Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun sat low and mean over Tulsa, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement outside the DX. The air was thick with motor oil, cigarette smoke, and the low murmur of Two-Bit and Steve arguing over a busted carburetor. Dally leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the world crawl by like he always did—half bored, half ready to throw the first punch that gave him an excuse.

Then came the roar.

It started faint, like thunder on the edge of a storm, then grew loud—fast. The kind of engine sound that didn’t belong to any car in Tulsa. No, this was raw, sharp, hungry.

“What the—” Steve started, but the words got stolen by a dirt bike tearing down the street like the devil was riding it.

It blasted past the gas station, spitting gravel across the sidewalk. The rider leaned low, barely missing a stop sign and Two-Bit, who jumped back with a yell.

“Watch it, maniac!” Two-Bit hollered, flipping the bird as the bike disappeared around the corner in a blur of smoke and noise.

Dally didn’t move. Just narrowed his eyes.

Whoever it was, they didn’t slow down. Didn’t even glance back.

No helmet. No plates. Just a kid on a dirt bike with too much speed and not enough fear.
“Who the hell was that?” Steve asked, brushing dirt off his jeans.

Two-Bit laughed, still rattled. “New kid. I seen him at school. Lives on the edge of town with some drunk uncle. Doesn’t talk to nobody.”

“Figures,” Steve muttered. “Dumbass is gonna be roadkill.”

Dally didn’t say anything. He was still watching the corner where the bike had vanished.

There was something in that ride—something wild, reckless, and quiet underneath. Like the kid wasn’t showing off. Like he wasn’t trying to prove anything.

He just didn’t care if he made it to the next turn.

And that was the part that made Dally’s jaw clench.

“That kid,” he finally said, flicking his cigarette to the ground, “has a death wish.”

Chapter Text

The bell rang with a shrill screech, signaling the end of the morning session. Students filtered out of the classrooms in groups, loud and crowded, rushing through the halls with the energy of a bull pen.

Ponyboy didn’t move with the crowd. He stayed at the back of the class, packing his notebook into his bag with a practiced slowness, like the whole thing was a chore. When the door swung open, he didn’t even look up. Not once.

It wasn’t that he was shy. It was just that he didn’t care.

The teacher, a mousy woman named Mrs. Burton, gave him a half-hearted wave as he slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder and started for the door. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Davis!”

Ponyboy muttered something that might’ve been a response, but it was lost in the noise of students spilling out into the hallway. His eyes were set forward, and his mind was somewhere else, maybe on the road, or that stretch of asphalt he could feel beneath him when he gunned the throttle.

Anywhere but here.

He didn’t bother to look for a crowd to join, didn’t even glance toward the lockers where people huddled, laughing and swapping stories. He just moved like a ghost through the hallway, the soft patter of his beat up converse against the tile being the only sound to mark his passing.

Dallas was already standing by the lockers, watching the whole thing unfold. After the whole stunt at the DX, he decided he would pick Johnny up at the school so he could scope it out. He hadn’t been at the school long enough to get used to the sight of the new kid—Ponyboy Davis—but he was starting to catch on. Word was already spreading, like wildfire.

“New kid’s a mess,” Steve had said earlier. “He’s not even trying to blend in.”

Dally smirked to himself. Kid didn’t care about blending in. He seemed like he didn’t care about anything, really. Dallas had a little respect for that.

He watched as Ponyboy brushed past a group of girls who giggled behind their hands, their eyes following him with a mix of curiosity and judgment. He didn’t stop. Didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t even turn his head.

By the time he hit the doors leading outside, Dally had decided he was done watching from a distance. He pushed off the lockers and followed at a distance, hands in his pockets. He didn’t really care about what was going on in Ponyboy’s head, but there was something about the way he carried himself that intrigued him.

Ponyboy stopped just outside the door, adjusting his bag, his posture tense—like he was bracing for something. But nothing came. The air was thick with humidity, the sun already hot enough to make the sidewalk shimmer, but the kid didn’t flinch. Didn’t seem to care.

Dallas stood a few feet away, lighting a cigarette. He took a long drag, the smoke curling into the air, and then he spoke, his voice a low drawl.

“Not gonna last long here, you know.”

Ponyboy’s shoulders stiffened at the sound, the voice familiar even though he couldn’t place it. He glanced up—barely—just enough to see the guy leaning against the lockers, one hand in his pocket, cigarette dangling from the other.

Ponyboy’s eyes narrowed. “What’s it to you?”

Dally just smirked, that same look he always had—half cocky, half dangerous. “Nothing. Just saying. You’re a mess.”

“Yeah, well… I don’t plan on sticking around,” Ponyboy muttered.

“Uh-huh,” Dally said with a dry chuckle. “You’ll say that, but you’ll stick around. We all do.”

Ponyboy frowned and kept walking, but Dallas didn’t let up. He fell into step beside him, cigarette still hanging from his mouth. His gaze was steady, sizing Ponyboy up.

“You got a name, kid?” Dally asked, his voice quieter now.

“Ponyboy.”

“Ponyboy, huh?” Dally repeated, his lips twitching into that same cocky smirk. “What kind of name is that?”

Ponyboy rolled his eyes, trying to brush it off. “The kind that gets you attention, apparently.”

Dally didn’t laugh. “You don’t look like you want attention.”

Ponyboy didn’t answer.

Dallas exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching him closely. There was something about him. Something… familiar. Maybe it was the way he didn’t try to impress anyone. Maybe it was that he didn’t seem scared of anything. Or anyone. Not even Dallas Winston.

“Your uncle know you’re in school today?” Dally asked, his voice rough with casualness.

Ponyboy froze for just a second, barely perceptible, but Dally noticed. His words hit the mark, just as he intended. The kid was trying to hide it, but the hint of tension was there.

“Doesn’t know, doesn’t care,” Ponyboy answered flatly, finally turning to face him.

Dally’s eyes flicked down to Ponyboy’s knuckles, white and tense around the cigarette, and he caught a glimpse of the bruises beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His green eyes were outlined by a fading black eye.

“Right,” Dally muttered, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “So you’re just here to waste time, then?”

Ponyboy shrugged. “Guess so.”

Dallas took another drag, watching the way the kid kept his head down, his shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He looked like he was just surviving, moving through life like it was a race, but without any intention of crossing the finish line.

Dallas couldn’t decide if that was brave or stupid.

”Every Friday theres a race in that old lot down by park street in greaser territory. Seems like the kinda thing you’d be into.”

Pony tilted his head with consideration “…Thanks?”

“Stay in one piece, Davis,” Dally said, his tone almost... like a warning.

Ponyboy didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He gave a sharp nod, hopped on his bike, and swerved toward the street - heading off in the direction of wherever the hell he was going next.

Dally stayed behind, watching him go. The kid had a death wish. And maybe Dally couldn’t decide if that was something he wanted to fix... or just watch burn.

———————

Ponyboy’s sneakers hit the cracked pavement in a steady rhythm, the thrum of the engine still buzzing in his bones as he made his way back toward the small, cluttered house he called home. The day felt heavier than usual, the heat pressing down on him like a weight. But the sun wasn’t the problem. It was the guy waiting for him inside.

His uncle.

He stayed out for hours after school was let out, just riding around avoiding coming back. But as it got significantly darker and colder, Pony knew it would be the smart thing to just go face the music so he could sleep someplace warm tonight.

The door creaked when Ponyboy nudged it open, and he winced. Every noise seemed too loud in the silence that hung over the place like a storm. The air inside was thick, still, stale—a sharp contrast to the chaos of the streets outside. It smelled like old beer and cigarette butts, a familiar stench that made his stomach turn.

He closed the door as quietly as he could, listening for any movement from the living room. The last thing he needed was to walk into one of his uncle’s drunken rages first thing. He’d had enough of that. Enough of the insults, the slurred words, the thrown bottles. Enough of pretending he didn’t notice the marks that were still fresh on his skin from the night before.

It had always been like this ever since custody was signed over. They would move all around the south for about as long as his uncle could hold down a job until he would be fired, then the whole process would start again. They’d pack up and move onto the next. Tulsa was just another one of these stops, it wouldn’t be any different.

His uncle’s voice, low and gruff, echoed from the living room. His uncle was asleep. Or passed out, more like. Either way, it meant Ponyboy had a few minutes of peace—at least until the next round started.

He exhaled, relieved, and made his way to his room, keeping to the shadows as if he could somehow blend in with the walls. His room was nothing more than a corner with a mattress, a cracked window, and a dresser full of sparse clothes he barely bothered to fold.

He dropped his bag on the floor, the straps scraping against the wood as he flopped onto the bed. He wanted to go to sleep—wanted to shut his eyes and forget the whole damn world for a few hours. But there was always something pulling him up. Something pulling him forward, making him move.

Usually it was the fact that he had school tomorrow.

He had to go. For whatever reason. It didn’t make any sense, but maybe it was a break, a distraction from the constant grind in his head. He wasn’t going to make any friends, he wasn’t going to let anyone close enough to see the cracks. But he could at least go through the motions, pretending like he was a regular kid. Besides, he’d never admit it but he liked doing the schoolwork.

But unfortunately for him, it was a Friday. Meaning he would be stuck with his uncle all weekend.

He didn’t entirely mean to, but he fell asleep thinking back to his interaction with that Winston guy earlier. After asking around he got his full name and rep - Dallas Winston, hangs close with the Curtis gang and Shepard outfit aka: not to be fucked with.

Good to know he was already making enemies with rough hoods, way to go Pony!

It felt like one long blink before he was woken up by noises from the kitchen - meaning his uncle was awake, and that was his cue to split.

His hands rubbed over his face, fingers tugging at his hair, and then he stood again, throwing his bag back over his shoulder. His stomach was tight, nervous. But it didn’t matter. He silently slipped out the window.

He remembered Dallas telling him about a race, so he decided checking out the scene wouldn’t hurt, right?

Chapter Text

The old freight yard came alive at night like it was its own beating heart—greased-up and loud, thrumming with engines and laughter and danger. Rusted fences kept the real world out, and inside, it was all dirt, smoke, liquor, and rowdy greasers and even a few Socs.

Bikes lined the edges of the track, patched together machines that looked like they shouldn’t run but did, fast and furious. Headlights from a ring of parked cars lit the track in stark slices, throwing the riders into sharp shadows every time they sped by. The crowd was thick with greasers—jackets hanging open, sleeves rolled, cigarettes burning down to the filter.

Money passed hands as fast as gas hit ignition.

“Twenty on Ricky!” someone hollered, waving a crumpled bill.

Two-Bit let out a whistle, already grinning. “Now this is what I’m talkin’ about,” he said, elbowing Steve as they pushed their way through the crowd. “Think we missed the early action?”

“Still two heats left,” Steve replied, nodding toward the track. “Boys’re saying there’s a kid out here tearing it up. Real daredevil type.”

Soda looked around, scanning the pit. “Dallas here?”

“He’s around,” Johnny murmured, pointing off to the far end. Sure enough, Dally stood near the rusted fence, half in shadow, arms crossed, smoke curling from his cigarette. He hadn’t said much on the walk over. Just watched the track like he was hunting something.

“Think he’s waitin’ to race?” Two-Bit asked.

“No,” Steve said. “He’s watchin’.”

————————

The next race lined up with a roar—six bikes, revving engines, fists pounding handlebars. The starter held a red shop rag high, then dropped it. The bikes tore off the line like bullets.

Dally’s eyes tracked one of them.

The rider was smaller than the others, hunched low over the handlebars, elbows tight, eyes fixed ahead like the rest of the world didn’t exist. His sweatshirt has the sleeves cut off, sneakers dusted with old dirt, and he took the first corner way too fast, rear wheel kicking up grit as he slid just inches from the fence line.

Dallas didn’t blink.

The rider—Ponyboy Davis—kept pulling moves like that. Cut tight where others eased off. Took jumps full throttle. Slid through a blind turn like he had nothing to lose. He wasn’t racing to win. He was racing like he wanted to disappear.

“That’s him,” Dally muttered under his breath. “Dumb kid.”

—————————

The gang spotted it too.

“Holy hell,” Steve said, jaw slightly open. “That’s the same kid you saw last week, right? No helmet, no fear?”

“Same one,” Dally muttered.

“Kid’s nuts,” Two-Bit laughed, but it was nervous. “Look at that—he just cut through Curly’s line. Curly’s gonna deck him after this.”

But Pony didn’t care. He just kept riding.

And then, just as fast as it started, the race ended in a flurry of cheers and curses. Ponyboy didn’t win—he came in second by a breath—but when he skidded to a stop near the far fence and cut the engine, the whole crowd was still staring after him like he’d just jumped the moon.

He pulled off his worn, dented helmet with slow fingers. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, dust clinging to his collar. He didn’t smile. Didn’t look proud. Just tired.

Dally flicked his cigarette away and finally moved.

He walked with that same loose, dangerous swagger he always had—like the world would move if he didn’t feel like stepping around it. The gang watched from the edge of the crowd as he wove through people and strode straight up to Ponyboy, who was crouched by his bike, checking something near the chain.

“Davis.”

Ponyboy froze.

He looked up slowly, face unreadable, voice low. “What?”

Dallas didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, looking down at him like he was reading a damn book.

“You trying to die out there, or are you just stupid?” His words came out harsh.

Ponyboy’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t crash.”

“Not this time.”

Dally crouched slightly, just enough to be eye level. His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it dropped—flat, quiet, sharp as broken glass.

“I’ve seen guys ride like that. Guys who don’t care if they wake up the next morning. You think it makes you tough? Makes you free?” Dallas shook his head. “It just makes you dead, kid.”

Ponyboy looked away, jaw tight. “I don’t need your advice.”

Dallas let out a humorless laugh. “No, but you’re gettin’ it anyway. You're welcome.”

Ponyboy stood up then, facing him. “Why do you even care?”

Dally didn’t answer right away. Just flicked a bit of dirt off his sleeve, then looked him dead in the eye.

