Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

December 13th, 1965. Somewhere along Route 66.

Ponyboy wished he had a definitive answer as to why he was tied up and stuffed into the back of someone's trunk, but that would require a typewriter and some paper; it would be impossible to really get out what had happened to him otherwise. One bad night and three more months just like it. Ponyboy wasn't even all that surprised. It was just another terrible thing in a long list of terrible things that happened to him over and over again. Part of him liked to think it was God punishing him for forgetting the frosting that fateful day, effectively killing his parents. Maybe God, like him, had realized that all Ponyboy was good for was getting people killed. Why else would he have nearly gotten Johnny killed with that thoughtless comment about Soc? Or to be left dead by the train tracks? The other part of him thought that God was dead and the Devil had his hooks and strings in him, playing him like a puppet. But what Ponyboy did know was that he was nearly hitting a breaking point. 1965 was proving to be one hell of a year, and he didn’t think know if he could take any more punishment. 

And what he didn't know was that God and the Devil weren’t done with him yet.

But, to digress, the short answer regarding the trunk was this:

Ponyboy had been minding his own damn business walking along the ditch of a secluded highway, reading, when some prick in a Chevy had pulled over and offered him a ride. Ponyboy had said no; he had learned that lesson the hard way. He kept on walking, one hand on the blade he had kept in his waistband. Well, Chevy didn't give him a choice. One second there was a sharp pain across his head, and the next, he was in the trunk of a moving car with his bag and shoes missing.

Just his luck. Ponyboy never really did get a break, did he?

It didn't matter what Chevy wanted from him. Ponyboy had made plenty of enemies and few friends while on the run. Maybe all he wanted was to turn him in; Ponyboy knew that he had been on the news for the first weeks that he had been on the lam. His face had been printed in the newspapers – Tulsa boy, 14, missing after brutal attack. Ponyboy had promptly thrown it away, unable to read any further. He knew the cops were after him, and he didn’t need a newspaper to tell him that. 

Maybe Chevy wanted to rob him, like the man with the missing thumb had back in Denver. Maybe Chevy wanted to kill him. He had heard on the radio a month back about a guy who broke into people’s homes, beat them half to death, stole all their money, and then used the train to make his escape. The only reason they caught him was that one of his victims had a gun, caught him by surprise, and shot him in the heart. Ponyboy was just thankful that the railroads were a safer place.

Maybe Chevy wanted something worse.

It didn't matter why.  Because Ponyboy hoped Chevy knew what he was getting himself into. He wasn't some scared, little runaway. He wasn't a coward. Maybe something had changed in him the night at the fountain, or perhaps he had simply been born that way, but there was something dark and primeval in him. Some savage, red-eyed animal longing to sink its teeth into something, break the muscle, and pull. Ponyboy was a killer, a fighter. He would fight till his last fucking breath.

Ponyboy was prepared to do whatever it took for his survival.

The car had rolled to a stop only a few times during their journey, and not once was the trunk opened. Each time he screamed and kicked and cursed, hoping someone would hear, but no one ever did. He felt foolish for expecting someone to come to his aid and created his escape plan. He had long since worked his wrists bloody and raw out of the ropes and then wriggled out his switch, shocked that Chevy had missed it when he had been picked up. Thankfully, the majority of his right arm was wrapped in thick bandages, so it made it rather easy to slip out of the ropes. The injury there, a long gash from thumb to shoulder, had been a parting gift from the Man in the Red Coat. He didn’t really want to talk about it. Or think about. Or consider the idea that if the Man in the Red Coat hadn’t sliced him up, he might not have been able to slip out of his bonds.

When the car was driving, Ponyboy found himself avoiding sleep and fighting the cramping of his muscles by constantly stretching and flexing, ready to spring out at a moment's notice. He had gripped his blade with white-knuckled fists. He imagined himself stabbing Chevy in the throat and then driving off into the sunset. He had decided that he hated Chevy. He had killed someone before. How hard would it be to do it again?

He had bargained loudly with Chevy, offering anything and everything to just get him to open the damn trunk door. The response was the radio being turned up higher. The most urgent of these demands had been to use the bathroom, which he needed to use, but even that Chevy ignored. 

He didn’t really want to talk about what happened next.

However, even the constant throbbing of the healing wound on his arm was incomparable to the waiting. Ponyboy had felt like he was going insane, trapped in such a tiny space, recycling his oxygen. He was unable to sleep properly; unable to entertain himself. It was his worst nightmare. Ponyboy had sworn to himself that he would never be caught. But here he was, at the mercy of some madman with unknown intentions. Maybe he was going insane. All he wanted was for Chevy to get whatever he wanted over and done with.

Struggling to keep his cool, he had listened to Chevy as he moved around, talking to himself in his thick Southern accent or playing the country radio station. One time, he had even smelled food, nearly weeping at the thought of it. His lips were cracking from days without any water, and the hunger in his stomach was a low, steady ache.

The only indication of the passage of time was the noon and midnight national anthems on the radio. The second midnight in a row, the honey-sweet voice of the singer brought him to tears. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it up, being locked up like that. His thoughts had constantly circled back to the gang, people he'd refused to even acknowledge in the past months. The way Soda used to hold him after a nightmare, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Darry teaching him how to throw a football, one of the few times Ponyboy ever saw real joy on his big brother’s face. Dally showing him how to throw a punch in the old lot. Two-Bit taking him out of a movie a week after his parents died and staying silent the whole time, even though he couldn't keep his trap shut for the life of him. Johnny and him getting chased out of the corner store on 9th for stealing cigarettes, laughing like idiots.

Thoughts of the people he'd left behind in Tulsa were far more torturous than being trapped in a trunk.

Ponyboy had dreamt only once, losing himself to a memory gone rotten. It was of Johnny, sound asleep on the floor of the church in Windrixville. His cheek was bruised from where that Soc had gotten him, black hair glowing in the golden light of the early morning. Ponyboy had written a note in the back of their copy of Gone With the Wind and placed it at Johnny's feet, in hopes that he would find it when he woke up. It read: Please forgive me, but this is for the best. Tell my brothers I’m sorry - Ponyboy.

In real life, Ponyboy had left Johnny in that church and taken the next train out. But in this dream, Ponyboy had only made it as far as the fields outside the church before a sickening crack had echoed throughout the valley. Ponyboy had turned around, eyes wide, watching in horror as the church burned, flames licking the golden sky. 

He could see Johnny in the window, clawing at the window. And Ponyboy could almost hear screaming against the loud crackling of the church fire, saying Why’d ya leave me, Pony you left me to die I hate you burn in hell—

Ponyboy didn’t sleep after that.

It was sometime after the fifth national anthem that the car stopped once again. Ponyboy was too tired to try his whole screaming routine again, struggling to stay awake. He heard the car door open, gravel crunching as Chevy stepped out. Ponyboy, horribly, was so used to this routine that he assumed Chevy was just going to walk away again...to do whatever it was he did when they stopped. So, figuring he may be safe for a few moments, he relaxed and his grip loosened.

And then—

The trunk opened.

Ponyboy's eyes shot open. Purple light beamed into the dark space, and he hissed at the sudden intrusion. Immediately, the cold outside seized his lungs. Chevy, a dark skinned man wearing a cowboy hat and sunglasses, stood silhouetted in the twilight, hands on the trunk. A long shadow hid his expression. Then, a hand started to reach for him, and Ponyboy didn't hesitate, suddenly revived. With an animalistic scream, he turned the blade on his kidnapper. Chevy cursed, drawing back when Ponyboy got his hand.

"Ow! You little ruffian—."

Ponyboy didn't waste another second. Blade in hand, he jumped out of the trunk with a strength he didn't know he had, legs like Jell-O. He could see they were in the woods somewhere, secluded and alone. It appeared to be some sort of circular campsite, covered by a thin layer of ice and snow. But any such thoughts were ripped away the second his bare feet touched gravel, and he was yanked up by the collar harshly.

"What the hell d’ya think yer doin’!"

"Let go of me!" Ponyboy screamed, raising the blade again and stabbing something soft and fleshy.

Chevy dropped him, breath visible in the cold. "Dagnabit, where the hell did ya get that—!"

Ponyboy was on his feet in an instant, ready to get the hell out of Dodge. His legs seized as he took off, and he stumbled into the ice-covered gravel. Chevy was on his once more, grabbing him by the hand with the switchblade and twisting. Ponyboy cried out as the man's fat fingers pressed tightly against his arm. "Let go of it, boy!"

Ponyboy flipped around, refusing to be tamed. He fell to his knees as he attempted to squirm his way out of the man's grasp, pulling with what little strength he had. It felt like Chevy was trying to break his damn wrist.

"Stop fightin’ me! I'm tryin’ to—."

"No! Screw you!" Ponyboy screamed, near hysterical. He had to get away. Had to.

Chevy was bleeding badly all over him. "Goddamn it. Fine, we can play this the hard way!" Chevy hissed, cocking back his other fist and cracking it across Ponyboy’s face. For a moment, he saw stars. Skin split and ears rung, but Ponyboy refused to be deterred.

Chevy did it again. "Stop!" Again. "Fightin’!" Again. "Me!"

Ponyboy felt blood flood his mouth and down his face. " No! " He screamed, face blossoming in a sharp sort of pain. He gathered as much spit as he could in his dry mouth and spat in his kidnapper's ugly face.

Chevy cursed and wiped it away, only to crumble when Ponyboy rose a bare foot and smashed into his kidnapper’s balls as hard as he could. His face went ashen.

"Sweet baby Jesus—!"

Chevy’s grip slackened when his hand went to grab his balls, just enough so that Ponyboy could rip his wrist out of the man's grip. On his knees, Ponyboy raised his throbbing hand high and then dug the blade as hard as he could into the man's calf. Chevy screamed bloody murder, but Ponyboy couldn't care less. He scrambled to his feet and took off like the Devil was on his heels, adrenaline loosening his tightly bound muscles. He didn't plan to stick around and allow Chevy to snatch him again.

"Kid! Come back!" Chevy screamed.

At those words, against his better judgment, he stopped at the edge of the campsite. Chevy lay in a pool of his blood, grasping the blade in his calf. He was trying to stand, trying to reach him. Ponyboy thought, horribly, of Bob Sheldon at that moment. His chest heaved as he watched Chevy struggle, lip quivering. He saw a boy with a caved-in skull and real shallow breath.

