hand, and had the collar of Pony’s shirt with his other.
“You're lucky I was walking home and passed by when I did. What the actual hell is wrong with you two? Hm? Do y’all need to have supervised walks or something?”
Pony stood up defiantly, trying to worm his way out of Tim’s grasp. “Quit it, Tim-”
“You,” he said, pointing to Ponyboy, “Should know better. Aren’t you supposed to be smart? And you -” he spun toward Curly, “Are dead the next time I catch you burning holes into anybody, including yourself. Got it?”
Both of the younger boys went quiet, Curly silently fuming, and Ponyboy wondering if Darry was going to be as mad as Tim was. He looked down at his red finger.
Tim sighed. “Well, come on. Get on up to the house. I want both of y’all to run your hands under tap water for a few minutes. The cold should help. It’s still gonna hurt like hell later, but serves you right. I swear, the two of you together waste so much fucking time.” He stormed off toward his house with Curly and Pony trailing several paces behind.
Once they were inside and the kitchen faucet was running, Tim wandered away, leaving them to their own devices.
“Looks like you owe me that dollar,” Curly had the nerve to say.
“Are you serious? Nobody won, Curly.”
“Mine looks worse than yours. That means it hurts more.”
“Okay, that’s bullshi-” Ponyboy started, looking down at Curly’s hand. He stopped mid-sentence though, not because of the burns on Curly’s finger, which actually were worse-looking, but because of the marks on his wrist. Lots of small scars dotted his lower arm in clean, identical sets of two. Each was spaced around an inch and a half apart. Puncture wounds.
Vampire bites.
Pony grabbed Curly’s arm, pulling it out of the running water. “Hey, what is this?”
Curly jerked back, an offended look on his face. “What’s what? It’s called an arm, Curtis.”
“No, I mean what are these? These marks?” Pony used his finger to point to the scars, lightly tracing over some of them. Some were smooth, healed and obviously old. Some looked fresh.
Curly studied the inside of his wrist with confusion. A dull look washed over his face, some of the light leaving his eyes. It freaked Ponyboy out. What just happened? He took a step back.
“What are you talking about?” Curly looked up at Ponyboy with a smirk and crossed his eyes. “Are you losing it or something?”
Curly didn’t see them... Or maybe he was trying to hide it. Of course he would be loyal to Tim, but Curly wasn’t that bright and Pony had witnessed firsthand just how bad of a liar his friend really was.
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Hey man, are you okay? And I mean, are you really okay?”
“Are you okay, Ponyboy?” Tim’s voice was gruff behind him.
Pony turned around in shock. He could feel his ears get hot as Tim watched him carefully. He hadn’t heard Tim come back into the kitchen, and Ponyboy didn’t know how much of their conversation he’d overheard. Sure, the Curtis family knew Tim was a vampire. Their parents had trained them their entire lives to find the bloodsuckers, hunt them, and stake them. And Tim hadn’t done the best job over the last few months hiding who he really was. He was careless, leaving a trail of drained bodies that basically pointed straight to him. It was too easy for a trained vampire hunter to find out where he was.
But still, he couldn’t know that Ponyboy and his brothers were slayers, could he? Nobody else did. Not even the rest of the gang.
If Pony could even call himself a slayer. He hadn’t made a solo kill yet. Sure, he helped his brothers track vampires all the time. And when his parents were still around, the five of them would do hunts together. But when it came to staking one himself, Ponyboy couldn’t work up the nerve. The vampires looked so human. And acted like it too, sometimes.
Both Soda and Darry had already made several kills by the time they were his age, so it didn’t make any sense why he couldn’t do it. Every time Pony looked a vamp in the eyes, he got distracted by how mortal they seemed, and then his reflexes would slow down and someone else would have to swoop in and save the day.
He looked into Tim Shepard’s eyes then. A cloudy blue like the sky before a storm. They were unwavering as he waited for Pony to reply.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Good. Then I think it’s best you get home, don’t you?”
“Uh huh.” Pony turned off the running water and headed toward the door, stopping when he heard Tim speak again.
“And kid?” He said. “Don’t let me catch you doing something that stupid again.”