“Because you remind me of someone. And he almost didn’t make it.”

For a second, the noise of the crowd fell away. Just wind and the tick of a cooling engine.

Then Dally straightened, backing off a step. “Cool it, Davis. Before you’re just another story the rest of us tell to feel better about being alive.”
He turned, hands in his pockets again, and walked back toward the others without looking back.
Ponyboy stood alone, staring after him.

_________________________

The engine was still ticking when I swung my leg off the bike, my boots crunching in the dirt. The sweat on my back had already started to chill, clinging to my shirt like something I couldn’t shake. My ribs ached from where I took that last turn too tight, and I could feel the bruise blooming under my sweatshirt.

I wiped the dust off my cheek with the back of my hand. It just smeared.

The yelling from the track carried on behind me—bets being settled, another race lining up—but it all felt like it was underwater now. Dally’s words still echoed louder than any engine.

“You trying to die out there, or are you just stupid?”

Hell of a thing to say to someone you barely know.

I crouched down by my bike again, pretending to check the chain. I didn’t need to. I’d already fixed it yesterday. But I needed something to do with my hands. Something to focus on besides the gnawing thing in my gut.

Why did he care?

Why did anyone?

I could still feel the weight of his stare, like he’d seen something I hadn’t meant to show. Like he wasn’t just watching me ride—he was watching me unravel.

“Yo, Davis!”

I looked up, blinking. That Steve guy from school was walking toward me, his buddy Two-Bit right behind him with a soda in each hand. They weren’t trying to be subtle. They were sizing me up. Like I was some stray dog Winston had just fed scraps to.

“You’re the kid Dally was talkin’ about, huh?” Steve said, stopping a few feet from me.

I stood, brushing my hands off on my jeans. “Guess so.”

Two-Bit handed me a soda without asking. “You ride like a lunatic. Kinda dig it.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Steve muttered, though not unkindly. “Dallas’ already actin’ like you’re his damn pet project.”

“I’m not anybody’s anything,” I said, more sharply than I meant to. The words came out hard. Hollow.

Two-Bit raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Just cracked open his drink. “Well, you’re fast. And you’ve got guts. Even if you’ve got zero self-preservation.”

“I do okay,” I said.

Steve snorted. “You do reckless. There’s a difference.”

I shrugged and looked past them toward the edge of the lot, where Dally had vanished into the crowd. I didn’t say it out loud, but something about what he said—it stuck. The way he’d looked at me. Like he knew something. Like he’d seen it before.

The kind of speed that isn’t about winning. It’s about not stopping.

I looked back at Steve and Two-Bit. “You guys always come out here?”

“Whenever we feel like throwin’ cash at other people’s bad decisions,” Two-Bit said with a grin.

“We race sometimes, too,” Steve added. “Tonight we were just watchin’. Dallas said there was someone he wanted to see first.”

“Me,” I said, more to myself than them.

Neither of them answered, but the silence said enough.

“You from around here?” Two-Bit asked, casual. Too casual.

I knew the question behind the question. I knew the rumors. They were probably already floating through the school like cigarette smoke—the insane Davis kid, lives out near the river, uncle’s a drunk, doesn’t talk to nobody.

“Sorta,” I muttered.

They didn’t press, and I didn’t offer.

A shout went up from the track as the next race began, engines screaming back to life. The crowd shifted, excitement climbing again. But I didn’t look back toward the track.

I just stared down at my dirt bike, dust crusting the tires, chain rattling faintly in the wind.

Dally had looked at me like he knew exactly what I was doing.

The worst part?

He wasn’t wrong.

Chapter Text

I wasn't looking for trouble. Just trying to get home before dark, hoodie pulled up, hands in my pockets, head down like always. The streets in this part of Tulsa all looked the same after a while-cracked sidewalks, fences with holes, the occasional bark of a chained-up dog. Familiar. Forgettable.

But I should've known better.

Trouble always had a way of remembering me.

They stepped out from behind a parked car-three of them. All letterman jackets and smug grins, like they thought the world owed them something. It didn't take long to recognize them.

Socs.

One of them pointed at me, already laughing. "That's him. The dirt rat from the track. Tried to snag a win from Randy last night."

I didn't even get a word out before the first one shoved me hard into a chain-link fence. My shoulder hit metal. Pain sparked.

I swung back, missed. Took a punch to the gut for the effort.

"You greaseballs don't know your place," one of them spat. "Think you can show up wherever you want, run your junk bikes, act like you matter?"

Another hit. My lip split. Blood hit my tongue, warm and coppery.

I was outnumbered and already losing. They weren't here to just intimidate or scare me-they were here to hurt me.

I curled inward, trying to protect my ribs which were just starting to heal from my last encounter with my uncle, but they kept swinging.

Then—

A voice tore through the alley.

"Hey!"

Someone ran.

Fast footsteps. A yell.

And then fists.

Steve and Two-Bit crashed into the Socs like a freight train. One of the rich kids went down immediately.

Steve tackled another into the street, fists flying. Two-Bit swung wild with that stupid grin on his face, like he was enjoying this.

It was fast, brutal, and loud. And when it was done, the Socs were bleeding and running, tripping over their own feet as they piled into a mustang.

Silence settled heavy over the alley.

I was still on the ground, breathing hard, heart in my throat, knuckles scraped.

"Pony?" The voice was soft, close.

I blinked up and saw a small kid with black hair crouched next to me, worry written all over his face.

"Who the hell.." I breathed out in a pained voice.

“Johnny Cade. Dallas’ friend.” And it clicked, I knew this kid from school.

He offered out a hand which I eyed wearily, then remembering my cracked ribs, caved and let him help me up.

Two-Bit whistled low, brushing blood off his sleeve. "Hell of a first impression." Steve rolled his shoulders. "You've got a face that just asks for a fight, don't ya?" I tried to shrug it off, but my ribs screamed. My hoodie was torn. Lip bleeding.

"You alright?" Johnny asked again, quieter this time. Eyes full of concern, something I wasn’t used to. It was kinda unsettling.

I nodded, even though I wasn't.

Steve glanced over. "You know why they jumped you?"

I spat blood into the dirt. "Said I embarrassed one of 'em at the track."

"Figures," Two-Bit muttered. "Rich boys don't like bein' shown up by kids with busted bikes and no last names worth a damn."

I didn't answer. I felt too raw. Too seen. I didn’t like the fact that I couldn’t fight for shit and that these boys I barely knew were being so nice to me.

The silence stretched

"You hang with us now." Steve said it-simple, but heavy.

I looked up, confused. "What?"

"You heard him," Two-Bit said. "This stuff happens, we step in. That's the rule."

Johnny nodded. "Unwritten."

It was a strange thing—to be claimed like that. No ceremony. No big gesture. Just... a quiet agreement sealed with bruised knuckles and busted lips.

I didn't know what to say.

I didn’t like it.

So I didn't say anything.

“Come on we’re gonna walk you back” Two Bit jerked his chin in the direction of my house. I didn’t have enough energy to fight them on it, besides i was outnumbered and had already been beat up once that night, so i just followed along.

We walked back towards my uncle's house together-Steve lighting a cigarette, Two-Bit cracking a jokes and telling crude stories, and Johnny sticking close beside me trying to sneak glances at me every so often.

__________

I shut myself off for the next week. I didn’t like how close those boys had gotten to me, that never meant anything good. So whenever I saw them at school I turned the other way, then got on my bike and never stopped.

I knew I couldn’t avoid them forever though, so why not have a little fun while I’m at it?

Friday came with little fanfare, but I was itchin to race again. The second the sun went down, I gunned it further into the east side.

The lot behind the train yard was packed.

Engines revved like war cries, cigarette smoke curled thick into the air, and money passed hands faster than anyone could track. The unofficial dirt track carved through the weeds and gravel like a scar.

My hands tightened around the handlebars of my bike. The frame rattled like it was just barely holding together—because it was. But I’d fixed it up good enough to run. Good enough to win.

Across from me, the kid I recognized as Curly Shepard sat on his ride, chewing gum like it owed him something.

“You sure you’re ready for this, horseboy?” he called over the engine noise.
I didn’t answer.

Just met his eyes and gunned the throttle once—loud enough to get a few whoops from the crowd. Someone shouted my name—someone I didn’t even know.

Curly grinned like he already had the prize in his pocket. “Last guy who tried to show me up left his kneecap in the gravel.”

Good to know.

A kid with a flashlight stood between us. “On the drop!”

I rolled my shoulders back. No helmet. No brakes that’d save me in time if I slipped up.

Didn’t matter.

The flashlight dropped.

We launched.

Gravel spit from under my wheels like buckshot. The track curved hard right and dipped sharp—a spot that always knocked a second off your time if you hit it right.

I didn’t slow.

Curly pulled up beside me, trying to cut me off, his front tire nearly clipping mine. I jerked left, hard, skipping over a root I couldn’t see. The bike screamed underneath me, almost bucked me off—but I held it.

The crowd roared.

Someone else would’ve backed off. I knew his rep. Curly was a Shepard, and nobody liked getting on Tim’s bad side.

But I wasn’t here to be liked.

I was here to win or wreck trying.

Final turn came fast. Curly went wide, showboating for the crowd. I slipped under him, too tight to be clean, tires skimming the edge of a busted curb.

I crossed first.

Didn’t throw my hands up. Didn’t smile.

Just braked hard and let the dust settle around me like a storm I didn’t have to run from for once.

Curly rode up next to me, jaw tight.

“Not bad,” he muttered, already pissed but trying not to show it.

I nodded once.

Then I saw him.

Tim Shepard.

Leaning against the hood of some stolen Ford, arms crossed, watching like a hawk with a smirk half-hidden under his sharp jaw and cigarette smoke.

He didn’t clap. Didn’t whistle.

But he gave a single nod.

—————————

Later, after the money was settled and the crowd thinned, Ponyboy leaned against a rusted pole near the far side of the lot, cooling off, trying to stop shaking.

His pulse was still high. Not from fear.

From something else. Something like pride. Something dangerous.

“Hey.”

The voice came like gravel under a boot.

Pony turned. Tim Shepard was walking toward him—slow, deliberate. No gang behind him. Just him.

Pony straightened instinctively, eyes scanning for Curly, for trouble.

But Tim stopped a few feet away. Looked him over.

“You ride like you got nothin’ to lose.”

Pony didn’t answer.

Tim cocked his head. “I’ve seen plenty of kids try to be hard. Most of ‘em end up in the dirt, teeth scattered like bottle caps. You?”

He took a drag, then pointed with the cigarette. “You don’t flinch.”

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” Pony said.

Tim’s smile was crooked, but not cruel. “That’s why you’re dangerous.”

Pony swallowed hard.

“You ever need a crew,” Tim added, tossing his cigarette to the ground, “you find me.”

Then he turned and walked off, leaving the words to hang in the air like smoke—daring, unexpected, and heavy with meaning.

Pony didn’t know what to make of it.

But one thing was clear.

He might’ve shown up to the tracks as a stray.

But now, people were watching.

And not all of them wanted him gone.

————————
By the time I rolled the bike up to my house, I wasn’t completely surprised to see some of the Curtis gang.

I didn’t say anything as I cut the engine and leaned the bike against the fence, but I didn’t have to.

Two-Bit let out a sharp whistle. “Well, well, if it ain’t Evel Knievel himself.”

“You really dusted Curly?” Steve asked, looking more impressed than mad for once.

“He wasn’t even close,” I muttered, brushing dust off my sleeves. “He took the turn too wide.”

“He always takes the turn too wide,” the boy looked around Steve’s age, so i assumed this was Sodapop - that and his movie star grin. Soda handed me a half-warm Coke, “You were the first one dumb enough not to get scared of it.”

“That’s ’cause Pony’s got a screw loose,” Two-Bit said, nudging Johnny. “You ever seen someone corner that sharp on a bike held together with spit and prayers?”

Johnny nodded, quiet as usual, but his smile said enough.

They were proud. I could feel it. And I didn’t know what to do with that, not really. I shrugged it off, sat on the curb, cracked open the Coke.

That’s when Dallas walked up, finally making his presence known.

He didn’t say a word at first—just stood there, lighting a cigarette.

Then he looked at me.

“You’re lucky,” he said.

I blinked. “How’s that?”

He exhaled slow. “Talked to Tim a little bit ago. Shepards don’t give out respect easy. Especially Tim. You race his brother and win, and he doesn’t send someone to bust your knee in? That’s lucky.”

“I didn’t do it to get respect.”

“I know that,” Dally said. “That’s why it worked.”

He looked me dead in the eye. Not angry. Not smirking.

“Tim Shepard watches out for his own. And if he gave you the nod, you just became one of his. At least a little.”

My stomach twisted. “Is that a good thing?”

Dally took a drag, thoughtful. “You don’t always get to choose who watches your back in this world. But if it’s Shepard? You’re better off than most.”

That surprised me.

I always thought Dally didn’t trust anybody outside the gang. But the way he said it—like Shepard was dangerous, yeah, but dependable too—it shifted something in my chest
.
“You’re still one of us,” Soda said, kicking my shoe lightly. “Don’t go getting all Shepard on us.”

“I won’t,” I said, quiet.

But I kept thinking about that nod.

About Dally’s voice when he said I was lucky.

Maybe for once, I was.

“Come on let's go back, it's getting cold.” Soda turned and talked Steve into a headlock as they started to make their way back.

Two Bit jumped off my fence “I wonder what Superman’s got cookin up tonight” he said with a grin, rubbing his hands together with a clap.

”Course you are, ya freedloader” Soda shot back while dodging a weak punch from Steve.

I noticed Johnny still silently staring at me.

”Well.. I’ll be seein ya” I nodded at him, starting to turn back towards my house - which was thankfully dark.

That is, until a hand grabbed the scruff of my hoodie and dragged me backwards. I whipped around to see that it was Dallas holding me hostage. “The fuck you mean ‘I’ll be seeing ya’?” He said mockingly, starting to drag me along following the others as Johnny laughed. I wasn’t laughing though, just confused and honestly annoyed at him for manhandling me like this.