"Stop! I just - Good God! I just wanna help!"

Ponyboy swallowed thickly. "If you’d really wanted to help," he started. He spat a thick glob of blood out on the gravel where they tussled. "You wouldn’t’ve stuck me in that trunk."

Chevy held out a hand. "No! Come back!"

Ponyboy didn't give him a second glance, turning on his heel and taking off into the wintry forest. Chevy called after him again and again, but he ignored it. Ponyboy sprinted deeper and deeper into the forest, blood pumping and breath ragged. He leaped over fallen tree trunks and ducked under low-hanging branches. His bare feet were torn to shreds, numb from the cold. Sticks and rocks and everything else on the frozen forest floor that could have cut and bruised him did. Snow clung to hair and eyelashes. Once or twice, he tripped, scuffing up his hands and breaking open his chin on a rock. But the pain and the cold seemed insignificant compared to getting caught again.

The running was difficult at first. But as he got into the rhythm of it, shaking loose the ache from being trapped in that trunk for days, Ponyboy couldn't help the loud holler that left him. He'd gotten away again.

Ponyboy, the kid who couldn't be trapped.

After what felt like hours of running, and with a glance over his shoulder, he stopped to catch his breath. He fell to his knees in a half-melted snow bank, gasping for air. Around him, the forest was still, hibernating as it waited for spring to arrive. Icicles dripped from tree branches and the light snowpack was untainted from human interference. Above, the sky was a muddy mix of whites and grays. It would snow again soon. His face burned from the cold, and he tucked his shaking hands into Dally’s jacket. 

At least he still had Dal’s jacket. 

Looking around at the unfamiliar setting, it was only then that he realized how stupid his decision to run into the forest was. 

He had absolutely no idea where he was.

He groaned. Great.

Ponyboy wiped at his sweaty face, wincing when he brushed against a forming bruise. He sighed and fell to his butt, unfurling his shaking legs. With a wince, he inspected his feet, warming the frigid limbs with his hands. Jeez, he really did a number on them. What wasn’t purple from running barefoot in the snow was bruised and slashed. And the pinky toe on his right foot seemed to be getting a little swollen.

He pressed his forehead to his knees, sighing.

Maybe he shouldn't have run into the forest with no shoes on either.

Darry would kick his ass if he were here.

Shut up, man. He told himself. Darry's not here. Shut up. Don’t think.

Licking his lips, Ponyboy started to consider just falling asleep right then and there, surrendering himself to the element, when a sound, no – a voice, interrupted his thoughts.

"You got the money?"

Ponyboy froze.

There was another voice, softer. "Yes, keep—."

Ponyboy's hand flew to his hip, disappointed to find his switchblade missing. So, instead, he grabbed the nearest rock and ducked down, keeping silent as he prepared himself to attack whoever was speaking.

"You don't tell me what to do, man! Don't think I won't put you in your place!"

That was not - whoever was talking, it wasn't about him. Someone else, maybe Chevy, maybe another, was in this forest with him.

What a popular place to be.

Ponyboy pressed his hand to his heart and forced it to relax, getting on his knees. Slowly, treading the snow lightly, so as to not make a sound, he crawled towards the voices to get a better look.

"—not trying to piss ya off. Just give me the shit, man, and we'll be on our way."

Ponyboy, pressing his back to a great oak tree, peered around it. Below him, down a steep, powdery slope, five men stood around train tracks. There were two cars parked behind them; one a sleek, black beetle that some of the rougher outfits would have kicked it around in back home in Tulsa. The other was a lifted blue truck, something that wiggled something in his mind. Like he'd seen it before. Ponyboy pushed the feeling away and looked down at the guys. Three of the men had to have been the owners of the Bug. Greasers through and through, with their slicked back hair-dos, tuff leather jackets, and ratty jeans.

The other two, well, seeing was believing.

"Just give him the money, Dallas," said Steve freaking Randle. He looked exactly the same as the day Ponyboy had split town, face mean and muscles pumped. He looked pissed. At what, Pony wasn’t sure yet.

Dallas freaking Winston stood beside him. He seemed just as pissed. His white-blonde hair  was shorter now, sticking in every which direction like a mad scientist.

Ponyboy stared down at them in complete shock, mouth wide open. What the hell were they doing here? How close, exactly, was he to Tulsa? Or were they the ones far away from Tulsa? And, what the hell was Dallas freaking Winston and Steve freaking Randel doing hanging out together? Ponyboy had barely ever seen more than a nod and a beer shared between them. Furthermore, what the freak were they buying?

Ponyboy didn't know what else to do but watch.

"Fine," Dallas spat. He pulled a couple of bills out of his pocket. "But I wanna see the shit first."

One of the other hoods, who had to have been the ring leader by the way he woke the dead with his looks, sniffed. "I should gut ya both for the disrespect, but I'm feelin' generous today," he nodded at one of his cronies. "Go get it, Frankie."

Frankie, a scrawny kid barely older than Ponyboy with ratty features, scurried on over to the car and popped the trunk. Ponyboy watched as he dragged out a trash bag and presented it to his boss dramatically. The Boss snatched it away with a scoff and stuck his hand into the bag. Ponyboy couldn't help the gasp that escaped him when Boss presented the group with an old, steel gun. A Colt . Ponyboy would know; he used to have one just like it.

It seemed Dallas had a favorite kind of gun.

Dally, Pony could understand. But Steve? What the hell was he doing buying a gun?

"Beaut, ain't she?" The Boss grinned. He pulled some bullets out of his pocket and blew into the empty magazine, eyeing the barrel. "It's a 44' model. Built for the war. Never saw much action, so she ain't got much of a pedigree ‘sides a couple good shoot-outs."

"Sounds amazing," Steve said impatiently. "But I ain't here for a history lesson. I came here for a damn gun."

The Boss sighed. "Whatever. It's gonna be a hundred flat."

Dally's face twisted at that, shoulders quivering the way they got when he was really pissed off about something. When someone was going to walk home with a bullet hole. "A hundred! A hundred. You said fifty, two days ago! That's double, asshole!"

"Yup," Boss clicked the magazine back into place. "But here's the thing, Winston. I heard from a friend of a friend that you got beef with Bones Jefferys. Owe him a lotta money...makes me wonder what you plan on usin’ this gun for."

Steve snorted. " I don't owe Bones any—."

"Shut it!" Dallas snapped at Steve. Glory, he was pissed. He stuck a finger at the Boss. "Look, I don't care what you heard about Bones. But, far as I’m concerned he’s a cocksucker and sore loser. And he’s got nothin’ to do with this, ” Dallas fingered the switchblade in his pocket. "So, how about you return to the agreed price and we walk away with all our fingers intact."

The Boss’s eyebrow twitched. He seemed just as angry as Dallas, an achievement within itself. "A cocksucker? That's my brother yer talkin' 'bout, Winston."

Ponyboy's eyes widened, looking back at Dallas.

Steve kicked the dirt. "Goddammit.”

"Goddammit is right," Boss said, raising his voice. Out came the switchblades, one by one. "First, you insult me. Then you complain when I, the dealer, change the terms, choosin' to still go through with this deal even though yer friends owes Bones money. And then, you insult my brother. You ain't walkin' away with fingers, friend."

And Ponyboy watched with horror as the Boss clicked the safety of the Colt off. 

The gun was loaded, he realized. Ponyboy had watched the Boss push bullet after bullet into the barrel mere moments ago.

Boss raised it at a surprised-looking Dallas Winston. "Go to hell, Dallas fuckin’ Winston."

Ponyboy didn't hesitate for a second. Screw running away and screw hiding. He would be damned if he was just going sit back and watch his friends get killed.

Standing up, heart pounding in his chest, Ponyboy raised the rock in his hand. "Hey, asshole!"

Boss’s shoulders jumped, and he whipped around to look at where Ponyboy stood, eyes wide. "What the hell—?"

"Is– is that a kid?" Asked one of the cronies.

"Ponyboy?" Steve blinked, nose scrunched up.

"Eat shit!" Ponyboy cried, launching the rock in his hand as hard as he could. It flew, twirling like one of Darry's footballs, and landed with a beautiful crack right across the Boss's huge forehead.

The Boss cried out, dropping the gun. He grabbed his forehead with crooked fingers. "You little shit!"

Ponyboy didn't waste another second in grabbing a second rock and pelting it at another hood, clipping him in the head. As the third hood grasped his bleeding face, the Boss rose, face red with anger and blood, and screamed: "Get 'im!"

And then all hell broke loose.

Ponyboy watched as Steve and Dallas, broken out of their initial shock, sprang at the Boss and Frankie with open blades and closed fists. The sound of their jeers and the swishes of their blades echoed in the little cove. Ponyboy, however, seemed to have been pinned with the third hood, the one he had hit. The third hood dodged his rocks and began to crawl up the slope, slipping in the snow.

"Come on, kid," the guy said through gritted teeth, voice placating. He slipped down the hill once more. "I ain't gonna hurt ya."

"Yes, ya are!" Ponyboy yelled and pelted another rock at him. He quickly dug out another from the slush and continued his attack.

"No– I– ain't!" He yelled through ragged inhales, pushing himself up the hill with every word. Blood dripped down his face from where Ponyboy had gotten him on the head. And even through his barrage of rocks, the guy pushed on, getting closer and closer.

A cry split through the cold air. Ponyboy watched, arm raised midway, as Steve fell to the ground. He was crumpled over, holding his side, with his teeth bared. The Boss stood over him, a bloody switchblade in his hand.

"Shit! Steve!" Dallas called from where he had been rolling around with Frankie in the snow.

"You shoulda just played nice," the Boss hissed.

Steve spat at his feet. “Suck my dick, bitch!”

Ponyboy looked down at the hood approaching him, who was almost to the top, cursing and jeering at him. Then, he looked back at Steve. Dallas was preoccupied with Frankie, who was giving him a run for his money. Ponyboy already knew what he was going to do. There wasn't much of a choice, was there?

Ponyboy grinned at the guy climbing the hill. "Watch out!"

"What—."