Pony didn't know if Tim meant the cigarette burns or asking Curly about the fang marks. “Got it.”
Ponyboy dropped his dollar on their kitchen table as he walked out.
When he got home, the first thing Ponyboy did was grab his sketchbook from its hiding place. He’d rather die than have someone see just how many of the pages were filled with trying to memorialize Tim.
Gray. He needed more gray for the eyes. He closed the door, sprawled out across the floor, and got to work blending the colors.
--
That night, he couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about the marks along Curly’s wrist. He’d heard stories about vampires that could suck your blood, and then charm you into forgetting. He wondered if Curly knew, or if he’d been brainwashed.
Of course Tim had to be drinking blood from someone. He was able to walk around in broad daylight. Vampires couldn’t do that unless they fed on human blood. It seemed so farfetched that Tim would do it to his own family, but maybe he was desperate. That’s why Darry and Soda trusted Ponyboy to take care of it by himself. Tim was the only one. There was no undead nest. No network of vampires that he was connected to. Just him. It seemed lonely, almost.
But when Ponyboy thought about the dull look in Curly’s eyes earlier that day, he couldn’t bring himself to care if Tim was lonely or not.
--
Ponyboy Curtis was an expert at stalling, but he had waited long enough. He grabbed a wooden stake from the drawer in his closet and slipped out the front door into the darkness.
Almost able to hear Darry’s voice in the back of his mind, he grabbed a switchblade at the last minute. A lot of good a wooden stake would do if he got jumped by regular socs. Plus, he wouldn’t be any good to his family if he died. Although he spent most of his hunts worried about being bitten by a vampire, it was easy to forget just how mortal he really was. Take his parents for example. To spend your whole life fighting vampires, only to die in an auto wreck almost seemed like a cruel joke.
When Ponyboy got to the Shepard house, he didn’t walk up to the front door. Instead, he climbed through the side window. It was usually cracked open and tonight was no exception. He fell to the floor in a tumble and stood up silently, taking in the darkness.
His burnt forefinger, wrapped in gauze and tape, tapped silently against the stake in his hand.
In the near absence of light, he could barely make out the clock on the wall. It read 1:27 in the morning. He knew where Tim’s room was, but had no idea if he’d be in it. Vampires didn’t need sleep.
He crept around the couch and made his way to the hallway.
“You forget something earlier?”
Ponyboy turned around at lightning speed, raising his stake in the air.
Tim’s arm shot out, pushing Pony against the wall. His blue eyes glowed something unnatural. “What do you think you’re doing?”
His palm pushed into Pony’s chest, until he could physically feel Ponyboy’s heart beating beneath his fingers. He dropped his jaw and sharp fangs, about an inch and half apart, glinted in the blackness of his mouth.
As much as he hated it, Ponyboy found himself trying to memorize the way Tim’s hand felt pressing into his torso. He traced the outline of Tim’s face with his eyes, and breathed him in, trying to memorize the mortality of Tim Shepard. Not the monster. Not the killer. The tough, ordinary, proud hood that he’d grown up admiring. Before he could think too much about it, he brought his arm down sharply and drove the wooden rod into Tim’s chest. He stared into those dark blue eyes as he staked him, and took note of the little details in the color before the light in them dimmed completely.
When he pulled the stake out, the body disappeared the way all vampires did when they died. It completely vanished into thin air. He didn’t know what Curly would think in the morning, or how many days he'd be waiting for Tim to return. He didn’t want to think about that.
For the first time in a long time, he felt powerful.
The stake, once a light brown, was now stained dark red with the only remains of Tim Shepard. Pony would have to burn it that night, but not before showing it to his brothers. He couldn’t wait to tell them that he did it by himself. He staked a vampire - his first solo kill. He wasn’t a chicken. Not really, not at all.
After he showed them the bloody stake, after Darry thumped his back proudly and Soda promised to make a celebration cake for dinner the next day, Pony burned the stake in their backyard. He watched it go up in flames and dwindle down to ash. Then, he closed the door to his room, grabbed his sketchbook, and got to work getting Tim Shepard’s final shade of blue just right.