”Buzz off, Dallas” I said, trying to squirm out of his grip. Johnny stopped laughing, almost looking scared. Dallas stopped walking, but kept a firm grip on my sweatshirt- using his hold to violently shake me. “Don’t you talk back to me like that you little shit. Ya hear? You're coming back whether you like it or not, getting a hot meal, then I'll walk you back myself if you are so insistent on coming back to this hell hole.”

”But Dallas-”

He lowered his voice dangerously, “I’m not askin you, I’m tellin’ you.”

I shrunk back and gave a curt nod.

Dallas softened a little bit at my reaction. “Don’t be so stubborn, kid” he said with one final shake before letting go.

Johnny immediately appeared next to me as Dallas got caught up in a conversation with Two Bit. He bumped my shoulder with his, “he means well, Dally does. He’s rough without trying to be. That’s just how he is, don't mind it.”

I shrugged, trying to shake off the feeling of Dallas’ grip still lingering on my hoodie. "Yeah, I get it. He's just—" I hesitated, trying to find the right words. "He’s just a pain sometimes, you know?"

Johnny nodded like he understood perfectly. "He’s a little more than that, but yeah. It’s the way he shows he cares."

We caught up to the rest of the gang, who were already making their way into the house. The laughter and shouting from Two-Bit and Steve echoed down the street. I knew that if I was going to get caught in their mess, I’d at least make sure I could still enjoy the night.

As we walked inside, leaving Dallas and Steve to smoke on the porch, I noticed the warm light spilling out from the kitchen. It felt home-y in there, not in the way I was used to. The silence of my own place couldn’t compare to the lively state of the Curtis house.

Soda was already at the stove, heating up pasta in a pot with that easy grin of his. “You hungry? Or just trying to get away from Dallas?”

"Maybe a little of both," I admitted, trying to hide a grin of my own.

“Smart kid,” Two-Bit added, throwing himself into one of the chairs with a laugh. “We got plenty. Ain’t no way you’re getting away from us that easy.”

Darry, who had been sitting quietly at the counter, stood up and walked over. He was sturdy with beefed up arms and just as intimidating as Tim in his own way. He gave me a look like he was sizing me up, but then his expression softened. I felt his gaze linger just a little longer, a little different than the others. Maybe it was because of the nod from Tim Shepard, deeming me worthy of protection. Or maybe it was just because, in his world, I was a guest for the night.

“You better stick around,” Darry said, his voice warm but firm. “Don’t make us chase you down for a second time.”

I rolled my eyes, but I could tell he wasn’t joking. He wasn’t being tough or showing off. He just wanted me to feel like I wasn’t some outsider. Like I belonged here for a minute.

"Fine," I said, settling into one of the chairs. "But don't get used to it."

Johnny sat next to me, his eyes a little more alive now that we were all settling in. He didn’t need to say much. He never did, but somehow in the short time I’ve known him, he made everything easier just by being there. I was starting to understand him more.

I didn’t expect them to push so hard. I didn’t expect to feel this... welcome. It wasn’t just because of the food or the noise or even Dallas being all gruff and protective. It was because they were making room for me. Like I was a part of it, even if it was just for one night.

"Think you can stick around for a while?" Soda asked, pushing a bowl in front of me like it was second nature.

"Yeah," I muttered, staring down at the plate. "I think I can."

He grinned. “Good. We need another guy who’s dumb enough to race Curly.”

I laughed, but it was only half a joke. I was starting to feel like maybe I wasn’t just some stray anymore. Maybe I was starting to fit in with this mess they’ve got going on in the Curtis household. And it felt... strange, but good.

Darry caught my eye from across the table and gave me a small nod.

“Eat up,” he said quietly. “And get some sleep. You're a stick and you look exhausted, it's a miracle you can drive that bike of yours without crashing immediately. We’ve got extra room on the couch or recliner so you can sleep wherever”

The thought of sleeping here didn't seem as scary as it should’ve. Maybe I was starting to trust them, even in the smallest way. Plus, I would be crazy to give up the chance for a free meal and place to sleep that isn’t right next to my uncle.

To Darry’s undisguised delight, I started to wolf down my pasta - already half-forgetting the idea of heading home tonight.

"Guess I’m staying," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.

"About damn time," Two-Bit chimed in with a grin, who was smacked him the head by Darry as he piled more food onto my plate.

—————————

It was only a matter of time before that luck ran out.

It wasn’t even supposed to be my fight.

I was just cutting through the old scrapyard on my way to the Curtis’, helmet dangling from my handlebar, brain fried from school and exhaust fumes. I didn’t see the three guys leaning against the busted pickup until one of them kicked a beer can in my direction. They looked like rougher hoods I haven’t seen before.

“Hey, Davis” one of them said. “You that punk who smoked Curly Shepard last week?”

I came to a stop and put my kickstand up. I should’ve kept going, but I didn’t like the way they said it—like it was a joke. Like I’d done something wrong by surviving a race I didn’t even want to win that bad. I knew this would be trouble, and if I could help it I didn’t want my bike being caught in the crossfire.

“What’s it to you?”

One of them stepped forward, tall and slouching, mouth curled like he thought he was funny. He grabbed me harshly, ripping me off my bike and pinning me against a concrete wall, “It’s just, see, word is Tim’s got eyes on you now. Which is weird, considering you’re not one of his.”

I gripped the blade in my pocket a little tighter.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“No,” the guy said, taking another step closer. “But maybe you oughta be real careful who you let think you belong. That kind of mistake can get you hurt.”

I didn’t back up. Didn’t flinch when one of his buddies pulled out a switchblade.

I didn’t speak, either. I just kept my eyes on his—hard, flat, like I had watched Dally do before.

And then someone else spoke.

“Yeah?” A new voice said behind me. “Funny. ‘Cause last I checked, Tim Shepard decides who belongs. Not some half-baked stray with nothing better to do than throw his weight at a teenager.”

The guy froze.

I turned.

Tim was there, standing with his hands in his pockets and a look that said he was bored, but not too bored to beat someone bloody.

The air shifted.

“Didn't mean nothing, Tim, just spooking the kid” the guy said quickly, voice tight.

“No,” Tim said, calm. “You meant exactly what you said. That’s why I’m here.”

The two guys behind him backed off without another word. The loud one looked like he wanted to say something else, but Tim just tilted his head a little. That was all it took.

They left.

Tim looked at me then, just for a second.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my arm slightly where the guy had been digging his fingers into only seconds before, “Thanks.”

He nodded. Not warm, not soft—just a professional kind of respect.

Then he looked down at my bike.

“You oughta get a new chain on that soon,” he said. “Someone sees that thing snap mid-turn, they’ll think you’ve got a death wish again.”

I cracked a small grin. “Not lately.”

Tim smiled, almost. “Good. Someone’s gotta give Curly a run for his money”

He walked off without saying anything else, and I stood there a long minute, letting the silence settle back in.

I got back on my bike and headed into the direction of the DX to haggle Steve into helping me with a new chain, not even trying to unpack how weird Tim Shepard is.

Chapter Text

The bruises from the fight were still fresh when I got the engine running again, new chain in tow.

I’d spent the last two nights hunched over the bike, fingers raw, chain oiled, pipe re-bent. I didn’t say a word while Steve leaned over my shoulder offering advice I didn’t ask for. Didn’t say thank you when he handed me a new spark plug from his own stash.

Just nodded. Kept working. Kept quiet.

Tonight, I needed the road. But for once, I had company.

“Where we going?” Johnny asked, already swinging a leg over the back of the bike like it was nothing. He hadn’t asked to come—just looked at me after school, eyes wide and tired and needing a break. It was weird, he didn’t have to say things out loud for me to understand them… we just got each other.

“Nowhere,” I said. “Everywhere.”

We took off just past sundown, the air cool against our faces, the town shrinking behind us with every mile.

Out past the rail yards. Past the edge of the river.

The world got quiet out there. The sky opened wide, stars sharp and cold above us, and the dirt road stretched like a dare.

I opened the throttle.

Faster.

Johnny gripped the back of my jacket, knuckles white. “Pony—slow down!”

I didn’t.

The wind roared in my ears, and the trees blurred.

I spotted a ditch that was approaching fast, and for once used my head.

If I were alone I would’ve sped up, caught air, hit hard, then hopefully stuck the landing.

But for the first time, I wasn’t just accountable for myself, but Johnny too.

So I slammed on the breaks, barely missing the ditch. The back tire skidded, almost went out. Almost.

I didn’t flinch, if anything a new found adrenaline was coursing through my veins.

Johnny gasped, breath stolen, and then shouted, “Pony! Are you tryin’ to kill us?”

I pulled to a stop at the edge of an old field, engine ticking in the silence.

He climbed off fast, shaking. “That wasn’t funny, man. You could’ve wrecked us bad.”

I stared straight ahead, knuckles turned white on the bars. “But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is to me.”

Johnny paced a few steps, still wound tight. “You don’t ride like you’re trying to win. You ride like you don’t care if you lose. It’s like whatever we say goes in one ear out the other. Why Pony?”

I couldn’t call him out on this, cause he was right.

I looked down at my hands. “I just like the quiet.”

“You call that quiet?” He waved his arms around exasperated.

I shrugged. “Everything shuts up when I’m riding. My head. My ribs. All of it.”

Johnny stopped moving. His voice softened. “So your just off in your own head? Is that why you don’t flinch? Not when the Socs hit you, not when you almost crash…”

I didn’t answer. What could I say? That I flinch at home? That it was easier to stare death in the face when you do it so often?

Johnny sat down on a rock nearby, hugging his arms around his knees.

“You scared me, Pony. I'm worried about you. The whole gang is.” he said.

Something about that stuck.

I swung one leg over the bike and sat beside him in the dirt, both of us looking out at the field like it might have something to say.

For a long time, we didn’t talk.

Just listened to the engine cool.

In the distance, a low rumble echoed across the dirt.

Another bike. Getting closer.

I didn’t turn around.

But I knew who it was.

It skidded to a stop in front of us. Fast. Angry.

A headlight cut through the dark like a blade.

Dallas Winston.

He killed the engine as he skidded to a stop, boots crunching gravel as he dismounted in one sharp, practiced motion.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, staring at us. Or—more specifically—me.

His jaw was tight. There was a lit cigarette between his fingers, and the end burned too fast, like even it didn’t want to be near him tonight.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

I stayed sitting.

Johnny stood up like he was expecting a punch, already bracing.

Dally walked forward, smoke trailing behind him. “You think this is a damn game?” he snapped, jabbing a finger toward the ditch we’d jumped. “You wanna take yourself out, that’s your business. You wanna drag him down with you—” He jerked his chin at Johnny. “Now it’s mine.”

“We curbed it,” I said flatly.

Dally’s laugh had no humor. “Yeah? For now. Next time something goes wrong and it’s your head on the pavement. You're lucky. You think I like being approached by the Brumly boys, tellin’ me that they saw you guys riding into the woods like a bat outta hell? ”

I stood then, slow, brushing the dirt off my jeans like I couldn’t feel the adrenaline still buzzing under my skin. “Why do you care, huh? You don’t even know me.”

He moved closer. Close enough I could see the line between his brows, the tight pull of his mouth, like holding back fury was taking effort.

“I don’t gotta know you to see you’re chasing something you ain’t ever gonna catch.”

I looked away. “I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“No,” he said. “But you’re gettin’ one anyway.”

He flicked the cigarette to the ground, stepped on it, eyes still locked on mine.

“You wanna be alone, fine. But don’t act like you’re the only one who’s ever been kicked around. You think pain makes you special? Get in line.”

His voice was calm now. And somehow, that was worse.

Johnny was quiet behind us. Watching. Always watching.

I felt the burn of Dally’s words, low in my chest. That sharp heat you don’t want to admit is worry.

So I did what I always did.

I turned away.

Climbed back on the bike, started the engine without a word.

Johnny took a step forward. “Pony—”

But I was already pulling off, gravel spitting behind me. I didn’t look back.

I didn’t want to see if Dally looked disappointed. Or worse—concerned.

_____________

The house was dark when I got back.

Not “asleep” dark. Not quiet. Just empty.

I let the screen door creak shut behind me and didn’t bother taking off my shoes. The place smelled like cheap beer and mold. The kitchen light was flickering again, humming like it was dying slow.

I stepped over a pile of laundry that wasn’t mine, pushed the door to the living room open with my elbow.

He was on the couch.

My uncle.

Half-passed out, bottle in hand, TV glowing blue across his face. The sound was off, just static movement. A woman screaming on mute.

I thought I could make it to the hall without waking him.

But then—his eyes cracked open.

“What time you think it is?” he slurred.

I didn’t answer.

He sat up, wobbling. “You hear me, boy?”

“I’m not staying long,” I said quietly. “Just getting my stuff.”

He snorted. “That right? ‘Cause I don’t remember sayin’ you could come and go like you own the damn place.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

The silence after that was the worst kind—long and brittle.

Then the bottle flew.

It shattered against the wall near my head, glass spraying across the floor. I hissed when little shards embedded into my arm .

“Don’t talk back to me!” he shouted, voice raw and cracked.

I flinched back, heart hammering so loud I swore it shook the windows.

He staggered to his feet. “You think you’re tough now, huh? With your junk bike and your little attitude?”

I backed away, not scared—just done. Just tired.

“Go to hell,” I muttered.

He lunged.

I was out the door before he could touch me.

————————

The night was cold again. My sweatshirt wasn’t enough.

I sat on the porch for a long time, staring at nothing. I knew he would be too drunk to make it out of the house, and on the off chance he did get to me… I couldn’t find enough energy to care. My breath came out in clouds. My hands were shaking, and I didn’t know if it was from the ride, Dallas, the bottle, or everything in between.

Eventually, I stood.

Got on the bike.

And rode.

I didn’t know where I was going.

I just knew I wasn’t going back there.

I didn’t know where I was riding. Just knew I had to get away from everything that smelled like that house. Like rot. Like rage. Like failure.