Backing up, Ponyboy took off running and leaped, angling himself so that he slid down the muddy slope, leaving the hood behind. The end result, admittedly, wasn't as graceful as he had imagined in his head. Ponyboy only made it about halfway on his side before he hit something and tipped over. Tumbling down like a boulder, he bounded down and smacked the ground with a loud thump. Ponyboy groaned, shaking it off, and leapt to his feet.

The Boss watched, frowning. Recognition filled his eyes. "Hey, wait a second. Ain't you that missing ki— ."

Ponyboy didn't give him a second to finish his sentence. Taking off into another sprint, he battered into the Boss with the ferocity of a bull, knocking him to the ground. He pinned the arm with the knife down, just as Chevy had only half an hour ago to him. The Boss cursed loudly, quick to try and throw him off. But Ponyboy clung to him like a leech, sitting on his chest and slinging a fist across his face.

"Get off me!" The Boss screamed, thrashing. "I'll kill ya! Kill ya dead!"

Ponyboy hit him again, putting too much force into it and losing balance. At that moment, the Boss rolled over and suddenly their roles were reversed. The Boss slugged him, opposite of where Chevy had, and pressed his sore face into the gravel. Ponyboy could see the glint of his switchblade out of the corner of his eye.

"You fucker, who do ya think you are!" He spat.

Ponyboy screamed, thrashing under him. "Get offa me!" He echoed. He felt the switch press against his neck, drawing blood. He was reminded of the day he had been jumped by those Soc, all those months ago.

"I'm gonna stick ya—!"

The Boss didn't get to finish. In a flash of denim, the Boss was thrown off him and sent flying into the unforgiving metal of the train tracks. He didn't even get a chance to stand up before a boot moved in a blur of leather and rubber, his head bouncing. The Boss lay still, draped over the tracks.

Ponyboy caught his breath, watching his limp form wearily.

And then, he looked up from where the Boss lay and saw Steve Randle standing over him, hot and sweaty. He clutched his side, shirt staining red. Then Steve's head snapped over to him, and Ponyboy didn't know if he had ever seen Steve so mad before.

" You ," he spat venomously. His finger jutted out. "Where the fuck’ve you been?!"

Ponyboy's mouth dropped open. He pushed himself up on his good arm. "You can't be serious! I just saved your life! A thank you would be nice!"

"You don't get it!" Steve stepped forward so that he was towering over him. Ponyboy did his best to seem as defiant as possible, meeting his wild gaze. "Three months, Ponyboy. You have been gone three months, and you, what, show up now? Glory, you always have shitty timing, ya know that? Coulda returned at any time, and you chose tonight of all things."

Ponyboy frowned. "Why? What's tonight?"

Steve scoffed, still holding his side. He spat on the ground near him. "You're such a little shit." His eyes narrowed, then blew open. "What the hell happened to your hair?”

“Bleached it,” Ponyboy muttered, running his fingers through the tangled mess. The ends were yellow from the peroxide Johnny had applied to it three months ago. 

“What the hell for?” Steve asked, bewildered.

Ponyboy only shrugged, much to Steve's chagrin.

It was then that Dallas joined the conversation. He seemed just as pissed off as his crooked-nosed friend. He was sporting a bruised lip and knuckles, teeth bloody. Ponyboy looked past him and realized that Frankie and the third crony were both knocked out and crumpled on the ground. It was a rule as old as time: Dallas Winston never lost a fight.

Dallas frowned at Ponyboy, lips pulled in a long, deep frown. His shoulders were shaking; his eye twitching. Clearly, he was trying to keep his anger contained. 

“What?” Ponyboy challenged. 

“What the hell happened to your arm?” He asked, breathy.

Ponyboy looked down at it, confused. The bandages were smudged with dirt and mud, black from dried blood. The wound throbbed, bleeding sluggishly after being torn open again, and Ponyboy felt a dull sense of urgency towards it. He flexed his stiff fingers. 

“Well ,” Dallas pressed impatiently. His eyes flicked between every little scratch and bruise on Ponyboy’s body.

Ponyboy licked his scabbed lips. “It’s a long story.”

“Jesus,” Dallas blew hot air. He paced angrily and kicked at the muddy gravel. He nodded at the offending material on Ponyboy's chest. “And your shirt. That your blood?”

Ponyboy looked down at his white shirt. He’d bought it at the thrift store a few weeks back. It had a cutout of a Pontiac with the words Detroit City 5th Annual Car Show. It was splattered with wet blood and mud. “Nah.” He pressed a hand to where the Boss had nicked him with his switch. “Well, maybe some of it.”

Dallas pulled at his hair and stopped pacing. He threw his hands to his sides. “We don’t got time for this bullshit.” He turned to Steve, giving his dripping side a critical eye. "He get you?"

"Just a scratch," Steve said in a tight way that meant it was probably a bit more than a scratch. "I'm more worried about this idiot here.”

"I’m fine," Ponyboy said and got to his knees, trying to stand. Steve held out a hand, and Ponyboy swatted it away. "I don't need yer help," he hissed.

Steve rolled his eyes.

Ponyboy groaned when he put weight on his damaged feet, rocks digging into his cuts. Glory, it was going to be a painful few weeks.

"Where the hell are yer shoes?" Steve said with some disbelief. “It’s the middle of winter, kid.”

“Not a kid,” Ponyboy snapped him off, limping towards the Boss. His feet looked about the same size as his. Ponyboy also thought about taking his pants while he was at it, considering the whole pissing himself thing, but Ponyboy figured he could just wash his ripped up blue jeans at some other point. It wasn’t like the two boys behind him could smell it; he hadn’t showered in weeks.

"And I lost 'em. “ 

He fell to his knees and began to work on slipping the beaten-up cowboy boots off. They were bright blue with red and white stars. Ponyboy made a face at the sight of them.

"How do you lose your shoes?"

"I don't know, Steve ," Ponyboy said sweetly, yanking a boot and sock off one foot. He started to work on the second. "That jerk who picked me up stole ‘em. I didn't exactly get a chance to ask for them back."

"Picked you up?" Dallas asked, something dangerous in his tone.

Ponyboy got to work squeezing his damaged foot into the shoe, biting back a whimper. "Look, it don’t matter, alright. It’s in the past. Ow —," he hissed. "I am way more curious why y’all are buyin' a gun."

Dallas crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. "None of yer damn business."

“I think it is my—.”

"Jesus, what the hell happened to your feet?" Steve asked, looking down at them with a curled lip.

"Glory, is this twenty questions?" Ponyboy paused, inspecting his foot. Was it really that bad? He shrugged and pulled on the second sock. Barely the worst injury he ever had, but he had a feeling it was going to be the most annoying. "I was runnin' through the forest."

Dallas raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. 

"Barefoot?" Steve said incredulously. He looked up at the hill Ponyboy had emerged from, searching for a new threat.

"Don't worry, I think I lost 'im," Ponyboy said, following his gaze. He had the second boot on now and was working on getting back to his feet. "Stabbed the jerk in the leg, so I'm sure he's on the way to the hospital now. Either that or he's bleedin' out. S'ppose the first one's better for my conscience." He stood up and winced. Glory, walking was going to get real difficult. But that was fine. He could manage. He always did. 

"How's the side?" He nodded at Steve. Not that he was trying to be nice, or that he cared, he was just trying to change the subject. "Yer bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

Steve and Dallas shared a look, frowning. One that Ponyboy did not like at all.

"My side’s fine," Steve said slowly. He shook his head in disbelief. Whether it was because Ponyboy had asked if he was okay or because of how flippant he was being, he didn't know. "You still haven’t answered my question. Why - what the hell were you runnin' from?"

“This guy where all that blood came from?” Dallas added.

Ponyboy rubbed his hands together then jammed them in his jacket. The sun had nearly set now, and it was getting colder and colder, their faces all growing pink. He wished he had some gloves. Or his blade...he felt naked without it. "Some guy. I don't know. He's gone now...I think,” he said with a mild shrug.

Ponyboy looked around the train tracks and then back at the two people who stood in front of him, people he thought he had left behind. It was about then that it hit him what the hell had just happened. Ponyboy had run into Steve and Dallas. His brother's friends. His friends. Ponyboy probably should have felt relieved. After two months of nothing but people out to get him, Ponyboy had finally come in contact with people who didn’t mean any real harm. But all Ponyboy could feel was panic. He chewed on his bottom lip, tearing off one of the scabs there. 

If Steve and Dallas were here, that probably meant he was close to Tulsa. Which was the one place he didn't want to be. Swore to himself he’d never return to. Thoughts of Bob and all the things he had sacrificed filled him. 

Ponyboy couldn't go back to Tulsa. Ever.

And by the second shared look between the two older boys, Ponyboy had the feeling they realized this, too.

Ponyboy took a step back, shoulders raising. "Now what?"

Steve's jaw twitched. The anger was back. "Don't even think about it, Curtis."

Dallas remained quiet by his side. Cool and calculating.

"No, you don't understand," Ponyboy shook his head. Glory, his head hurt. After two fights back to back and being stuffed in a truck for two days, it really was a miracle he wasn't dead on his feet. But he was a survivor like that. "I can't go back. I can't. You can't make me."

Dallas' cold eyes narrowed. "Oh, yes, we can."

"Take one more step and I'll kick your scrawny ass, Ponyboy," Steve warned. His arms were uncrossed now, ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

Ponyboy was really missing Dallas’ Colt right about now. Not that he would shoot them, just scare them a little. Give himself a head start. Ponyboy eyed the pistol lying on the ground, a few paces behind Dallas. The older boy's eyes followed his gaze, his mouth parting a little when he realized what Ponyboy was looking at.

"Oh, you can't be serious —."

It was enough. Ponyboy took off in a scurry, nearly tripping on the rail of the train tracks. "Shit!" Steve yelped, thrown off guard. He tripped on the rail.

Ponyboy practically flew towards Steve's truck, throwing open the driver's side door and jumping in. All Ponyboy could do was pray Steve had left his car keys in the ignition like he typically did.

"Get back here, Ponyboy!"

The keys–

"Shit!" He smacked the steering wheel. The keys were gone . When did Steve get smart?

He smashed the lock, scrambling over and locking the other door. Steve and Dallas had caught up then, screaming at him to open the door.