Eventually, the gas ran low and the adrenaline ran out.

I pulled into an empty lot on the edge of town—just dirt, chain-link, and a busted swing set that had lost its swings. The kind of place kids used to play before they grew up too fast and learned how to throw punches instead.

I killed the engine and let the silence settle over me like a blanket I didn’t ask for.

Then I saw him.

Johnny.

Curled up in an old recliner somebody had dumped, blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes wide and already watching me like he’d known I’d show up.

“This your spot?” I asked, half-apologetic.

He nodded. “Been sleepin’ here some nights. S’quiet.”

I looked around. Broken glass. A crushed cigarette pack. A half-burnt firepit made from bricks and rusted wire. Home sweet home.

“You can stay,” he added quickly. “I don’t mind.”

I parked the bike and sat down in the dirt a few feet away. Hugged my arms around my knees trying to take up the least amount of space possible

Neither said anything for a while, which seemed to be a common theme between us.

Then Johnny spoke, voice low like he didn’t want to scare me off. “M sorry Dally lit into you after that stunt on the ditch. I will say though, pretty impressive you didn’t blink when he chewed you out.” He said with a grin.

I gave a small grin back “Yeah?”

“Yeah, that was pretty tuff. He does have a point though.. Dally I mean. He gets what you’re goin through a lot more than you appreciate. He’s been there. He’s had no one and he just wants to look out for you even if it comes off as mean.”

“I didn’t ask him to care,” I muttered.

“No,” Johnny said, “but he does.”

That hung in the air for a second. Heavy. Honest.

I stared at the dirt under my boots. “I don’t need anybody.”

Johnny shifted, pulling his blanket tighter. “I thought that too. For a long time. But that’s not how this works.”

“What, the gang?” I scoffed. “They patch you up, buy you burgers, and suddenly everything’s fixed?”

“No,” he said quietly. “But it’s better than being alone.”

The words didn’t feel like a punch. They hit like a bruise. Dull and deep and already there.

“I’m not like you,” I said. “I don’t want people fixing me.”

“You don’t have to want it,” Johnny replied. “They’ll do it anyway. That’s what family does.”

I swallowed hard. Didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

And then—

Boots on gravel.

We both froze as a shadow moved in the dark.

It felt like I was getting deja vu, because for the second time that night we were hit with a familiar, sharp voice:

“Golly, I figured I’d find you two hiding out in some dump like this.”

Dally.

He stepped into the lot like he owned it, cigarette once again burning low, eyes sharp but not angry—just tired. And maybe a little relieved.

Johnny straightened. “Hey, Dal.”

He looked between us, jaw twitching. “You sleepin’ out here now, Pony?”

I didn’t answer.

“You think this is better than swallowing your pride and just crashing at Soda and Darry’s? What’re you, trying to prove something?”

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

“You’re not,” he snapped. Then softer, “But I know what it looks like when someone’s outta places to go.”

The silence stretched. This was a different version of Dallas than earlier, after having a few hours to cool off he just seemed tired rather than actually angry.

Then he flicked his cigarette away and said, “C’mon. Buck owes me a favor. I’ve got room. You’re both stayin’ there tonight. Sleepin on the floor though, I ain’t giving up my bed for two little assholes who turn my hair grey.”

Johnny blinked. “Even me?”

“What did I just say, Johnnycakes? You think I’m leavin’ you in a junkyard chair?” Dally scoffed, already turning away. “I ain’t that cold.”

I didn’t move.

He looked back once, over his shoulder. “You comin’, or do I gotta drag you by your damn collar?”

I shuddered at his words, knowing he meant it. But still. I didn’t want to owe him. Didn’t want to be someone’s responsibility.

He stopped and turned around after noticing I still wasn’t following.

“Ponyboy,” he said, voice flat. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“I’m fine,” Pony snapped. But even I could tell it wasn’t convincing. Not even to him.

“You’re coming with me,” Dally ordered, his voice sharper this time. “Buck’s place. Now.”

I gave him a long, hard look. "I don’t need your charity."

"Too bad," Dally shot back, unfazed. "You need a roof over your head more than you need to be out here broodin’ all night.” His eyes scanned over my arms, which still had dried blood on them. “You and I both know it's not smart to head home either. Don’t be thick.”

I wanted so badly to get him to turn around and leave me alone.

But I was tired.

And the lot was cold.

And all I had was a ratty sweatshirt

So I stood up.

Didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t have to.

Dally already knew.

——————

I didn’t mean to stay.

At first, Buck’s place was just a one time spot to crash—a roof, a bed, something temporary until I figured out my next move. I kept telling myself that. One more night, then I’d be out. One more day, then I’d vanish.

But I didn’t leave.

If I wasn’t at Buck’s, I was at Curtis house or TwoBits couch or in the lot with Johnny.

Not because it got easier.

Because they didn’t let me disappear.

———————-

It started with Soda.

I came out into the kitchen one morning, still sore from a night sleeping on the couch, and he was already there—leaning on the kitchen counter like he owned the place, grinning with a cup of black coffee and no shirt, like it wasn’t 7 a.m. and cold as hell.

“You eat yet?” he asked, handing me a donut wrapped in a napkin. It was smushed, probably pocketed from a gas station. Still warm, though.

I shook my head.

“Now you have,” he said simply, and took a bite of his own like it wasn’t a big deal. “You’re a stick, Pony. Gotta keep some meat on you if you’re gonna keep crash-landing off that bike.”

I wanted to tell him I didn’t crash. That I landed hard—there’s a difference.

But I just ate the donut.

He didn’t ask questions. Just told dumb stories about work, about girls who smiled at him at the DX, about how Steve once superglued a quarter to the ground outside the shop and watched people try to pick it up for three hours straight.

And for the first time in a while, I laughed.

————————

It was awkward with Darry.

He wasn’t around much—too busy working double shifts, trying to keep a roof over his and Soda’s heads. But when he showed up, he noticed everything.

“You’re limping,” he said one night, nodding at my leg as I tried to shuffle past him.

I shrugged. “It’s nothin’.”

He didn’t press. Just tossed me a bag of frozen peas from the fridge. “Put that on it.”

That was it.

No lecture. No scolding. Just... help. Quiet, straightforward, leave-your-pride-intact kind of help.

When I went to sleep that night, the bag was still cold, and so was the knot in my throat.

————————

Two-Bit came by a few nights later with a box of beat-up paperbacks and a grin that spelled trouble.

“Figured you’re the readin’ type,” he said, dropping the box by the couch. “Can’t have you sittin’ around lookin’ like a kicked puppy.”

The books were a mess. Torn covers. Coffee stains. Notes in the margins.

But they were real. They were his.

And he gave them to me like it was nothing.

Then he dragged me into a game of cards, where I lost every round and he cheated like hell. But he kept dealing, kept cracking jokes, until I forgot I was supposed to be keeping my distance.

————————

Steve didn’t like me at first. Or maybe he just didn’t trust me.

But one afternoon I found him working on an old motor at the back of the DX and couldn’t help drifting over.

After fixing my own rusted motor, I was practically an expert.

“You’re flooding it,” I said, before I could stop myself.

He looked up, narrow-eyed. “You got a better idea?”

I did. So I showed him.

We didn’t say much. Just worked side by side, hands greasy, heads down, bickering once and awhile. When the engine finally coughed to life, he looked at me—not with surprise, but something like reluctant respect.

“Not bad, Davis,” he muttered.

Even though it looked like it physically pained him to say it, it meant more than I thought it would.

————————

Johnny was different.

He didn’t talk much either, but he always looked at me like he understood. Like he’d already been where I was—quiet, scared, wired too tight to breathe right.

He sat with me out on the porch one night while the others were inside laughing too loud. We sat smoking, watching the sun set over Tulsa. I never usually liked watching the sky with anyone, but funny enough when it came to Johnny… I couldn’t find it in myself to get upset about it.

“You ever think about just… not going back?” he asked.

“To my uncle’s?”

“To who you were before.”

I stared at the dark yard for a long time. “Every day.”

Johnny nodded like that made sense. Like it was normal. Like he thought the same thing.

We didn’t say anything after that.

We didn’t need to.

————————

And then there was Dally.

He didn’t try to be soft. Didn’t coddle. Didn’t explain.

But he watched. He noticed things no one else did.

Like when I flinched too fast at a door slamming. Or when I held my ribs getting off the bike. He didn’t ask questions—just walked into the room one night and tossed an oversized jacket at me.

“Here,” he said. “You’re shakin’. Stop bein’ stupid.”

It was his old leather one. Beat to hell. Still warm from him wearing it.

I tried to give it back the next day.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “You think I give people stuff I want back?”

I didn’t argue.

I just wore it.

—————————-

They didn’t ask me to stay.

They just… made room.

Little by little, I stopped counting down the days. Stopped packing up my bag every night like I was ready to bolt.

And when Two-Bit cracked a joke or Steve threw a wrench at me in mock frustration, I didn’t think they were doing it out of pity.

They were just being them.

And somehow, without meaning to—

I started being me again.

Or maybe someone new.

I couldn’t quite tell, but I also wasn’t too upset over it.

Chapter Text

We were behind Buck’s place again, it was pretty common nowadays to find us on the back steps there. They were the kind of half-rotted wood that creaked if you breathed too hard, but it had a great view for watching the sunset so we were both drawn to it. The sun was low, bleeding pink across the sky in a way that reminded me of a skinned knee. The air smelled like cut grass and motor oil, and someone was blasting Elvis from three houses down.

We weren’t saying much. Just drinking warm sodas and letting the quiet fill in the blanks.

Johnny was next to me, arms resting on his knees, picking at the label on the bottle absentmindedly. I could tell he wasn’t really there. Not fully.

He’d been like that all week. Quiet even for Johnny. Too still. Like he was bracing for something. It made me uneasy to say the least.

I didn’t push. I knew better.

I’d been stared down by my own ghosts enough times to recognize when someone else was trying to keep theirs at bay.

Then, out of nowhere, he dropped the bottle.

It rolled off the step and landed in the grass without breaking.

Johnny didn’t move to grab it. Didn’t blink. Just stared straight ahead like he hadn’t noticed.

And then he said, so soft I almost didn’t catch it,

“I think I’m done.”

I looked at him, stomach churning. “Done with what?”

He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. It was the kind of shrug that looked like it hurt.

“All of it, I guess. Pretending I don’t care. Trying to act like I belong anywhere.”

He dragged a hand down his face, and I could see his fingers were shaking.

“You ever feel like you’re just…running out of places to put your pain?” he asked. “The stuff people say. The looks. The nights you don’t sleep right ‘cause you don’t know what you’re waking up to.”

“Yeah,” I said.

That was all. A simple ‘yeah’ because out of everyone else except for maybe Dally, I understood. Even then, Dallas was hardened by his pain, he couldn't fully understand what it's like for Johnny and I because we feel things… even if we didn’t like it.

And I think that’s why he kept talking.

“My mom used to tell me I was her mistake,” he said suddenly. “Said it like a joke, like it was funny. Said I ruined her body. Said I trapped her.”

He gave this dry little laugh that sounded more like he was choking on dust.

“Guess she wasn’t wrong. I did trap her. And my dad? He don’t even look at me unless he’s aiming.”

My jaw clenched. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say to that.

So I didn’t say anything.

I just nudged my foot against his, real light. Let him know I was still there.

“I used to think if I was quiet enough,” he whispered, “if I was good enough, it’d stop. The yelling. The hitting. I figured maybe if I disappeared a little more each day, they’d forget to be mad at me.”

He was shaking now. Not sobbing, not yelling—just coming apart from the inside out.

I leaned into him, pressed my shoulder against his like I was trying to hold the pieces together. He didn’t pull away.

He wiped his nose on his sleeve, still not looking at me.

“Sometimes I think maybe if I hadn’t been born…”

“Don’t,” I said quietly. “Don’t say that.”

He went silent.

I let the quiet stretch, gave it room to breathe, but didn’t walk away from it.

“You don’t gotta be good to be worth something,” I said after a while. “You don’t gotta be loud, or tough, or right. You just gotta hang on long enough to find your people.”

Johnny snorted. “That some Hallmark card you read in Two-Bit’s garbage novels?”

“No,” I said. “That one’s mine.”

That got the smallest smile out of him. Barely there, but real.

“I don’t know how to hang on,” he said finally. “Not all the time.”

“You don’t gotta do it alone.”

We just sat there a while longer. Until the sun was gone, and the sky was bruised, and our bottles were empty.

And Johnny—quiet, hurting, half-cracked Johnny—leaned his head against my shoulder like he didn’t know where else to put it.

I didn’t move or say anything.

Just let him rest, like he had done for me many times before.

———————————

The living room was dim, the only light spilling in from the kitchen where Soda leaned against the counter, a bottle of soda in each hand. The quiet between us stretched out, thick and easy, like the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. I sat on the edge of the couch, fingers tracing the worn fabric. I left Johnny with Dallas a while ago, eventually wandering over to the Curtis house.

Soda took a slow sip, then pushed off the counter and walked over, dropping one bottle on the coffee table in front of me. “You’ve been pretty quiet,” he said softly. Not like a question, more like an observation, like he wasn’t trying to pry but still wanted me to know he noticed.

I shrugged, not looking up. “Just thinking.”

He nodded, settling onto the couch beside me with a sigh. “Yeah, I figured. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. Hell, I don’t even try to keep up.”

I glanced at him. Soda had this way of making everything seem simple even when it wasn’t. Like life was just a series of moments you could handle one at a time. He didn’t rush to fix things or ask me to explain. He just… was.

“You know,” he said, cracking open his soda, “sometimes I think people get caught up trying to run away from where they came from. Like if you just go far enough, fast enough, you can leave it all behind.”

I let the words hang there, thinking about the road and the dirt, the fights and the silence at home.

“But you can’t really run,” Soda said quietly. “Not from yourself. You gotta find a way to be okay where you are first. Or at least figure out how to live with it.”

I swallowed, feeling something settle low in my chest — I was tired of hearing the truth, but I knew he was right.

He nudged me gently with his shoulder. “Just… don’t shut everyone out again. We’re here.”

I looked away, the knot in my throat tighter than before. Soda didn’t say more. He didn’t have to.

After a moment, he stretched, standing up and stretching his arms above his head. “Alright, enough deep talk. How about I make us some of those awful grilled cheese sandwiches you like? You can sit there looking all moody, and I’ll do the cooking.”

I let out a small, reluctant laugh.

“That’s the spirit,” Soda grinned, already heading to the kitchen.

The warm sound of the toaster and sizzling cheese soon filled the room, and funnily enough I started to believe him.

———————

True to Pony’s luck, things couldn’t stay normal for too long. Tension had been building since the night before.

Ponyboy had shown up late to the race — no helmet, no explanation, just this wired look in his eyes and a fresh scrape on his shoulder. He rode anyway, reckless as hell, like nothing could touch him. Like he didn’t care if it did. He was having a bad day, quick to return to old habits.

Soda tried to brush it off. Dally didn’t. Not after all the progress they had made with Pony in the past couple weeks. He was also peeved because Pony knew better than to race without his helmet. It’s like he knew just how to push Dallas’ buttons and light the fuse to his already short temper.

They’d been snippy with each other ever since. Little digs over breakfast. Pony snapping at him when Dally told him to slow down. Dally muttering under his breath that Pony had a death wish. The whole day had been thick with unspoken things, like smoke hanging in a room that nobody wanted to talk about.

And now, hours later, they were both outside on the porch. The heat hadn’t broken. Neither had the silence.

Ponyboy sat curled into himself, chewing the inside of his cheek, his scraped arm stinging in the summer air. Dally leaned against the rail, smoking, jaw clenched. The quiet between them was like a stretched-out rubber band—tight, threatening to snap.

Then Dally spoke.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days.”

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t even angry. Just matter-of-fact, like he was stating the weather.

Ponyboy’s fingers tightened on his knee. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you didn’t hear me the first five times. You made that clear by last night's race.”

Pony didn’t answer.

He didn’t have it in him to fight again. Not tonight.

They sat in the thick air, the cicadas whirring, distant laughter rising from a few blocks over. Pony’s shoulders felt too high. Like he couldn’t un-hunch them. Like his body was bracing for something—another lecture, another shove, another reminder that he didn’t belong here and he was running on borrowed time.

“Well I’ve said it before and I'll say it again, I didn’t ask you to worry about me,” he said finally, not looking up.

“You didn’t have to,” Dally muttered. “You think I yell ‘cause I like the sound of my own voice?”

Ponyboy scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Dally glanced over. His look was sharp, but not cruel. “You think I’m on your case ‘cause I wanna be the bad guy? Kid, I’ve seen too many people throw themselves into the fire and act surprised when they get burned.”

“I’m not them.”

“No,” Dally said. “But you’re startin’ to look like ‘em. It’s like you started to get what i was saying… then went backwards again…” Dallas sighed, putting his head in his hands “I just don’t understand.”

That landed. Harder than it should’ve.

Pony dropped his gaze, thumb brushing the edge of the scrape on his arm.

“I just needed to ride,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean to scare anybody.”

“You show up bleeding with no helmet after disappearing for three hours and expect me not to say something?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Dally’s laugh was short. Dry. “Then maybe you need to start thinking different. Or start thinking in general, Pones.”

They went quiet again.

But for once, it didn’t feel like anger sitting between them.

Pony sighed through his nose, slow. “It’s not about the helmet.”

Dally looked over. “No. It ain’t.”

Pony swallowed hard. His voice was low when he spoke again. “I don’t wanna screw this up. Being here. With you guys.”

Dally didn’t answer right away. Just flicked ash off the porch and stared out at the street.

“You’re not screwin’ it up,” he said. “You’re just makin’ it harder on yourself.”

Pony nodded slowly.

Dally stood up, flicked his cigarette into the yard. “C’mon. Let’s go raid the fridge before Soda eats everything. Again.”

Pony didn’t move at first. Then—quietly, without a word—he stood and followed him inside.

This time, he didn’t feel like he was running.

He just felt like maybe he was staying.

Chapter Text

The day had been unbearable—not just hot, but heavy. The kind of heat that seemed to press into your bones, that settled in the back of your throat and made you feel like you were suffocating slow. Ponyboy spent most of it in the Curtis backyard, sitting under the wide branches of the old elm tree, a book half-open on his lap but long forgotten.

The week had been quiet, almost calm. The kind of calm that feels fake.

That ended when he saw the note.

It had been taped to the handlebars of his bike outside school. The paper was crumpled, the writing uneven—thick and slanted like the pen had been held too tight. He knew the handwriting instantly. Even before he touched it, even before he unfolded it with shaking hands, he knew who it was from.

His uncle.

He hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Not since the night he left. Not since the yelling and the slammed doors and the long walk to the Curtis house with a bruised shoulder and a stuffed backpack.

He clenched the note in his hand, reading the same lines over and over again, trying to convince himself it didn’t mean anything. That it didn’t matter.

“I know what you’re trying to do Pony. I’m trying to change too. You come back, you’ll see thing’s be different. I’ll make sure of it. Come home.” 

It wasn’t kind. But it wasn’t cruel either. That’s what made it worse. There was a softness to the words that didn’t fit the man he remembered—the one who only reached for Ponyboy when he needed a glass filled or a mess cleaned up. But the words... they sounded almost like regret. Maybe even care.

And damn him, Ponyboy wanted to believe it.

He tried to shake it. Tried reading. Napping. Kicking at the dirt with the heel of his shoe. But the thought wouldn’t leave.

What if his uncle really had changed?

What if he meant it?

That seed of hope planted itself like a weed, and no matter how much Ponyboy reminded himself of the bruises, of the yelling, of the way the house always smelled like sour liquor and dust—it stayed.

The day dragged. Soda and the others were still at work. Darry wouldn’t be home until late. Ponyboy kept glancing at the back door, thinking about whether he should mention the note. He didn’t.

The Curtis house was full, but today it felt too quiet. Ponyboy started to wonder if maybe he was just a guest. Temporary. Like someone squatting in a life that didn’t really belong to him.

Maybe the gang wouldn’t even mind if he left. They were always busy. Darry was stretched thin, and Soda had enough to worry about. The others floated in and out, laughing and teasing and handing him food, but it wasn’t like he was needed. Not really.

He tried to remind himself of the truth. That they’d taken him in without hesitation. That Steve had started talking to him like an equal. That Two-Bit brought him books and candy and endless distractions. That Soda saw him. Darry looked out for him. That Johnny understood him. Even Dally—especially Dally—had his back.

But today, it didn’t feel like enough.

So when he heard footsteps crunching down the gravel path, he expected Soda. Maybe Dally.

But it wasn’t either of them.

It was his uncle.

Ponyboy didn’t even hear the gate open. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the yard, and then suddenly one of them moved—wrong—and there he was. Standing like something from a memory, all slumped shoulders and glassy eyes.

“Ponyboy,” the man slurred, stepping into the golden light, his breath thick with whiskey. “You’re comin’ back. Let’s go.”

Ponyboy stood slowly from the porch step, heart pounding. The paper note was still stuffed in his pocket, now warm and worn from being folded and unfolded all day.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. His voice was calm, but tight. He tried to keep his shoulders square, tried to sound like Dally might—cold and certain. “I’m not going with you.”

His uncle scoffed, took another staggering step closer. “You listen here. I didn’t come all this way to get lip. You think you’re better than me now, stayin’ with these punks? You think they’re gonna let you stay forever?”

Ponyboy took a step back, instinct taking over. His uncle’s voice had that tone again—the one that started low and ended in a fist.

“I don’t need you anymore,” Ponyboy said, quietly. More like a truth to himself than a declaration.

But the man didn’t hear him. Or didn’t care.

“You think they want you?” he spat, face twisting. “You’re a burden. Just a mouth to feed. You’ll see soon enough. And when they get sick of you, who’s gonna take you in, huh? You need me.”

Ponyboy’s stomach turned. “Need you?” he said, almost laughing now. “You mean the way you needed someone to clean up your messes? To stand there while you screamed at nothing? You didn’t take care of me. You just didn’t want to be alone.”

His uncle’s face shifted, fast—from smug to something meaner. His fists clenched.

“I’m done with this,” Ponyboy said, already stepping off the porch.

But then his uncle lunged.

The first hit caught him in the side, knocking the air out of his chest. Ponyboy stumbled, pain radiating through his ribs. He barely got his hands up before the second blow came, sharp and wild. The old man wasn’t strong, not really—but he was furious, sloppy, and desperate.

Ponyboy ducked the next swing and shoved him back with everything he had. His uncle hit the dirt hard, groaning as he stayed down, breathing like a broken bellows.

The world felt unsteady as Ponyboy stumbled back from where his uncle had fallen in the dirt.

His ribs ached, his breathing shallow and sharp. The anger and adrenaline had already started to fade, leaving only a low, familiar ache behind — the kind that didn’t just settle in your body, but in your bones. The kind you couldn’t run from.

But he was going to try anyway.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back. His uncle groaned behind him, still slumped near the porch steps, cursing under his breath, but not getting up. Not yet.

Ponyboy limped toward the bike.

His hands trembled as he swung his leg over it, fingers fumbling with the ignition. He didn’t stop to think about where he was going. He didn’t think about the fact that the guys would be wondering where he was. That the race was tonight. That Dally had told him — told him — to wear his helmet and how he promised he would.

He didn’t have it with him now.

Didn’t have much of anything except a bruised side and a heart that felt like it might break open if he sat still too long.

The engine coughed once, then roared to life.

He twisted the throttle and let the bike take him.

Out of the neighborhood. Past the corner where he and Johnny used to smoke and talk about nothing. Past the lot where they used to hang out and pretend they weren’t scared of anything.

The wind hit his face hard, stinging his eyes and drying the sweat on his neck, but it didn’t help. The hurt was still there — sharp and jagged — tucked somewhere between his ribs and everything he hadn’t said.

He didn’t think about the Curtis house. About Soda’s laugh or Darry’s warning glances. About Two-Bit’s dumb jokes or Steve’s grudging nods of approval. About Dally.

He didn’t let himself think at all.

He just rode.

But he knew — deep down, under the noise and the wind and the sting in his chest — that running had never fixed anything.

And he had a feeling it wasn’t going to fix this either.

The wind tore at his face as he pushed the throttle, the air cooler out on the road but not enough to soothe the fire in his chest. He didn’t think about the gang. Or the note. Or the pain blooming beneath his ribs. Or his possible concussion. 

He didn’t notice he was bleeding until the edges of his vision blurred. Didn’t notice the wrong turn until the highway faded into gravel. He didn’t even realize he’d been crying until the wind dried the tears right off his cheeks.

All he knew was the noise of the engine, the sting of the air, and the sinking feeling that maybe—just maybe—he’d made a mistake. His eyes blurred and his vision doubled as he drove onto the nearest trail. 

But it was too late now.

He didn’t see the curve in the road until it was too late.

The tires screamed as he tried to pull the bike back, but the front wheel caught gravel and spun out beneath him. The world tilted sideways. Then everything hit at once — the pavement, his shoulder, the sharp grind of skin on asphalt, the echo of the bike skidding and crashing somewhere behind him.

Then silence.

Just the heavy thud of his heartbeat in his ears and the sharp taste of blood in his mouth.

Ponyboy groaned, trying to push himself up, but the pain flared deep in his side, and he sank back down. His arm felt wrong. His ribs screamed. One of his legs throbbed, twisted under him.

He coughed once, then again, choking on dust and air that burned.

The bike was a few feet away, laid out in a mess of bent metal and busted chrome. The headlight flickered once and went dark.

He was alone.

Truly, terrifyingly alone.

And suddenly the idea that nobody knew where he was didn’t feel noble or brave — it felt stupid. It felt dangerous. Like he’d gone so far out of his way to prove he didn’t need anyone that now there might be nobody around to help even if he wanted them to.

The stars spun overhead. The gravel bit into his back. And for a second, all that hurt he’d been holding in — the fear, the doubt, the part of him that still wanted to believe people could change — it rose up in his throat and came out in a shaking breath.

He didn’t cry.

But he wanted to.

The world went dark.

__________

The track was already roaring by the time Dallas showed up.

Engines backfiring, gravel flying, headlights cutting across the night. Kids swarmed around the lot, laughing, shouting, sizing up who had the fastest bike or the loosest rules.

It was the usual Friday chaos.

But Ponyboy wasn’t there.

“Where is he?” Steve muttered, checking his watch for the third time. “He was supposed to ride second heat.”

“Don’t look at me,” Two-Bit said, popping the cap off a Coke bottle with his teeth. “Kid was tuning that bike all week. Bragged about finally outrunning that prick on the red Honda.”

“He said he’d be here,” Soda added. He leaned against the fence, squinting toward the far end of the lot like maybe Pony would roll in late, like always, grinning like he hadn’t kept them waiting. But his gut was already twisting.

“Maybe he bailed,” Steve offered, but his tone lacked conviction.

Dallas was silent.

He stood at the edge of the pit line, arms crossed, scanning the crowd. Eyes narrow. The way he did when something didn’t sit right.

He’d been edgy all week — watching Pony a little too closely, picking up on things the others hadn’t. The kid had been off. Distant. Like he was waiting for something bad to happen.

And suddenly, Dally knew.

“Get in the car,” he snapped, already turning. “Something’s wrong.”

Soda didn’t ask questions. Steve dropped the wrench he was holding. Even Two-Bit lost the grin.

They piled into the old Ford, Dally driving too fast, too quiet.

When they pulled up to the Curtis house, the porch light was still on. But the yard looked off.

Dally was out before the engine stopped.

Soda froze halfway up the walkway. “...What the hell happened?”

Blood.