“Let me in, Ponyboy, or I swear to God I’ll pull yer teeth from yer head one by one!”

They pounded the windows with their fists, yanking hard on the door handles. Ponyboy ignored them, foot thumping on the floorboard anxiously, as he dug around in Steve’s glove box for something long and flat and–

Yes! A switchblade. Ponyboy flicked it open, realizing with a start that it was Soda's blade, his name carved into the handle. It was the closest he had been to him in months.

Steve banged on the window, ripping him away from thoughts of his brother. "What the hell do you think you're doing? I swear to God, Ponyboy, if you fuck up my truck I'll kill you!"

"Doing a good job of that already, huh, Steve?" Ponyboy called, jamming the blade into the crack between the wheel and the under compartment.

"What the hell are ya doin’?"

"Nothin’!" He called, popping off the panel there. God, Steve's truck was such a piece of shit it wasn't even that difficult.

"I swear to God —."

Dallas picked up a rock, and Steve wiped around on him. "What the fuck do you think yer doing?"

"I'm gonna break the window!" Dallas yelled back, shoving Steve away.

"What the fuck for!"

Dallas shouldered past him. "He's hot-wiring your car, dumbass!"

Ponyboy barely even had an opportunity to cut any wires before the window to the left of him was smashed open. Ponyboy flinched, dropping the blade as glass rained down upon him. With a gasp, he watched as a pale hand broke through the window and popped the lock. The next thing he knew, the door was thrown open with a loud screech, and Ponyboy was being dragged out the door by the collar. Instantly, Ponyboy was kicking and screaming. He clawed at the offending hand, swinging himself around so that he faced Dallas.

They both fell to the ground unceremoniously; Dallas holding him up by his shirt. Ponyboy bucked wildly in his dirt and the mud and slush. "Stop!" Dallas called, tone a warning.

"Let – me – go! " Ponyboy screamed. Steve was on him then, too. He grabbed his legs, holding them together.

"Jesus, kid, do you ever stop!" Dallas yelled, pushing Ponyboy’s arms to his chest and then cradling them against his own.

"No!" He yelled, fighting to get out of their grasp. He threw back his head, narrowly missing Dallas’ nose. But he was exhausted. Ponyboy could feel himself scraping the bottom of the barrel, getting weaker and weaker. The events of the last few days, hell, the last few months, were beginning to catch up to him.

"We ain’t gonna hurt you, dumbass!" Steve yelled.

Ponyboy stopped squirming, pulling on their holds weekly. His face was pressed into Dallas white shirt, which reeked of cigarette smoke, and never had he felt so fucking defeated. His breath came out ragged, and Glory, he felt like crying. "Let go," he whispered, a plea.

"That ain't gonna happen," Steve said sternly.

"Agreed," Dallas said. He nodded at Steve, and they helped him sit up, two sets of hands holding him down in case he decided to fight his way out again.

Ponyboy gasped for air. It felt like something heavy was pressing against his chest. He stared down at his feet and the glass on his pants. This was it, wasn't it? He couldn't run anymore.

A tear streaked down his face.

Dallas crouched down in front of him, still holding his arm. "Kid."

Ponyboy ignored him. He would never forgive them.

"Kid," Dallas tried again.

"Jesus Christ — Ponyboy ."

"What ?" He said quietly. Ponyboy looked up and poured as much hate as he could into his gaze.

Dallas seemed just as pissed. His hand was bleeding from when he had stuck it through the broken window. "You're fucking idiot, you know that?" He shoved him against the car. Ponyboy's head bounced off it with a thud. "Huh? Say somethin'! Want to explain why you were tryin' to hotwire Steve's car?"

Ponyboy remained silent.

"Damn!" Dallas cursed. He ran a hand through his stubby hair. "We don't have time for this! Dammit! You—," he pointed a finger at Ponyboy. "Stop fightin' us. And you—," he turned to Steve. "Go get the damn heater."

"You ain't the boss of me!" Steve hissed.

"Just do it!"

Steve groaned dramatically and let go of Ponyboy, pushing him by the shoulder into the car the same way Dallas had. Ponyboy rubbed the back of his head. He trudged over to wear the pistol lay, wincing as he bent over to pick it up. He clutched his side, which was almost entirely red by now. When he returned, he looked down at Ponyboy with such contempt that it nearly burned a hole in his skull. "You're paying' for that window," he hissed. "Let's get out of here before these crazies wake up."

“I should drive,” Dallas said as Steve passed him the gun. He flicked the safety back on.

“Piss off, Winston,” Steve bit out and dragged Ponyboy to his feet by the arm.

Dallas grabbed his other arm and spoke seriously to Steve. “I’ll break your nose if you pass out and we crash.”

"Understood, boss."

Ponyboy remained silent as they pushed him into the truck, sandwiching him between each other. Steve looked at his window longingly, then pulled his keys out of his jeans and started the truck. It thrummed to life, engine roaring like the call of a tiger. Or a sicky lion. Steve grumbled, thrown into one of his moods. Meanwhile, Dallas used the bandana that had been tucked into his jeans to stanch his bleeding hand, wrapping it tightly. He then ripped off the sleeves of his shirt and offered them both out to Steve. 

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“For your side, dumbass.”

“Oh,” Steve took it and lifted his shirt with a barely contained wince. The skin there was marred and bloody. He pressed the sleeve to it with a hiss. “Thanks.”

Dallas tucked the heater into his waistband. “Don’t mention it. Seriously. Don’t.”

In no time at all, Steve's truck was rolling away from the scene and near the tracks. Ponyboy looked in the rearview mirror. The Boss and cronies were stirring.

A lot of thoughts came to him then, most of them regretting ever sleeping in the lot that fateful night, but one stood out:

He should have taken his chances with Chevy.

Chapter Text

The car was silent as they barreled down Route 66, wind whipping through the broken window. Sparse, snow-tipped forest dwindled into vast prairie and rolling hills, all coated in a thin sheet of white. Little, frozen creeks cut through the heart of Oklahoma, like pumping arteries carrying oxygen. It was nearly dark now. The setting sky was a mottling of the soft blue hues of winter and the silent grays of an oncoming storm, hanging over the land like a bad omen. 

Not a word had been shared between the trio of Greasers since the moment they pulled onto the highway, each too caught up in his thoughts. To the left of him, Steve tapped the steering wheel with his thumb, the other hand pressing into his aching side as if it were keeping his insides together. He drove like a damn maniac, passing people by the hair on his chinny-chin-chin and speeding well past the limit. Ponyboy had to resist the urge to tell him to knock it off; his parents had died in weather like this not even a year ago and it made him nervous. Steve’s driving earned him a lot of honking and middle fingers, to which he happily returned. But despite his aggression, he seemed oddly anxious. Ponyboy wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that they had just bought and fought for a gun. 

To this right, Dallas had pulled out his switchblade and picked at his nails, choppy hair fluttering in the wind. He seemed calm and collected, but Ponyboy had spent enough time around him to know the truth. Something had wiggled its way under his skin. He was working out the best way to rip the issue out and kill it with the edge of his knife. He wasn’t a fixer like Darry when it came to problems, nor a worrier like Ponyboy; he was the kind of guy to stab the problem in the heart and eat it for dinner.

Ponyboy himself didn’t move more than he needed to. He wrapped his bad arm closer to himself, an old habit, and chewed on his cuticles, ripping away skin with his teeth. He watched the road ahead with an increasing sense of doom. They passed sign after sign. Tulsa — 10 miles. Tulsa — next exit. It felt like the banging of a gavel, the judge sentencing him to death. He could see the city he had grown up in, loved and hated like a vindictive wife, appear on the horizon. Ponyboy could make out its sprawling suburbs, with their identical shapes and black roofs, and further on, the jagged skyline of downtown Tulsa. Smoke billowed up from the factories; the spire of the Fourth National Bank Building breaking through it all like a beacon. And even further, past the train tracks and just beside the Arkansas River, the run-down and war-ridden neighborhood he had once called home. And then, the house on Saint Louis street with its peeling, white paint and gutter badly in need of being cleaned — a house caged by a chain-mail fence and its circumstances. 

Ponyboy wondered if this was how criminals felt as they walked to the electric chair. 

Multiple times, Ponyboy felt his eyelids slip closed. It had been days since he had slept or eaten or had anything to drink. His nearly healed arm thrummed, and he swore one of his toes had to have been broken by the way it shot daggers up his leg. All his body wanted to do was finally get some rest. But he fought it off. He had to stay awake. So that the moment Steve stopped the car, he could make his attack. He didn’t have much of a plan besides bucking his way out of the cabin, taking that Colt, and hitting the ground running. At least he knew his way around Tulsa and – fingers crossed– maybe he could make it to the nearest railroad with little resistance. 

There, he would hop a train and get the hell out of Dodge. Ponyboy had sworn to himself he would never return to Tulsa, and he wasn’t planning on going back on that promise now.

Ponyboy shook his head vigorously, forcing himself to stay awake.

He recalled a story his mom had read to him when he was a toddler: The Little Engine That Could . A small engine is asked to carry a heavy load up a very tall hill, all the while repeating to himself I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. Ponyboy was the little engine, and the heavy load was his battered and bruised body. He supposed the hill could be his escaping back to the train tracks. Ponyboy’s foot tapped on the floorboard, and he repeated to himself over and over: Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake.

“Okay, I can’t handle the silence anymore,” Steve suddenly said, breaking their mutual agreement. “I want answers, ya little shit. What the hell were ya thinkin’ runnin’ off like that?! Do you know how scared Soda’s been? How torn up Darry is? They're both damn wrecks and it’s all yer fault.”

Ponyboy pressed his lips together and made himself remain quiet. His heart tugged at the mention of his brothers. No matter how hard he tried not to think about them in the past few months, he couldn’t help the thoughts. The worry. He forced himself to believe they were all better off without him. Darry had wanted to send him off to a boy’s home anyway. How was his life on the road any different?

But if things weren’t as good as he had thought…Ponyboy didn’t know what he would do with himself. Pick himself up and walk it off like he always did?

“ Huh?! ” Steve spat, pressing on the gas. Ponyboy gripped his knees. Steve was working himself up and that never ended well. 

Ponyboy looked at the empty slot where the radio should be. He remembered the day Steve had installed brand-new paneling and wiring. It looked like he was still saving up for a radio.

“Answer me!” He slammed the steering wheel with his palm. “Where’ve you been all this time? Disneyland?! ”

Ponyboy scoffed. He wished he had been to Disneyland all this time. It certainly was a nicer thought than reality. 

“No? Ya know, I’m pretty fuckin’ pissed at you.” Ponyboy rolled his eyes under his bangs. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out. He wondered when Steve would have to stop and catch his breath.

“I’m the one that’s been keepin’ those brothers of yours from completely losin’ it. We’ve all been. Darry’s one more week away from a full mental breakdown and gettin’ himself shipped off to some insane asylum. I’m sure the cops would be glad to see him gone. And don’t even get me started on Soda. I’m gonna kick his ass if he ever pulls somethin’ like this again.”

Ponyboy winced as Steve cut off a chugging yellow Bug in front of them. He chewed on his nails, overwhelmed. Okay. Things weren’t okay at home, and that fact scared him something awful. Soda had been sticking his nose into some trouble. Something that Steve felt like he needed to fix, maybe? But honestly, the most shocking revelation was Darry. Darrel Curtis Junior was their rock. He remained strong and stable in the face of adversity, bearing the weight of all their troubles on his broad shoulders. If he was reaching a full-on breakdown like Steve said, what would become of the rest of them?

Guilt pooled in his stomach, churning the acid there. He spoke.

“It ain't my fault,” Ponyboy muttered. 

Dallas scoffed beside him. “Sure it ain’t.”

“Look, I know you didn’t mean to get jumped by them Soc ,” Steve said, annoyed. “But, boy, did you make a mess of things by just disappearin’ like you did. Soda and Darry’ve been searchin’ for you nonstop. They don’t eat or sleep or work. All they do is look. For. You.”

Ponyboy felt his jaw drop. “Would ya’ve preferred for me to go to jail?!” He shouted. Anger burned him. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t even wanna be here. Just leave me on the side of the road and forget ya ever saw me. It’d be better that way.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Steve said with a shake of his head. “I ain’t ever met someone as blind as you.”

And then Dallas suddenly gripped his shoulder, squeezing hard. Ponyboy tried to throw it off with a hiss, only for the hand to grip his shoulder tighter. “Look at me,” the white-haired greaser ordered.

“No!” Ponyboy argued. He could feel his breath pick up. Suddenly, the walls of the cabin started to close in, and he could feel himself return to the trunk with nowhere to go. “Let go of me!”

“Look at me!” Dallas shouted back. The hand moved, and all of a sudden he was being grabbed by the jaw. Dallas forced him to look up at his pale, blue, icy eyes.

Ponyboy’s breath was short and broken. Were they going to kick him to the curb? Stuff him in Steve’s big old toolbox? Leave him for dead?

“I ain’t ever lettin’ you outta my sight again,” Dallas said, voice hard. His hazel eyes were alight with fury, which was never a good thing to be on the end of. “Me and Steve are gonna bring your sorry ass back to your brothers and you’re gonna say your sorry and that you’re never gonna do something like that again.” 

Ponyboy felt his heart clench at seeing Soda and Darry, and he tried to rip himself out of Dallas’ grip. Sweat pooled on his brow; it felt as if a hand had reached inside his rib cage and gripped his heart. He wanted Dallas to let go. He knew better than to  fight against Dallas, however. He would hit back. And Ponyboy wasn’t sure Steve would stop him.                                                                                                    

Dallas pushed harder. “Savvy?”

“No–.”

It felt like Dallas was going to break his jaw now. “ Savvy?”

His breath caught in his throat, gagging him. “Yes! Jesus, just let go! Yes!

Dallas released him. “Good. Glad we could agree.”

Ponyboy gasped for air and rolled his jaw. Nothing seemed to be broken, but – he pressed against where Dallas had manhandled him – he was sure there would be a bruise. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back into the bench, trying to catch his breath. Great. Just what he needed. Another bruise.

“Make him take a bath, too. He stinks,” Steve added, unhelpfully. Then, he shook his head. “God, Soda’s gonna freak.”

Dallas opened his switchblade. “We’ll deal.”

Ponyboy felt a blush rise up his neck and cheeks. He knew what he smelled like, contrary to popular belief, he could smell himself. But it wasn’t like he exactly had access to running water while on the run, at least not in the middle of winter. And it wasn't like Chevy had been kind enough to let him take a leak. Not that he would tell Steve that. He’d have a cow. 

Glory. Ponyboy wanted to hide and die.

He imagined his brothers’ faces when they saw him for the first time in almost three months – dirty, covered in someone else's blood, and feral. Tangled, nearly shoulder-length peroxide blonde with auburn roots and a litany of old bruises and  new scars. He knew how horrible he looked. Sometimes the dinners and filling stations he passed had mirrors, dirty and cracked from years of abuse, and he would stare at his dead, gray eyes. The worst was when he saw green. He hated green eyes. 

Would his brothers be happy to see him? Would there be tears in their eyes? Or would they be furious with him for leaving? How would they react, knowing the monster that Ponyboy had become? He ignored the thoughts. It didn’t matter, because it wasn’t happening. He wouldn't have to see them again. He had a plan, and he would see it through. It was for the best. He didn’t want to go to jail. Sodapop and Darry and everyone else would forget him eventually. Then maybe they could be happy again. It was supposed to be this way.

Ponyboy raised his eyes towards Tulsa. He was catching a train tonight, come hell or high water.

—

Tulsa at night was a breathtaking sight. As the sun set upon the Oil Capital of the World, out came the hoodlums, the destitute, and the creatures of the night. They prowled the streets in their leather jackets and high heels, all in search of something to satisfy their hunger. The pigs crawled out of their pen, wielding their metal batons and shiny badges, and lurked around the corners in search of something to beat on. The broken street lamps flickered to life, and the neon signs beamed, casting an eerie glow over the sky. Ponyboy had only ever visited one city in his travels, and that was Detroit, up in Michigan. It was the farthest he ever dared to go. Tulsa or Detroit, it seemed that every city shared one thing in common. Ten degrees with a storm on the way, the night belonged to the wicked. 

Steve and Dallas were tight-lipped for the rest of the car ride to— wherever they were going. Steve avoided driving downtown altogether, even if it was the fastest way East, and drove through the highway. When he finally did take an exit, he shouted loudly, “Oh shit, my exit!”, and then cut off a black Buick to make it. Ponyboy recognised the streets soon enough, as they drove further and further away from the heart of the city, and into Greaser territory. The buildings became more dilapidated. Roofs were slanted, the windows were boarded, and the cars were eaten away by rust. Or perhaps Ponyboy just recognized it by the general sense of misery in the air. 

Ponyboy just prayed that Steve and Dallas weren’t taking him home. If they pushed him through the front door, with the broken screen door, Ponyboy didn’t know if he would have the strength to leave. 

“Dallas,” Steve said. He had stopped holding his side almost an hour ago. The bleeding had stopped it seemed. 

Dallas grunted.

“We gotta check, uh—,” he looked at Ponyboy. Ponyboy glared at him. “Ya know where. Make sure Soda ain’t causin’ any more trouble ‘fore the rumble.”

Ponyboy perked up at the mention of this. “There’s a rumble tonight?”

Dallas spoke harshly. “That’s none of your business. You aren’t goin’.”

Ponyboy nearly protested. A few months ago, he would have protested at being told he couldn’t go to a rumble. It was the only way he could prove himself to the guys. To be a real Greaser. But he had more important things to worry about. Like getting the hell out of Tulsa before the pigs sniffed him out. He pressed his lips together.

Steve watched Ponyboy, also expecting him to bitch, and his face scrunched up when he didn’t.

Dallas sighed. “Let’s just get it over with.”

“Right,” Steve nodded and took the next turn quickly without using blinkers.

Ponyboy slid into Dallas at the nauseating motion, who shoved him back upright none too kindly. Curiosity bubbled in his chest, and Ponyboy couldn’t help the question. “Where’s Soda s’pposed to be?”

Steve and Dallas met eyes again. Ponyboy hated it when they did that. 

Dallas snorted. “He’s your friend, Randel.”

Steve groaned, leaning his head against the steering wheel. He seemed…exasperated. Tired. “The bar,” he ground out, like the words were sharp rocks. “When he’s not working or fighting with Darry, he’s at the bar. Real, damn pathetic.”

Ponyboy frowned. Soda didn’t really like alcohol, mostly because he couldn’t stomach it. Life was enough for him to be high. Ponyboy could count on one hand the amount of times his older brother had drunk to get drunk, which was twice. Once two summers ago at the lake with Steve and some other buddies, and the second a week after their parents had been killed in that car crash. Darry had been furious, and it was the only time Ponyboy had ever seen Sodapop fight back with Darry. 

Ponyboy chewed on his pinky finger. Had Sodapop been drinking and fighting with Darry because…of him?

“But Soda don’t drink,” he argued.

Steve sighed. “He does now.” He ran a hand over the broken bridge of his nose, a soothing gesture. “And let me tell ya, he's a real miserable drunk.”

Yer fault, Steve had told him earlier. 

Ponyboy didn’t respond. He looked through his bangs, across Dallas, where the latch was for the manual door lock. He would have to go through the passenger side door, for efficiency’s sake. The steering wheel would make it too hard to slip out, even with the broken window. The only real issue was Dallas himself. He wouldn’t hold back. 

So Ponyboy couldn’t either.

Ponyboy thrummed with an anxious energy the closer and closer they drew near Saint Louis street. It was as if his house were a beacon drawing him, calling his name. He allowed thoughts of jail, memories formed by how Curly used to describe it, to fill his mind. Thick bars and balls and chains and dark, dark rooms and meals of mystery origin and guards who like to beat on you for just breathing and–

Loud music filled the air as they drew near the bar Soda was apparently at. Ponyboy’s eyes flickered up. It was shabby and run-down, the parking lot filled with tuff-looking, souped-up motorcycles and black Bugs with chrome plating. People lingered outside its doors, reeking of beer and sex and hairspray. To the side, two guys were getting at it with a beer bottle and a switchblade. Ponyboy recognised it as the Black Lamb. Not as popular – or infamous – as Buck’s, but sure as hell just as dangerous. Exactly the kind of place that would let a minor drown themselves in the good stuff without blinking an eye. 