It was faint but fresh — a streak across the porch step, and another near the mailbox. The screen door hung crooked on its hinges. Pony’s helmet lay half-smashed in the grass.

The air was dead still.

Steve bent down, picking something up near the step — a crumpled note, stained and half-torn. “It’s from his uncle.”

Dally snatched it from him, eyes scanning the uneven scrawl. His jaw locked. “He was here.”

“In the yard?” Soda’s voice had gone flat. “Fuck.”

Near the dead rosebush, the ground was torn up — footprints, signs of a struggle. A smashed bottle glinted in the dirt. And farther out, behind the fence, the grass was flattened like someone had gone down hard.

Then there was the smear of blood on the side of the porch rail.

Dally knelt down and touched it. Still tacky. Fresh.

“Looks like Pony fought back,” Steve said quietly.

“He’s gone now,” Soda added, hands shaking at his sides. “Bike’s not here either.”

Dally stood slowly, eyes fixed on the road like he could will the answer to appear. “He ran.”

“Yeah,” Two-Bit said, swallowing. “But in what shape?”

No one said anything for a minute.

Then Dallas turned back toward the car, already moving. “We have to find him. Now.”

Chapter Text

Soda took the note from Dally’s hand, read it once, and looked sick. “He came back for him.”

“He showed up here,” Dally said. “And Pony didn’t tell us.”

“Think they fought?” Two-Bit asked, eyes trailing over the smashed rosebush. “I mean, someone went down hard.”

“Look around,” Dally said, standing. “This ain’t a visit. This was a goddamn ambush.”

Steve looked toward the street. “Then where the hell’s Pony?”

“He ran,” Dally said. “But not far. Not hurt like this.”

Nobody argued.

They all knew what this meant. Pony hadn’t just gotten spooked—he’d left bleeding. And he hadn’t taken his helmet. Which meant whatever happened, he’d done it in a rush. 

“He wouldn’t head to the station,” Soda said. “Not with bruises. He hates people seeing him like that.”

“He might go toward the lot,” Two-Bit offered. “Johnny used to—”

“No,” Dally cut in. “That’s not where he’d go. Not this time.”

Something in his voice made the others quiet down.

“I’ll take my bike,” he said, already turning. “Check the back roads. Ravine trail. Old farm loop.”

“We’ll fan out,” Soda said, fast. “Steve, hit the tracks. Two-Bit, take the long road by the creek.”

Steve nodded, already pulling keys from his pocket. “We’ll call Darry, fill him in, and tell him to keep an eye out on his way home. You call if you find him.”

“I will.”

Dally didn’t say anything else. Just swung a leg over his bike, kicked it into gear, and tore off down the street like the road might lead him straight to Pony.

——————

The streets blurred past in streaks of heat and shadow. Dally took the back roads, twisting through alleys and gravel trails like he could sniff Pony out on instinct alone. His head was pounding and his stomach tight. The kind of tightness that comes when you know you’ve already lost too much. He hated himself for caring so much about this stupid kid. 

He kept thinking about the way Pony had been all week. Quiet. Jumpier than usual. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Then he saw it.

The bike. Half-twisted in a ditch, chrome glinting under the moonlight.

Dally braked hard, heart in his throat.

He gritted his teeth, “Shit.”

The wreck was bad. Not fatal, but bad. The headlight was out, the handlebars bent, the front tire twisted sideways. The engine ticked like it was still trying to cool off.

Dally jumped off his own bike and ran.

“Ponyboy!”

Nothing.

He scanned the brush and gravel in the darkness, breath catching.

There. A shape, half-curled at the edge of the ditch. Small. Still.

He was on his knees beside him in a heartbeat.

“Pony—hey. You hear me?”

A soft sound. A hitch of breath.

Then, “…Dally?”

Relief hit Dally so hard he nearly sank back on his heels. “Yeah, kid. I got you. Shit, what the hell—”

Pony shifted, just barely. His face was streaked with dirt and blood, his ribs heaving too shallow. His arm was at a weird angle and his jeans were torn to hell.

“Didn’t… mean to wreck it,” he slurred. “Just had to go.”

Dally’s hands hovered over him. “You’re alright. You’re alright now. Try not to move.”

“He was at the house,” Pony mumbled. “He left a note. Said he changed.”

Dally closed his eyes for half a second. “Yeah. We found it.”

“I wanted to believe it,” Pony whispered. “God, I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Dally said, sharper than he meant to. “You just wanted something real. That don’t make you dumb.”

Pony coughed and grimaced. “He hit me.”

“I figured.”

“I hit back this time.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Dally’s mouth. “Atta boy.”

He went silent again, eyes closing again as Dallas shook him back awake, “Come on kid talk to me”

“I thought maybe… I thought maybe I deserved it.”

Dally’s hands stilled.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

Pony looked away. “He said they’d get tired of me. The gang. That they didn’t really want me.”

“Well, he’s a goddamn liar,” Dally snapped. “You got more people in your corner than he’s had in his whole damn life. You hear me?”

Pony didn’t speak. Just let his head fall sideways against Dally’s arm, like that was all he had the energy for.

Dally stood slowly, lifting him like he was made of glass. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

As he carried him back to his own bike, the stars started coming out overhead. Quiet and cold.

“You think they’ll be mad?” Pony asked, half-conscious now.

“They’ll be worried sick.”

“I didn’t mean to wreck it.”

“I know.”

“I just didn’t know where else to go.”

“You went far enough,” Dally said. “Now let me bring you back.”

And he did.

———————————

The door creaked open first—slow and tired.

Soda stepped in, head down, wiping sweat off his brow. Steve and Two-Bit followed behind, silent for once, their usual jokes dead on their tongues.

“No sign of him,” Soda said grimly, shutting the door behind them. “We checked the track, the lot, even Buck’s.”

Darry was already on his feet, keys in hand, jacket half-shrugged on. His eyes were sharp and full of a panic he hadn’t let show until now.

“You’re just now gettin’ back?” he asked. “You were supposed to check in an hour ago.”

Steve shook his head. “We thought maybe he’d show. We didn’t want to come back empty-handed, but…”

“He’s not out there,” Two-Bit said. “Or if he is, he ain’t where we looked.”

Darry’s jaw flexed. “Then I’ll go. I’ll take the back roads—”

The sound of tires in the gravel cut him off. A second later, headlights slashed across the living room curtains.

Someone was here.

They all turned.

Then the door flung open—and Dallas charged in, carrying a bloody, half-conscious Ponyboy in his arms.

Nobody moved.

The world seemed to stop breathing.

“What the hell—” Darry’s voice broke off as Dally pushed past him and gently laid Pony on the couch.

“Move,” he barked, pushing past Soda and straight to the cushions. He lowered Pony down as carefully as he could, but his jaw was locked and his hands were shaking.

Soda dropped to his knees beside the couch, hands fluttering uselessly before he dared touch Pony’s face. “Pony?”

“He’s out cold,” Dally said. “Bike’s done for. Kid’s got a busted arm, a hell of a hit to the ribs, and probably a concussion.”

“Where did you find him?” Darry’s voice was like gravel.

“Down by the old gravel curve near the underpass,” Dally muttered. “Wiped out hard. Bike’s totaled. He’s lucky he didn’t die.”

“He didn’t have his helmet,” Two-Bit said, like the whole night just hit him all over again.

“Nope,” Dally said. “Didn’t have much of anything.”

“Anyone hear from Johnny?” Dallas added, remembering he was supposed to be at the track too.

“Kid said something about dropping by his house before we went to the track. Said not to expect him till tonight or tomorrow,” Two-Bit said. The whole room got tenser — whenever Johnny went home, it never ended well.

Darry rubbed a hand over his face and sighed, looking down at Pony’s bruised face then back to Dally. “The uncle?”

Dally gave a sharp nod. “He came back. Pony must’ve tried to stop him. Fought him off, got hit hard, then bolted. No sign of the bastard since.”

Steve stood up, fists clenched. “We have to do something. That bastard came onto our property and put his hands on a kid.”

Two-Bit stood near the window, staring into the dark like he might see the uncle walking up the path at any given second. “We should go to the cops.”

“And what?” Soda snapped. “Let CPS take him again? You know what happened last time. They don’t give a damn.”

There was silence.

Then Darry said, “Then we take care of it.”

All eyes turned to him.

“What do you mean, ‘take care of it’?” Two-Bit asked, but his voice didn’t sound surprised.

“I mean we go to him,” Darry said. “We make sure he understands what happens if he shows up again.”

Steve cracked his knuckles. “I'm in.”

“Yeah,” Soda said, low. “Me too.”

Dally gave a slow nod. “You wanna scare him? I can do worse than scare.”

“No,” Darry said, firm. “We don’t do nothin’ we can’t walk away from.”

“But we sure as hell let him know,” Soda muttered.

Dally’s voice dropped. “We do this smart. He doesn’t call the cops. He doesn’t talk. He just… disappears from Pony’s life. For good.”

Two-Bit looked down at Pony’s bruised face and swore under his breath. “Let’s go.”

Darry tossed Steve the keys. “We’ll be back in an hour. Maybe two.”

Soda hesitated at Ponyboy’s side.

“I’ll stay,” he said finally, brushing a hand through Pony’s sweat-damp hair. “I make sure he’s okay and wait around for Johnny to show up.”

Darry nodded once. “Call if anything changes.”

Then they were out the door.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open soft.

Johnny stepped in slow, like he already knew something was wrong. The Curtis house was never quiet like this. The house was dark, except for the yellow lamplight glowing low from the living room. He had one arm curled around his ribs and dried blood under his nose that he hadn’t bothered to clean off. His clothes were damp from the street and he looked smaller than usual.

“Soda?” he called, quiet.

No answer. Just a stillness that set his teeth on edge.

Then he stepped farther in, and saw the couch.

Johnny froze.

Soda sat there with Ponyboy, who was laid out like he’d been dropped from a two story building. Blood in his hair. Bruises blooming like ink down his neck and arms. His breathing was shallow, uneven, every rise of his chest a struggle.

“Soda,” Johnny said again, louder this time. “What—what happened to him?”

Soda stood from where he’d been crouched beside the couch. His face was drawn tight, looking pale and worse for wear.

“Johnny. Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

“No,” Johnny said, voice cracking. “What happened to him?”

“He’s breathing. That’s what matters right now.”

“That—?” Johnny took two steps forward and dropped to his knees beside the couch. “Did the Socs do this? There’s no way… That’s not just hurt. He looks—he looks bad, like really bad.”

“He is,” Soda said quietly. “Dally found him.”

Johnny’s head snapped up. “What do you mean, found?”

Soda ran a hand through his hair. “He disappeared earlier. There was no sign of him at the track, when we came back there was blood on the porch and we figured something was wrong. We were all looking for him, checked practically the entire town… Dally finally spotted his bike ditched near the underpass.”

Johnny blinked, trying to keep up. “I don’t understand. What was he doing out there? Why didn’t he wait for me?”

Soda hesitated, “There was a note. From his uncle.”

Johnny’s mouth went dry.

“He came by the house,” Soda continued, voice low. “Left a note saying he’d changed. Said he wanted to talk.”

“No.” Johnny’s voice dropped. “No way.”

“Pony must’ve let him in or something,” Soda said. “Didn’t tell nobody. Dally said he thought maybe it’d be different this time with his uncle.”

“But it never is,” Johnny whispered.

“No. It never is.”

They both went quiet.

Johnny looked down at Pony again. His arm was twisted bad, cradled against his chest like even in sleep it hurt too much to move. His face looked wrong—swollen around the eye, lip split, dried blood still crusted along his temple. Every inch of him looked like it’d been paid for in pain.

“He was waiting for me,” Johnny said softly. “I told him I would try to stop by before he headed to the track, but then my dad—” He broke off, jaw locking. “I didn’t get to come. I should’ve come.”

“None of this is your fault,” Soda said. “Don’t start with that.”

“He might’ve waited. For me.”

“He didn’t wait. He ran.”

Johnny’s breath hitched.

There was silence for a long minute. The only sound was the tick of the wall clock and Ponyboy’s ragged breathing.

Then Soda spoke quieter than before, “You ever seen bruising like this come on so fast?”

Johnny shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Me neither.”

He lifted Pony’s shirt just an inch, revealing a mottled patch of deep purple and red stretching down his side. Johnny winced.

“I think somethin’s broken,” Soda murmured. “I think more than just his arm.”

“You call a doc?”

Soda hesitated. “Darry said wait. Just a bit. He didn’t want any questions while they’re handling it.”

Johnny nodded like he understood—but his jaw was tight.

“Should we move him?”

“No. Not unless we have to. He came to a couple times, said his head feels like it’s splittin’ open. I don’t like it.”

They both looked down at him again.

“You got ice?” Johnny asked, not looking away.

“Yeah. In the freezer.”

“Get some. I’ll sit with him.”

Soda nodded once and disappeared into the kitchen. Johnny stayed right where he was, crouched beside Pony, holding his hand like it was a lifeline.

“I’m here now,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I shoulda been here sooner.”

Outside, thunder rumbled far off. A storm was coming.

And Pony didn’t stir.

—————————-

The clock ticked past 1 am. Johnny sat cross-legged by the couch, one hand pressed lightly to Ponyboy’s forehead, like he could will the fever down with sheer focus.

”Any sign of ‘em yet? They were supposed to be back by now, they said they’d be back” Johnny had a manic tilt to his voice, looking at Soda with desperation.

Soda stood camped out near the front window, watching the road for headlights that weren’t there. “Yeah Johnnycakes, they’ll be here any minute" but for once even Soda couldn’t be comforting, not with the way his eyes frantically scanned the street, or with his nervous glances towards Pony.  

“He’s getting worse,” Johnny said, for the third time that hour. “Like—real worse.”

Soda didn’t answer. He stood by the kitchen table, eyes locked on the window.

“He was kind of talkin’ before. Now he’s just—quiet.” Johnny looked up. “That ain’t normal, Soda. You know that ain’t normal.”