It was exactly the kind of place Darry would have killed either of them for stepping a foot near or even breathing in the air. It made Ponyboy wonder how far Soda had fallen and how close Darry was to insanity for not smacking Soda upside the head for making himself a damn regular in such a place.

Steve parked across the street. 

Ponyboy couldn’t help it. His eyes bugged out of his skull. “Soda is here.”

“He better not be,” Steve warned, looking out the window. He unlocked the door. “Or else I’m gonna kick his ass. Stay here, kid, we'll be back with that brother of yours.”

Ponyboy didn’t reply; he couldn’t. He watched as Steve opened the door, waiting for the scraping sound of Dallas unlocking his side. It didn’t come. 

Steve peered back, eyes narrowing. The door was propped open, a leg stretched out towards the door. “Whatcha plannin’?”

“I ain’t plannin’ anythin’,” Ponyboy muttered. Maybe if they left, he could just wiggle out the window. 

Dallas rolled his eyes. “Kid’s coming with. The second we leave, he’ll just jump out the damn window anyways.”

Shoot.

“Darry’s gonna kill me,” Steve sighed to himself, stepping out into the cold winter night. It had started to snow, white flakes falling gently from the sky. 

“He’ll just be glad you dragged both of his brothers home tonight,” Dallas responded. 

Ponyboy blanched. He had to get out of here. Soon. If they weren’t going to leave him in the truck, then he would have to lose them in the bar. Maybe, he could ask to use the bathroom? Break Steve’s nose? He just had to distract dumb and dumber enough, so that he could hightail it out of there. Preferably before Soda realized he was there. It would be less painful for both of them that way. 

He played along, sliding out through the driver’s side. Steve urged him to hurry up with some less than encouraging words, and he stepped out of the truck, wincing when he put his weight on his feet. He quickly buried the pain and pulled his jacket tighter around himself, rubbing his hands together. The temperature was dropping fast now, their breath like ghostly wisps. It was very ethereal against the dull yellow light of the Black Lamb before them.

“Feet hurtin’ ya?”

Ponyboy shot Steve a glare. “My feet are fine. Let’s just go.”

“Hey, relax, man,” Dallas said. He had dug out a pack of cigarettes – Winstons – and tapped one out on his palm. “A place like this, actin’ all scared-like gonna make people nervous. You gotta chill out.”

He held out the carton. “Weed?”

Ponyboy bit his lip, pressing against a bruise. It wouldn’t hurt…and it had been so long since he had a real cigarette. Sometimes he still got headaches from the withdrawals and the half-smoked cigarettes he found were never enough. “Alright,” he pulled one out of the well worn carton. “ Relax .”

Dallas smiled, pulling out a lighter next. It flickered to life, and he lit his stick, then used it to light Ponyboy’s. He took a long, deep drag. “Cold as ice.”

Ponyboy pressed it to his lips greedily and inhaled twice as long, smoke swirling in his lungs and killing all his anxieties. He felt his shoulders unfurl just a smidge.

“None for me?” Steve asked, a little miffed.

“You got a dollar?”

“For what?”

“A weed.”

“Aw, fuck off, ya greedy hood,” Steve waved him away with a scoff, marching off. “Let’s just find Soda already and get the hell outta here.”

Dallas wrapped a long arm over Ponyboy’s shoulders. He tensed immediately, putting as much distance between himself and the taller greaser as he could. Smoke curled around his elfish features, and he bared his sharp teeth. “Don’t even think about runnin’ off,” he warned. “Or else I’ll kill ya.”

Ponyboy swallowed. He knew Dallas would go through with the threat. His eyes wandered to the loaded gun tucked away in Dally’s shirt, tracing the shape. He put the cigarette back to his lips. “Wouldn't dream of it.” 

“Cool,” Dallas nodded, and together they followed Steve across the street and towards the bar. 

The noise only got louder as they approached the bar, a pandemoniac orchestra of arguing, country music, and obnoxious talking. The people on the outskirts eyed them as they approached, but one mean look from Dallas and Steve turned them away quickly. Ponyboy found himself sticking close to Dallas – close enough he could hide his face– and anxiously sucking away on his weed. It had been months since he had spent this much time around people, let alone a whole bustling, Greaser-ridden bar. All the noise was giving him a bad headache, pounding behind his eyes. Ponyboy had always been careful to stay far, far away from anything that could be deemed as “civilization”. He was terrified that someone would recognize him and turn him into the cops. He knew he had been on the national news for a while, which was why he had bleached his hair not too long after he had left Windrixville. Instead, he clung to the railways like a ghost. When he wasn’t riding a train, he was sticking to the outskirts of whatever town or city he had arrived in and rummaging through dumpsters for food. Old water spout for water. Once, he had gotten lucky enough to find himself in a train car filled with canned peaches.

Glory, that had been a good night. 

Most of the people who had been hanging outside had started to move inside, or leave, as the snow fell. Not for the first time, Ponyboy was grateful that he had Dally’s leather jacket. He frowned and then looked up at Dallas, who was pink from the cold and gold from the cigarette in his mouth. He was wearing nothing but a wife beater and a thin flannel. “Aren’t ya cold?” Ponyboy found himself asking.

Dallas looked down at him. Ponyboy noticed he had his necklace back. Silvia must have been two-timing him again. “You givin’ me my jacket back?”

Ponyboy dug his hand deeper into the pockets. “No.”

“Then, stop askin’.”

As they neared the entrance, Steve was stopped by a person who Ponyboy assumed was the bouncer by the size of his muscles. “You here for Curtis?”

“He here?” Steve yelled over the noise.

“Yup,” the bouncer responded. He was wrapped up warmly in a thick sherpa jacket and gloves. He didn’t even blink at the state of them all. “Been here ‘bout two hours now. In the back. Time for him to get on home, I say.”

“Goddammit, Soda,” Ponyboy heard Steve mutter under his breath. “We’ll be quick.”

The bouncer turned his gaze to Dallas and Ponyboy. Ponyboy felt his heart spike, ducking his head to stare at his shoes. His long hair covered his face. “Dallas Winston. Not here to ‘cause any trouble, right?”

“Not tonight,” Dallas said with a sly grin.

The bouncer grimaced. “And who’re you?”

“A cousin. He’s got a genetic condition that makes him short,” Steve said quickly, reaching over to pull Ponyboy forward. “Let’s go .”

Ponyboy followed Steve through the door, cringing immediately as he was assaulted by an array of lights and sounds. Despite it being the middle of winter, the Black Lamb was packed with people. They crowded around the pool tables and poker tables further in the back, all with drinks in their hands. A thick cloud of smoke stuck to the ceiling, blocking out the already dim lights. The entire place was wrapped with Christmas lights, the only effort the owners could put into the holidays. 

Ponyboy pressed himself into Steve’s side. His hands were clammy, even with the cigarette. 

“C’mon,” Steve yelled over the noise. “He’s playin’ poker, that shithead.”

“I’ll bust his head open, don’t worry,” Dallas responded. 

Ponyboy didn’t think very hard about the strangeness of the comment; it wasn’t unusual for Soda to play poker. He was good at it. Instead, as Steve pulled him along by his upper arm, Ponyboy scanned the bustling room for a way out. Asking to use the bathroom was a terrible idea. Screaming at the top of his lungs and claiming Steve and Dal had kidnapped him would only get him laughed at and then beaten on by Dallas. But, maybe…

Ponyboy had an idea. A really, really bad idea. 

They neared the back of the bar, where it was less crowded and quieter. He could make out the green glow of the poker tables, people bent over them, through the throng of bodies. Someone bumped into him, and he eyed the couple making out beside them, gagging a little.

“There he is,” Steve pointed out.

Ponyboy stopped dead in his tracks. The wave of people parted, splitting just enough that he saw him. There was Sodapop, his brother, leaning back in an old chair with a fan of cards splayed out in his hands and a toothpick between his teeth. Beside him, on the table, sat an open container of Coors. He was laughing at something the big guy beside him had said, cheeks red and puffy. It was the closest Ponyboy had been to Sodapop since that fateful night in September, before he had gone and ruined everything. Before Bob. Before he had turned into a monster. Ponyboy felt all the air leave his body, joints locking up. 

He couldn’t do this. 

He didn’t deserve to see Sodapop ever again. 

“What the hell are ya doin’?” Steve asked, pulling on his arm.

Ponyboy couldn’t tear his eyes away from Soda.

Dallas leaned in then, grabbing his shoulder, and spoke into his ear. “Don’t be a pussy.”

Sodapop tipped his chair back onto the ground, picking up his beer. He took a long swig and then, by some act of God, or perhaps the Devil, his head turned and looked out into the sea of people. Looked out at Ponyboy . Rich, brown eyes met gray ones. 

Sodapop’s mouth dropped open, and he rubbed his eyes.

Ponyboy clenched his jaw and looked back up at Dallas, steeling himself. “Fine,” he responded and then, in one smooth motion, tapped the shoulder of the girl who had been pressing against him as she made out with her boyfriend, causing her to whip around. The girl barely got a word in before Ponyboy curled his hand and swung hard and fast. The girl cried out, clutching her nose. 

She was being dramatic, honestly. He had barely tapped her.

“Baby!”

The guy, who had his back turned to them, peered around, and then wrapped an arm around her protectively. His teeth were a row of gold and black. “Who the fuck—!”

“He did it!” Ponyboy shouted, pointing a finger at Dallas.

Dallas groaned. “Oh, you little–.”

The guy threw his punch, cracking it right across Dallas’ cheekbone.

And that’s when things went from bad to worse.

Dallas was quick to return the blow, never one to back down from a fight, even one that he hadn’t been the cause of. Yet in doing so, he bumped into another drunk. The guy yelled gibberish at Dallas, who had been busy dodging another blow from the boyfriend, and, in one clean motion, caused the boyfriend to wipe out the third drunk. And, well, one could guess where it went from there. 

Dallas whipped around on Ponyboy, who had been making his way through the pack of snarling drunks already. “Get back here you fucker!” He screamed, face red. The boyfriend already had his hands on him again. “Steve, get ‘im!”

“Ponyboy!” Steve called, but it was too late for him. A ripple had been sent through the crowd, and there was no escaping it. The third drunk guy, confused, had cocked back a fist and sloppily slugged Steve across the face. A crack could be heard as flesh met flesh.

Ponyboy recalled learning about Newton’s Third Law of Motion in science class his eighth grade year. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Ponyboy figured that the Third Law of Motion could be applied to what was happening at the Black Lamb at the moment.  Ponyboy hit the boyfriend; the boyfriend hit Dallas; the boyfriend then hit a third drunk guy, who was too drunk to tell the difference, and plowed into Steve. And so forth. Absolute anarchy began to spread throughout the tightly packed Black Lamb. Fights broke out like gonorrhea in a high school. People who tried to step in between the skin-to-skin battles only received the same treatment. Everyone loved to fight just a little too much. It was pure, unadulterated chaos. 

Honestly, Ponyboy’s plan was working a little too well. He just wanted to distract Dallas and Steve, not start an entire bar brawl. But he couldn’t dwell too long on the thought. 

Ponyboy ripped through the warring horde, clinging to the walls. The racket had only gotten louder as people screamed profanities at each other. He watched in horror as people picked up chairs and broke them over people’s backs. He covered his head and forded through the mayhem. He was bumped into and pushed around and nearly caught by fists. Broken bottles flew, a fast-paced country song blared, and Ponyboy stumbled when two guys who were going neck to neck crashed into him. He fell hard and fast, ribs catching the sharp edge of a table. 

Ponyboy groaned and slid to the sticky ground, hiding underneath the table. He prayed that Dallas and Steve weren’t doing too badly. Hopefully, they hadn’t gotten too rusty in the time he had been gone. 

With a hiss, he pulled his hands off his bruising ribs and crawled hand and foot underneath the mass of people. Feet danced all around him, and he was careful to stay clear of them all. People stepped on his bad arm and injured toes, but he pushed on through, heading towards where he thought he saw the doors. He had no idea if he was going the right direction to be frank.

Then, a black boot caught him in the ribs again, hard enough to make him wince. He rolled over. 

“What the—.”

Ponyboy looked up, and his eyes widened. 

A long, dark face stared back at him, a scar slicing from temple to chin. Dark eyes widened. “Ponyboy—?.”

Ponyboy jumped to his feet. “Tim,” he shouted over the noise, grabbing a bewildered Tim Shepard by the shoulders. He looked around and, thankfully, just to the right of him, Ponyboy saw it. The exit. “Look out!” He pointed a finger behind Tim. 

Tim ducked , oblivious to his bluff, and Ponyboy took off, beelining it for the door.

“Wait, come back here!” Tim called, but Ponyboy ignored him, and the older boy was soon lost to the rise and fall of the battling mob. He reached out, hand cupping the smooth door knob, and stumbled in the cold night air. 

The door closed behind him. He flew down the steps of the exit and into the parking lot, where a thin sheet of snow already lay. His head spun and his feet burned something awful, sending waves of pain up his legs. He limped forward, unaware of his surroundings. He clutched his bad arm to his chest. The brawl had spread out in the parking lot. The noise was unbearable. He could hear the sweet call of the police sirens, no doubt coming their way, and he flinched harshly when someone was thrown out of the window to his right. Ponyboy watched, mouth as wide as a gaping fish, at the unconscious man. Blood poured from his face.

Your fault, your fault, your fault—

He walked a little faster, dragging the foot he was pretty sure was broken. His head spun; the world spun.

Maybe he could hot wire a car—?

Ponyboy was so caught up in his pathetic, little escape plan and the fact that he had started a bar brawl that people might be getting killed in, that he didn't see the guy in front of him before he nearly landed flat on his ass.

Ponyboy floundered backwards. A head reached out and caught him by the wrist, pulling him back to his feet. “Hey, who the fuck do ya—.”

The guy, a greaser through and through with beady little eyes and yellow teeth, growled. Actually growled. Like a dog. “Sodapop fucking Curtis.” The grip tightened painfully. “I was wonderin’ ya been hidin’. And so far away from that big brotha of yers…”

Ponyboy looked back at the bar frantically and then at the hood in front of him. One other guy, just as mean with similarly red hair, stood around a black Buick with a plain face. He reeked of bloodlust. “Be cool, kid,” he said, lifting his shirt to reveal a silver heater tucked into his waistband. “Or else.”

 “I ain’t—,” Ponyboy swallowed. He looked at the gun with wide eyes. These guys were serious. “I ain’t Sodapop Curtis. Now, let me go .”

The guy leaned in, close enough that he could smell the thick cologne on him. Ponyboy leaned away, pulling on his wrist. “No, you ain’t,” he said with an air of disappointment. “Lame. Ya look just like ‘im. Despite the smell. Jesus, were ya rollin’ around with the pigs?”

“Hey, B,” said the other. “Don’t he kinda look like that missin’ kid? Curtis’ brother?”

Ponyboy felt his heart drop to his stomach. “What? That’s just wrong—.”

The guy leaned again, even closer. “Hmm,” his lips curled up. “I guess he kinda does. What was that kid’s name? Something dumb like Curtis’.”

“Ponyboy,” added the other one with a nod.

“Oh, yeah. Ponyboy. ” Their eyes met. Ponyboy forced himself to keep eye contact. He held out his other hand. Ponyboy only eyed it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. M’name’s Bones. Bone Jeffreys. And I know you ain’t been in town for a while, my freind, so I’ll fill ya in. Yer brother owes me a lotta money and it’s time for him to pay his dues.”

Oh, Soda. What’ve ya gotten yourself into this time?

“Shit,” Ponyboy said, pursing his lips.

“Yeah. Shit. Charlie, hit ‘im.”

The redheaded brother grinned at the order. Ponyboy barely had an opportunity to fight back, ripping his wrist away, before the gun was pulled out of a waistband, raised like the sharp edge of an executioner's axe, and brought down. Ponyboy saw stars, and he thought of Johnny and him lying down in the lot, reading the stars and talking about their dreams. Red bled into his vision as he hit the ground, and, in the confused state of his mind, he saw Johnny lying across from him, a peaceful look on his face. “ Rest,” Johnny told him. 

And Ponyboy did.

Chapter Text

When Ponyboy came to, blinking back the goop that had collected behind his eyes, he had two thoughts: the first was that his head really, really hurt, and the second was that he was in a moving car. Panic swept through him, overpowering the pounding in his skull, and his eyes flew open. He looked out and saw the back of a car seat. Muffled by the buzzing in his ears, he could hear people speaking in the front excitedly. He was in the backseat, it seemed, and by the way metal dug into his already sore and bruising wrists, handcuffed. Ponyboy mentally groaned. At least, he thought to himself. I'm not in the trunk again.

Ponyboy blinked away some of the dots in his vision and listened to their conversation.

"—should've won! Little Hoof's been winning all season. If you want my opinion, it's that hood fucker's fault! He's throwin' all the horses off. A Greaser who jockeys!"

"Bones."

Ponyboy closed his eyes as they passed another car, the headlights burning his retinas. Pain exploded behind his skull like a landmine and he bit his lip, drawing blood, in order to keep quiet. The sick feeling in his stomach rose and fell. He could barely think straight, thoughts viscous like a thick soup. Vaguely, he felt like he should be concerned with finding a way to escape the moving car. But it was muddled and confusing. Ponyboy recalled a time, a few years ago, when Two-Bit had gotten his fingers stuck in one of those Chinese Finger Traps from the fair. Nobody was willinging to help him, because it was too funny not to let him wallow in his misery. It had taken almost three hours before Darry had caved and cut it off with his pocket knife, but only because Two had started yelling at the top of his lungs. Ponyboy wondered what ol’ Two-Bit was up to right now — probably getting drunk and having himself a ball. Not getting kidnapped and tied up for the…

Hmm, Ponyboy really wasn’t sure what number this was. It felt like a lot. Maybe that was the sort of thing you should keep track of.

"No, Charlie, hear me out," the driver waved the passenger off. He was a damn maniac behind the wheel, even more so than Steve, which said a lot. "There's a natural order to things here! It don't hurt none to have a Grease who runs in the rodeo, practically where they belong, anyways. But, the horse races—?”

"Bones."

Ponyboy nearly vomited when the driver took a sharp right turn, throwing him into the car door. Sweat — and was that blood? — beaded off his forehead, and he swallowed back the bile that had risen up his throat. But at least there wasn’t much in his stomach to puke up. 

He had no idea how the hell he was supposed to escape like this. 

God, he was tired. Maybe if the driver could ease up on the steering a little, Ponyboy could get some rest in. And when he woke up, he could figure out a good escape plan. Yeah, that would be nice…

The driver continued. "It’s just plain wrong! And ya know what? That Dallas Winston probably cheated. Yeah! 'Causing me trouble ev’rywhere he goes, don't he? Maybe we should teach 'im and that horse a lesson, eh, Charlie?”

Dallas Winston?

“Bones.”

“God, what. What the hell could ya possibly—.”

“The kid’s awake.”

The driver slammed on the breaks and Ponyboy practically flew into the passenger seat. His forehead smacked the headrest with a brutal slap and he saw Mom and Dad for a moment. “Glory!” He yelped, blinking back stars. He looked towards – what was his name again? Femur or something – the crackhead driver through his bangs. God, his head was pounding. 

“Coulda stop that?!” He hissed.

The driver jerked in his seat and Ponyboy remembered something about getting pistol whipped by some guys outside the Black Sheep. Something involving Soda, maybe. They seemed…murderous. Ponyboy couldn’t believe he was saying this, but he almost wished he had stayed with Dallas and Steve. Maybe they could have figured something out, so that he didn’t have to go back home. It was better than the situation he had walked right into.

Christ, how did he always end up face first in an ocean of trouble? 

A shit-eating grin spread out on the driver’s face. His red hair stuck to his face in oily clumps and a snaggle tooth pressed into his top lip. “Little Curtis is awake. Gotta say, I thought ya was out cold.”

“I’ve gotta hard head,” he replied thickly. 