Soda rubbed the back of his neck, like the pressure was starting to crush him. “I know. They’ll be back soon.” This back and forth felt like they were talking in circles, repeating the same mantra and willing Soda to be right. “If they aren’t back in 10 minutes we’ll take him ourselves, ‘kay”

“I don’t care about them, I care about him.” Johnny's voice cracked. “What if he’s got bleeding inside? Or he’s way worse off than we think?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, tires on gravel.

—————-

Darry’s truck roared into the drive and cut the lights. Four doors slammed. The guys poured out, fast and loose-limbed like they were still riding the tail-end of a fight.

Darry had blood on his knuckles.

Steve looked half-wild, one eye already bruising.

Two-Bit’s lip was split, grinning like he’d just gotten away with something awful.

Dallas was stone-silent, but his fists were red.

“Where is he?” Darry barked the second the door opened.

Johnny pointed to the couch without a word.

There Pony was, curled tight under the blanket, flushed deep and wrong. Sweat clinged to his forehead. His mouth moved like he was trying to say something, but no sound came out. His arm was visibly swelling now, skin stretched tight, fingertips purple at the edges.

Dallas went still.

His whole body changed—adrenaline turned to acid.

“…Shit,” he said.

Soda moved quick, crouched beside the couch again. “Hey—Pony. Hey, we’re all here now, alright? You’re okay.”

Pony’s eyes fluttered, unfocused.

Then he whispered, broken and hoarse: “Steve gonna be mad?”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“Bike’s done,” Pony slurred. “We worked so hard on it…”

“Kid,” Steve said, voice suddenly raw. “I don’t give a shit about the bike.”

Pony swallowed hard. “Dallas—?”

Dally frowned, his usual cold stare now looked angry.

“I told him I’d try to be more careful,” Pony mumbled. “I—I messed it up. I crashed it.”

“You didn’t mess up a damn thing,” Dally said, kneeling now, voice sharp and strangled. “Forget the bike. You hear me? Forget it.”

Johnny looked between them, eyes wide. “We shoulda taken him sooner. I said he was worse.”

Darry was already moving. “Get the truck. Now.”

Two-Bit didn’t even hesitate. Bolted out the door, looking sick.

Darry grabbed the blanket and helped steady Pony’s busted arm against his chest.

Soda hovered nervously like he expected his brother to drop Pony.

Dally didn’t move.

He just stood there, staring at Pony’s swollen fingers and purple lips and shallow breaths.

“We shouldn’t’ve gone,” he said quietly. “We should’ve waited. Made sure he was alright, shit I mean I knew he didn’t look good but the kid always bounces back.”

“You didn’t know,” Johnny said, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

Dally blinked like he was dragging himself back to the present. “He said anything else?”

Johnny hesitated. “He was scared. Not just from the crash. From what his uncle said.”

Darry’s voice was steel. “He won’t say anything else. We made sure.”

Soda finally looked up. “What did you do?”

Darry didn’t answer right away. He just carried Pony, cradling him like glass.

“Let’s just say he won’t be comin’ back. Not here. Not anywhere near him.”

Steve cracked his knuckles and gave a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Guy’s lucky we didn’t bury him in the lot.”

Dally stood slow, still pale. “Lucky he’s still breathing.”

After everyone piled into the truck, Two-bit swerved out of the neighborhood and blew through stop signs. For such a rowdy group, everyone was completely silent for once.

They were too busy holding their breath.

With Two-Bit behind the wheel and no one else out on the roads due to the odd hour, it wasn’t long before he was skidding into the hospital's parking lot. 

Dallas was quick to grab Pony, being the most attentive and gentle the gang had ever seen him. If the circumstances were different they definitely would have teased him, but the steaks were too high that night. 

He slammed open the doors like the world was ending.

After Dally burst in first, the nurse at the front desk wearily watched the whole gang of greasers as they piled in. It was obvious when she spotted Pony in Dallas arms, who looked dead weight, becuase her face went from annoyed to alarmed in seconds. Pony's face was pale and glossy with sweat, lips cracked and dusted with dried blood. His arm somehow looked worse than before, and it was clear his ribs were working too hard with every shallow breath.

A nurse shot to her feet. “What happened?”

“Wreck,” Dally snapped. “He’s hurt bad—arm, ribs, head—get someone now.”

They rushed in like a wave, pulling Pony from Dally’s arms. The kid let out a broken, choked sound when they moved him, like everything hurt at once.

Steve and Soda were right behind, wide-eyed, dirt still on their clothes, knuckles scraped raw. Two-Bit hovered by the door, jittery. Johnny looked smaller than he did before. Darry looked like he was made of stone, jaw locked, shoulders squared, his hand still clenched from earlier — from what they did.

“You family?” the nurse asked.

Darry stepped forward fast. “Yeah.”

The nurse eyed the rest of them suspiciously. “And the rest of you?”

Soda said quietly, “We’re who’s got him.”

The nurse gave them a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Mmhm. Y’all take a seat for now. I’m not sure how long they’ll be.”

So they sat.

The waiting room was too quiet, too clean, too cold. The kind of place that makes you feel like you’re already in trouble. The vinyl chairs squeaked when they shifted, and the clock on the wall ticked slow and mean. None of them said much. They didn’t have to.

30 minutes ticked by.

The fluorescent lights buzzed low and steady, casting everything in a tired sort of yellow. The plastic chairs were too cold. Too hard. They sat scattered around the waiting room like a bomb had gone off and left them where they landed. None of them spoke much.

The clock ticked on, slow and merciless. Another thirty minutes gone.

Soda was jittery, foot bouncing, fingers tapping against his knee in quick, anxious bursts. “They shoulda been able to tell us about him by now,” he muttered under his breath.

“They never gave us a timeline idiot,” Steve said, not even bothering to lift his head.

Johnny sat curled in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his middle. Two-Bit was unusually still, fiddling with his lighter. Dally stood, arms crossed and jaw tight, pacing a short line by the wall like a caged animal.

Steve sat slouched with his head against the wall, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, but his fingers tapped against his leg without stopping. The whole waiting room echoed with soft beeps and distant announcements, and every time a nurse walked by, they all looked up like dogs waiting for bad news.

Darry hadn’t moved since they sat down. He was the only one who looked like he belonged in a place like this—back straight, hands folded, like he was waiting for a meeting. But the muscle in his jaw ticked every few seconds, like something barely held in check.

After a while, a nurse came out. Not the one from earlier. This one looked worn thin—maybe from the night shift, maybe from kids like them.

She glanced at the group and cleared her throat. “We’re looking for immediate family for the boy who was brought in.”

They all stood at once, like a reflex.

Her eyes narrowed. “I said family.”

Darry stepped forward. “He ain’t got any.”

She gave him a look, the kind they were all used to—skeptical, cautious. “Then who’s responsible for him?”

Darry didn’t miss a beat. “We are.”

She blinked. “Legally?”

“No,” Darry said calmly. “But we’re all he has. So if you’re waiting for someone else—” he nodded toward the hallway— “you’re waiting for someone who isn’t gonna come.”

There was a long pause. Dally had gone still behind him, like a bomb waiting for the fuse. Steve looked ready to argue. Johnny looked like he might fold in half.

But Darry didn’t flinch. He just held the nurse’s gaze, steady and quiet and dead serious.

Something in her softened. Just a flicker, but enough.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She turned and disappeared behind the doors.

The second she was gone, the air in the room collapsed.

“Jesus,” Steve breathed out, rubbing his hands over his face. “This is—this is hell, man.”

Dally didn’t say anything. He was pacing, too fast for the small room, hands running through his hair again and again like he could pull the guilt right out of his skull.

He finally barked, “We shouldn’t’ve left him.”

Soda’s head jerked up. “We didn’t know he was that bad off.”

“Don’t matter,” Dally snapped. “We should’ve. I should’ve.”

Two-Bit rubbed at his eyes. “We thought we had time.”

“Yeah? Well, we didn’t,” Dally said. His voice cracked halfway through it, and he turned away fast.

Darry finally spoke, voice rough. “We were too busy being angry.”

Steve stared at the scuffed linoleum floor. “We were still mad when we showed up. Didn’t even wait for the bastard to open his mouth.”

“Wouldn’t change what I did,” Darry said.

Johnny broke his trance and spoke up. “What’d you do?”

Darry didn’t answer right away. “Told him if he ever touched Pony again, he wouldn’t walk away next time.”

“He believe you?” Soda asked.

“He did. And I'm always happy to remind him.”

No one said anything after that. It was like they were all back in the car again, watching Pony's head loll against the window, every bump in the road jarring something loose inside him.

Johnny swallowed hard. “You think they’ll let us see him?”

“They better,” Darry said, still standing, still calm. “Or I’m not leaving.”

———————

The minutes dragged. They all sat locked in the same silence, everyone too exhausted to be restless anymore. Even Dally had stopped pacing—just stood there by the window, arms folded tight, chewing the inside of his cheek like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Then the door creaked open.

Same nurse, looking even more tired than before. But something in her face had shifted.

They all looked up at once.

She hesitated a moment, eyes scanning them again—like she was still trying to figure out who they were to this kid, and why it mattered so much.

“I spoke to the attending,” she said, voice quieter than before. “Told him the boy didn’t have any listed family besides his uncle who wouldn’t answer. That he was brought in by a group who wouldn’t leave,”

Her eyes landed on Darry, then drifted over the rest of them. “He said it’s not standard procedure, but under the circumstances... he’d make an exception.”

“Thank you miss” Darry breathed out, relieved. The entire room felt a little lighter, like a weight had been lifted.

She glanced at her clipboard. “He’s stable.”

“He’s got a mild concussion, four fractured ribs, a fractured arm we were able to reset, and signs of prolonged malnourishment and dehydration,” she went on, her tone professional, but not unkind. “There was a lot of bruising—some old, some fresh. But he’s awake. And asking questions.” The nurse’s expression softened just a little. “He asked for someone named Dallas.”

Dally blinked like he didn’t quite hear her. His jaw tensed.

“I can take you to see him,” she said. “Just you, for now. We’ve got to keep it quiet.”

No one argued. Not even Steve for once.

Dally stepped forward slowly, like his boots weighed more than they used to. He didn’t look at any of them. Just gave the smallest nod, then followed her through the double doors.

And as they disappeared down the hallway, Soda muttered, “Course he asked for Dallas.”

Two-Bit gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “Kid’s got his priorities all outta whack.”

Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “That little shit. After all that course he still worships Winston.”

But Johnny just gave a crooked little smile—like hearing Pony was asking for Dallas made perfect sense.

Chapter Text

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and something colder—metallic. Dally followed the nurse down the narrow corridor, boots echoing too loud on the scuffed floor. Every fluorescent light flickered like it wanted to quit. It reminded him of juvie. Of places where pain got pushed behind white walls and numbers.

He hated hospitals.

The nurse stopped outside a closed door.

“He’s a little out of it,” she said, voice softer now. “But he’s been asking for you since he woke up. You’ve got ten minutes.”

Dally nodded. 

She opened the door, then left him.

Inside, the room was dim. Quiet. A small beep echoed from the monitor, slow and steady.

Ponyboy looked even smaller in the hospital bed than he had on the couch. His arm was in a cast, strapped against his chest, an IV in the other. His cheek was puffy, one eye swollen half-shut. Tubes in his nose for oxygen. The bruises on his ribs peeked from the loose edge of the gown.

But he was awake.

Barely.

“Hey, kid,” Dally said, stepping in.

Pony blinked at him slowly. One corner of his mouth tugged up in a tired, lopsided grin.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice shredded from crying, pain, or both.

“You look like hell.”

“You should see the other guy.”

Dally barked a laugh despite himself and pulled the chair up to the bed, sitting hard.

“You scared the shit outta us,” he said. “I thought I was picking up a busted bike, not a busted-up kid.”

Pony’s hand twitched on the blanket like he wanted to shrug.

“I didn’t mean to crash,” he murmured. “Just... couldn’t stay. Not after he showed up.”

“I know.” Dally looked down at his hands. “You did good gettin’ away.”

Pony's eyes flickered. “You came for me.”

“Course I did.”

“You were mad.”

“Still came.”

Pony blinked hard. “You hurt?”

Dally looked surprised. “What?”

“Your hand. You’re always hittin’ stuff when you’re mad.”

Dally looked down at the red scrapes across his knuckles. “Not my blood, kid.”

Pony’s eyes fluttered, then drifted toward the wall. “Good.”

A silence stretched. The beep of the monitor pulsed between them.

Then Dally said, quieter: “He ain’t comin’ back.”

Pony didn’t answer. Just let out a shuddering breath.

“I mean it,” Dally said. “We made sure. That man even breathes in your direction again, he’ll be beggin’ for jail.”

“You didn’t... kill him?”

Dally smirked faintly. “Nah. Darry said no bodies. Ruins the carpet.”

That pulled a real smile from Pony, even if it was barely there.

He looked back at Dally. “You mad about the bike?”

“Kid, I’d trade ten bikes if it meant you stayed breathing.”

Pony’s throat worked. He blinked like he didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“…Thanks,” he whispered.

Dally leaned back in the chair, folding his arms, like maybe that’d keep the weight in his chest from caving him in.

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “The whole—talkin’. Feelin’ stuff.”

“Me neither, but I’d say you’re doin’ fine,” Ponyboy said, voice faint but steady.

They sat in silence a little while longer. It wasn’t comfortable—but it wasn’t bad, either.

Just real.

When the nurse came back in, Dally stood up slowly, looked at Pony like he didn’t want to leave.

“We’ll be right outside, alright? All of us. You just gotta get better now. That's your only job.”

Pony gave the smallest nod and a soft smile.

Dally lingered for a second.

Then he turned and walked out, fists clenched tight.

———————

The door shut behind Dally with a soft click.

The rest of the gang shot up from their seats the second he reappeared in the waiting room.

“Well?” Steve demanded, already halfway to him.

Dally didn’t answer right away. Just rubbed the back of his neck and said, “He’s awake. Talkin’. Loopy, but he’s still in there.”

Relief cracked through the room like thunder. Shoulders sagged.

“Can we see him?” Soda asked, already stepping forward.

Dally shrugged. “Nurse didn’t say no. Just said to keep it quiet. I’d go in one at a time so she doesn't boot us.”

“I’m next,” Soda said, getting up so fast that he didn’t hear the arguing behind him. 

He slipped into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

Inside, Pony stirred again at the sound. His eyes were half-lidded, skin pale against the stark white of the hospital pillow. The oxygen tube shifted slightly when he turned toward the noise.

“Soda?” he mumbled, voice small.

“Yeah, bud,” Soda said gently, crossing the room in three steps. “Yeah, I’m right here.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle anything.

“You look awful,” he whispered, but his voice broke halfway through.

“Feel worse,” Pony said, trying to smile.

Soda reached out and gently pushed the hair back from Pony’s damp forehead. “You scared the hell outta me, kid.”

“Didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

Silence, soft and heavy.

“I thought maybe… if I talked to him… it’d fix something,” Pony said after a while, eyes drifting toward the wall.

Soda’s heart twisted. “You don’t gotta fix what he broke, Pone. That ain’t your job.”

Pony didn’t answer. He just blinked slow and wiped at his eye with the back of one shaking hand.

Soda curled his fingers around that hand. “We’re gonna get you through this, alright? Not just the bones and bruises—the rest too.”

Pony nodded faintly. It was all he could do.

Soda sat there until the nurse knocked gently and cracked the door. “Young man, there’s a bit of commotion out there. I think it’d be best if you wrapped out with someone.” she whispered.

Soda smiled at the laugh Pony barked out, then quickly clutched his ribs.

”Easy there kid, if you get worse they won't get the chance to see you. I’m worried that Two-bits gonna light this place on fire if he doesn't get a turn soon”

—

Per Darry's advice, Johnny was the least rowdy of them all so he went in next. Darry also knew how Johnny somehow blamed himself for this, and the only person he would listen to was Pony. 

Johnny crept in like he was afraid to break something.

Pony stirred again. “Johnny?”

Johnny nodded fast. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Pony’s voice was rough. “You came.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. At the house I mean. I shoulda been.”

“Not your fault.”

Johnny shook his head. “Still feels like it.”

They sat in silence for a long time. Johnny didn’t know what to say. So he just held Pony’s good hand and let it shake in his grip.

“I’m here now,” Johnny whispered. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Pony’s breathing eased a little.

That was enough.

—

Johnny left after Pony had fallen asleep and the gang 

Steve went in next. He didn’t say much at first. Just stared.

Pony cracked one eye open. “Hey.”

“You little shit,” Steve said, voice cracking. “You scared me.”

Pony tried to laugh, but it came out a wheeze. “Sorry.”

Steve scrubbed at his face. “I don’t care about the bike. You know that, right?”

“You did.”

“I didn’t. Not really. I just… I get loud. You know that.”

Pony nodded. “I get it.”

Steve pulled up a chair but couldn’t sit. He just stood with one hand on the back of it, like if he let go, he might break.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said again, quieter this time.

“I didn’t want to.”

“I know.”

—

Two-Bit was next.

He tried to joke. Something about the hospital gown making Pony look like a ghost on vacation. But when Pony looked at him—really looked—he went quiet.

“You ain’t gotta be funny,” Pony whispered. “Not right now.”

Two-Bit sat down hard in the chair, face serious in a way that didn’t fit right on him.

“You know we’d kill for you, right?” he asked suddenly.

Pony blinked. “I know.”

“Good. Just wanted to make sure.”

And that was that.

—

Darry came in last.

He stood at the foot of the bed for a long time, not saying anything.

“I’m sorry,” Pony said first. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Darry said, voice thick. “You… you just about killed me, but you didn’t scare me.”

Pony’s eyes watered slightly. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did the best you could,” Darry said. “You always do.”

“I thought you’d be mad.”

Darry shook his head. “Never. Not about this. Not about you tryin’ to protect yourself.”

There was a pause.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Darry added. “Even now. Especially now.”

After months of trying to prove how tough he was and how he didn’t need anyone, Pony finally broke.

He cried hard, tears leaking sideways across his temple, eyes squeezed shut.

Darry pulled a tissue from the box beside the bed and wiped them away, gentle as anything.

“You're gonna be okay,” he said. “I promise you.”

Ponyboy didn’t answer. He just squeezed his brother’s hand and didn’t let go.

—————————

It was two days before the hospital let him go.

They said he was stable. That the concussion was being watched. That the fractures were healing fine. That he’d need help doing basic stuff, maybe even walking for a while. That he should be kept calm, safe, rested.

What they didn’t say was who would take him. Because none of them were technically family.

But Darry had stared the discharge nurse down with that same steel-eyed calm he’d used before. When she asked if they had legal guardianship, he didn’t even blink.

“He’s not going into the system,” he said. “You send him with anyone else, and he’ll run right back to us. You want him safe? Let us take him home.”

Dallas didn’t say anything, but he stood behind Darry like a shadow, all coiled muscle and threat. The kind that made people stop asking questions.

So they let him go.

————

authors note: hey so i know this is an unrealistic representation of how the system works / the hospital wouldn’t let a random group of teenagers take a kid that wasn’t related to them, but a bitch is tried so humor me for a minute and pretend this makes sense. Love you guys 🥀

————

The nurse had tried to offer a wheelchair, but Pony had shaken his head, stubborn even now.

“I’m walking.” he’d stated.

Dallas rolled his eyes ”Course you are.”

Throughout Pony's protest and a couple mild threats, Darry had wrapped an arm around him, Dallas had steadied his good side, and between the two of them, they helped him shuffle to the truck.

The others were waiting just outside the doors—Steve and Soda leaning against the truck, Johnny hovering close like a second shadow, Two-Bit awkwardly wringing his hands.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Soda asked, watching Pony ease into the seat.

Pony just nodded, though his face was tight with pain. “I just wanna go home.”

And for once, no one corrected him.

—————————

It was quiet on the drive back. The kind of quiet that felt full, not empty. Dally drove, uncharacteristically careful. Darry rode shotgun, glancing back at Pony every five minutes like he couldn’t help himself.

Pony leaned against the door with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and Johnny beside him, trying to keep him upright.

The closer they got, the more it started to feel real. The porch. The soft sag of the roof. The creak in the stairs. It wasn’t fancy, and it wasn’t big—but it was the only place that ever felt safe.

Home.

When they pulled into the drive, Pony’s eyes went glassy. He didn’t say anything. Just stared at the house like it was the last star in the sky.

“I gotcha,” Dally said softly, coming around to help him out. “Don’t try and bite me this time. It won't end well for you.”

Darry was already unlocking the door, pushing it open wide.

Inside, someone had tidied—blankets on the couch, pillows fluffed, floor swept. It didn’t erase the dried patch of blood still faint on the porch or the cracked picture frame near the wall.

Pony paused in the doorway, swaying just a little.

“You alright?” Soda asked, hovering again.

“Yeah,” Pony said, voice paper thin. “I just—I forgot how much it smells like y’all in here.”

Two-Bit snorted. “What, like old shoes and grease?”

“Nah, kinda like home,” Pony mumbled, and that shut everybody up.

They helped him to the couch. Johnny brought a pillow. Soda tucked the blanket around him again. Steve put a glass of water on the coffee table and pretended not to stare too long at the bruises on Pony’s neck.

Pony sank into the cushions and let out a soft breath. His whole body sagged like he’d finally stopped fighting gravity.

“Nice to have ya back where you belong,” Darry said gently, crouching in front of him. “You hear me? You’re safe.”

“I know,” Pony whispered. “I just… I thought maybe after all this, I’d feel more different. Like maybe I’d be somebody else.”

Darry shook his head. “You’re you, Ponyboy. That’s all you ever gotta be.”

“But I’m not even—” He stopped himself.

Not even your blood.

The words didn’t need to be said.

“We know,” Dallas said suddenly. “You think we care?”

“You’re ours,” Johnny said quietly from the armrest.

“Yeah, idiot,” Steve added, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it lightly at Pony’s legs. “You think blood’s what makes a family?”

Two-Bit leaned over and grinned. “If it was, I’d be stuck with my second cousin Earl, and that guy eats paper towels for fun.”

Pony smiled, just barely.

Soda dropped onto the couch beside him and threw an arm around his shoulders. “We picked you, that’s a hell of a lot stronger than blood.”

Pony leaned into him a little, eyes wet. “I didn’t think anybody’d want to.”

“We do,” Darry said. “We always have.”

“And we’ll keep wantin’ to,” Dally muttered, flopping down in the armchair like it hurt to admit how much he meant it. It had always been weird to Pony, how Dallas could just read his mind sometimes. He didn’t realize how similar they were, even if it didn’t seem like it on the surface level.

There was a long, soft pause.

Then Pony asked, “So what happens now?”

“You rest,” Darry said. “You heal.”

“And after that?”

Steve cracked a grin. “After that, we rebuild the damn bike. Only next time, we weld the helmet to your head.”

Soda laughed, and Two-Bit started arguing about color schemes. Johnny leaned his head on Pony’s knee and closed his eyes like he could finally sleep.

And Ponyboy… smiled. 

He was still hurting.

But he wasn’t alone, surrounded by his gang, and he wouldn’t have to worry about that ever again.

Chapter Text

The air buzzed with the sound of revving engines, fried food, and shouted bets. The local Friday night races had a way of pulling the whole town in, like moths to the grease-and-gasoline flame.

And right in the thick of it, sitting on the back of Steve’s rebuilt Honda, was Ponyboy Curtis—helmet buckled, jacket zipped, smile tugging at his mouth like he was trying not to look too proud.

“You sure about this?” Darry asked, arms crossed, brows furrowed—but not in the way that meant no. Just please be careful.

“I’ve been cleared for weeks,” Pony said, nudging the visor down. “I’m good. Promise.”

“He’s been practicing with me,” Steve added from the sidelines, puffed up like a proud older brother. 

“Kid’s got control now. Doesn’t cut corners. Stays smart.”

“Rides boring,” Dallas muttered, squinting at the track like it personally offended him. “But I guess I’ll allow it.”

“He’s riding safe,” Johnny corrected, tossing a bag of peanuts from hand to hand. “Not boring. Smart.”

Two-Bit waved a foam finger he definitely stole from somewhere. “Let the boy race! He’s earned it!”

Pony looked around at them—this gang of brothers who weren’t his blood but still showed up. Every. Time.

Soda threw an arm around him, grinning wide. “You win this, we’re hittin’ Dairy Queen and you get first pick. Even if you choose something weird like… lime.”

“I like lime,” Pony muttered.

“We know,” Steve said, grimacing.

Dally gave him one last once-over, then reached out and adjusted his helmet chin strap just slightly, like he couldn’t help it. “Remember what I told you.”

“Throttle easy. Eyes on the curve. Breathe.”

“Exactly.”

“Thanks, Dally.”

Dallas didn’t say anything, but his hand gave one sharp pat to Pony’s shoulder before he stepped back.

The starter called out.

Engines roared.

Pony revved the bike once, then gave them all a salute-like wave before speeding toward the start line. He didn’t gun it too early. He waited, like he’d practiced. Like he wasn’t scared anymore, but smart. Stronger. Steadier.

The flag dropped.

He took off like a shot—but not wild. Not reckless. He rode like he knew the track. Like he respected it. No skids. No stupid stunts. Just good clean lines, tight curves, solid speed.

The gang screamed themselves hoarse.

Soda jumped up and down like a kid.

Steve was half-hugging Johnny and half-punching the air.

Two-Bit had climbed on someone’s truck bed to get a better view, waving that ridiculous foam finger the whole time.

Dally didn’t yell. He just watched—hands in his pockets, jaw tight, eyes locked on every turn like he was waiting for the kid to mess up.

But he didn’t.

Ponyboy held the lead tight through the last lap. Didn’t even let the other guy get close enough to draft him. When he crossed the finish line, he didn’t throw his arms up. Didn’t skid or showboat.

He just breathed.

When he pulled back into the lot, helmet off, face flushed and bright with wind and victory—the gang swarmed him.

“Kid, you were flying!”

“You made that turn like butter!”

“I thought I was gonna puke and cry at the same time!”

Pony laughed as they all crushed him into a group hug. Darry just ruffled his hair, Soda shouted “CHAMP!” loud enough for the entire town, and even Dally gave a short nod, but anyone who knew him could tell he was proud.

“I rode smart,” Pony said, voice almost smug.

“Damn right you did,” Steve said, clapping his back. “But still fast as hell.”

“Didn’t even lay it down once,” Johnny said. “Told you you could do it.”

Pony was still catching his breath when he caught sight of two familiar figures lingering near the fence.

Curly Shepard leaned against a post, arms folded, that signature smirk on his face. His black eye from a recent fight was still healing, but he looked impressed.

Next to him, Tim gave a low whistle and nodded once. “Not bad, Davis. Or Curtis. Or Winston. Or whatever the hell you go by these days.”

Curly pushed off the fence. “Didn’t think you had it in you, man. Last time I saw you on a bike you nearly wiped out tryin’ to dodge a squirrel.”

Pony snorted. “That squirrel came outta nowhere.”

Tim’s smirk twitched wider. “You kept your head. You didn’t ride reckless. Ill be honest I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Didn’t have to,” Pony said, glancing back at the gang with a crooked grin. “Had half the town behind me.”

Curly bumped his shoulder lightly. “Good race. For an idiot.”

“For a Shepard, you’re almost nice today.”

Tim laughed low in his throat. “C’mon, Curly. Let the kid celebrate.”

They faded back toward the crowd again, just far enough to give him space—but they didn’t leave.

And Pony felt that in his chest, just as much as everything else.

Pony smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.

For the first time in a long time, the night didn’t feel heavy. There were no bruises beneath his shirt, no fear in his gut, no shadows trailing him home.

Just the rumble of engines, the laughter of brothers, and the freedom of knowing—

He’d made it.