“Hah! Yer a little comedian, just like yer brother,” Bones laughed. The windshield wipers beating furiously. “Though, he’s gotta prettier face for sure. You look like one of them, um, uh — ah hell, Charlie, what’s the word?”

“Mountain men,” added Charlie monotonously. “Keep drivin’, Bone.” 

Bones! That was his name! Yeesh, what a dumb name. At least Ponyboy was creative.

Ponyboy grimaced, struggling to think straight. It felt something had been shaken loose in his head and was being tossed around in a washing machine. 

Bones none-too gently pressed on the gas once more and took off like a bullet down the road. Ponyboy rolled his inflamed head to the side and looked out his window, cheek cold against the glass. It was snowing pretty good outside, almost appearing to be soft, white smears of paint. The sky glowed with the orange hue of an incoming storm, eerie as it was breathtaking. It had snowed like this the day his parents had died. Sweet and innocent, a winter wonderland where nothing bad should ever happen. But it had. And Ponyboy’s life had only gotten worse and worse.

Ponyboy pushed his head back gently on the headrest of his seat, closing his eyes. He jiggled his hurting wrists in the handcuffs. There was definitely not going to be any slipping out of them, even with the bandages on his right arm. Speaking of his arm, it throbbed dully and he prayed all this activity wouldn’t worsen it even more than it already had.

He licked his lips. “Hey, could ya loosen these?”

“Why the hell would I do that?” Bones cried. He smacked the dashboard. “Yer cat-eral, horseboy—.”

“Ponyboy,” he corrected.

“—and I ain't got any intention of returnin’ ya until yer big brother pays me back,” he watched Ponyboy in the rearview mirror, eye one squinted. “I’ll say this: Sodapop Curtis is one hell of a poker player, but never, ever loan that mangy dog money in a game. Otherwise he’s gonna squander it all! I’ve been patient, really. Gave him a month. But, I ain't gonna wait anymore. But, with you bein’ missing’ and all, I’m sure he’ll be mighty interested in gettin’ me' my money back in exchange for yer safe return. Otherwise…well, I guess we’ll hafta wait and see what happens next.”

Ponyboy frowned, the threat completely going over his head. 

That couldn’t be right. He wasn’t missing. He should be wanted, or something like that. “Missing?”

“Yup,” Bones nodded. “One smart cookie, ya are.”

Ponyboy squeezed his eyes shut, thoughts sticking together like wet pasta on a wall. If Bones did all that— he’d have no choice but to go home. And Darry would never let him go again. His usual plan of fighting his way out wouldn’t work this time, it seemed. So, he had to find the hole here. The thing he could use against them, stick his finger in, and stretch enough to wiggle himself free. Bones seemed like a real idiot, but Charlie…he seemed a lot less erratic. Rational. Harder to twist up. He had to be careful. 

So, Ponyboy fought through the pain swelling in his head, brain pressing against his skull, and pressed Bones for more information. “How much does Soda owe?” He asked, trying to seem as innocent as possible. 

“Five hundred bucks.”

Ponyboy’s jaw dropped. “Five… five hundred dollars?”

“Yup,” Bones nodded. “Maybe what you lack in looks, you make up with brain.”

What the actual hell had Sodapop gotten himself into. Ponyboy felt himself deflate. Five hundred dollars was more than what Darry, who worked two jobs, made in a single year. Maybe even double.

God, he was so screwed. Bones was going to kill him. There was no way either of the brothers, even with Dallas or Tim’s help, were getting that kind of money. Not that he wanted them to save him. He was just worried about his brothers. 

The guy blew straight through a stop sign, earning him a very strongly worded honk. 

“Pay attention,” Charlie softly corrected. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Bones snapped, then turned around his seat to look back at Ponyboy. Ponyboy glared back at him. “Hey, I gotta question for you, now. The cops were mighty interested in ya a few months back. Pulled out all the stops. Face all over the news…So, where’ve ya been? Jail? Canada? I gotta buddy who thinks ya ran off and joined the war.”

Ponyboy rolled his eyes, wincing when the motion made his head spin. He bit back his initial response: Like Imma tell you that after ya fuckin’ kidnapped me. But, he didn’t say that. Instead, he swallowed back the pain and played into it. “On the run.”

“Oooooh,” Bones whistled. “Ya did the Soc boy in good, didn’t ya?” 

“I guess,” Ponyboy shrugged. He physically forced all thoughts of Bob away. He didn’t want to think about him right now. Or ever. 

“So, where’d ya go?” Bones pressed, taking the bait. The car had slowed now that his attention had been caught somewhere else.

“Around,” Ponyboy said casually, eager to move on from the topic of Bob Sheldon. He thought a little blissfully of what his life had been like the past few months. It was hard, all you could ever concern yourself with was your next meal and where you would get it. But that’s what made it so simple. It was freeing, the way the wind would blow through his hair as he jumped from car to car and the rush of nearly being caught by the inspector. He liked to pretend he was a sailor leaning off the mast or a highwayman in search of a maiden to debauble. He lived a life one could only possibly begin to entertain from a book; it was like catching lightning in a bottle.

“The train’ll take ya anywhere,” Ponyboy continued after a long moment. “Austin and Detroit and Lexington. Places far away from Tulsa. America’s a lot bigger than this city here, ya know. We got deserts, man. And lakes that look like the ocean. Tulsa don’t seem so important when you've been ‘round. We’re just dust in the wind.”

Ponyboy never knew where he would end up next, allowing the train to take him anywhere it pleased. There was something comforting about that, giving into the unexpected. Sometimes, Ponyboy could pretend Tulsa and everything in it didn't exist. He could be someone else, just for a moment.

Bones was quiet for a moment before he cracked a mocking laugh. “Yer lyin’.”

“W hat ,” Ponyboy shouted. “I ain’t lyin’!”

“L-A-I-R,” Bones spelled out childishly.

Ponyboy kicked his seat. “That spells lair , dumbass!”

Bones straightened, hands gripping the steering wheel. In the rear view mirror, even in the dark, Ponyboy could see how red he had gotten in the face. “Don’t correct me! I’ll kill ya,” he sputtered, nearly driving them straight into a mailbox. The only reason they didn’t was because of a quick save from Charlie, who had grabbed the steering wheel. 

“Calm down,” he bit out, looking back and sending Ponyboy a dirty look. 

Ponyboy met his steely gaze back while Bones continued his frenzied rant. “Yer friend’s a psycho,” he told him.

This only spurred Bones on further. “Psycho? Psycho?! I’ll do it, ya little fucker. Put ya outta yer misery. I don’t really need ya! I’ll gut ya and slice ya and put a bullet between yer eyes—.”

Ponyboy’s eyes wandered from Charlie’s almost agitated gaze to the front windshield. He felt his heart skip a beat when he saw the image of a car coming up fast in front of them, hidden by the darkness and the light snowfall, and then the red twinge of a stop sign. 

“Jesus, look out—! ” 

Charlie followed his eyes. “Ah, hell.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Bones had slammed on the break on instinct, not considering the fact that it was snowing. By breaking hard and fast, Bones had effectively slingshotted his car into the back of the one sitting at the stop sign. 

Ponyboy prayed to his mother that he wouldn’t die like this.

The second the two cars made contact, everyone was ejected out of their seats. Charlie was thrown forward into the dashboard with a mighty crack, neck bending at an odd angle as it caught his seat belt. Bones, who hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt apparently, was launched out of his seat and into the windshield, smooshed up like a bug underneath it. His face whacked the glass and immediately bursted with red, the windshield spider-webbing from the force. 

Ponyboy, even though he had braced for impact and was wearing his seatbelt, hadn’t been saved in the slightest. His head smacked the back of the passenger side head rest once more. Pain burst like a lightning strike in his head, and then the world went black. The world was metallic and sharp, like the serrated edge of a kitchen knife being gouged between his eyes. Around him, his surroundings had become blurry and distorted; his head was being pushed under water again, water filling his burning lungs, and he couldn't breath. Why couldn’t he breathe? God, Johnny was dying, dying, dying; Bob was dead, dead, dead—

“Were ya even payin’ attention? God, my car, man! It’s gonna take forever to get this fixed!” 

Ponyboy groaned, head rolling. His eyes fought him as he swam back up to the real world, breathing coming in shallow.

“Yer car? Yer car! ” Ponyboy could tell by the way the second voice had the faint air of a small dog barking at another, bigger dog that this voice was Bones. “What about my face! My nose, oh God, my nose! It’s broke!”

“Then, maybe ya shouldn’t drive ‘round like an idiot, man!”

“Maybe you shouldn't stop in the middle of the damn road!”

“I was at a stop sign, buddy!”

“Don’t ya fuckin’ buddy me…,” Bones said breathlessly.

“Let it go, B,” Charlie said from his side. By the way all three voices were collected to the left of him, he could assume they were all outside the car, inspecting the damage and choosing to fight about it. Charlie seemed a little nervous, interestingly. “We have more important things to deal with.”

Ponyboy finally managed to open his eyes with a sharp hiss. Something hot and sticky dripped down his forehead. When he tried to press a hand to his aching head, he was brutally reminded of the fact that he was in fact handcuffs. Ponyboy moaned and peered out the window blearily. It felt like someone had beat his skull over and over again with a metal bat. Someone might as well have.

“Like what, Charlie. What could possibly be more important than the fact that our car is smokin’!”

“Like the kid.”

The third guy, the one they had hit, looked shocked. He was tall, towering inches over Bones, and sported red hair slicked back in complicated jelly rolls and huge sideburns. He looked…familiar. Painfully familiar. Ponyboy searched his bleeding mind for the answer and returned with nothing. 

“You have a kid in the car,” the guy said, aghast.

“He’s practically grown, it’s fine,” Bones said, looking at his partner in crime out of the corner of his eye. “And, uh, I think we really do oughta get goin’. Stuff to do…places to be.”

The guy shook his head in disbelief. “Is the kid okay? I don’t hear screamin’ and every kid I’ve ever met can’t stop screamin’. It’s the charmin’ looks,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.

“Does it even mat—.” Bones was cut off when Charlie jabbed him in his shoulder. “ Ow! He’s okay, geez. Kid’s grow back, right?”

Ponyboy blinked and thought to himself: That guy’s really worried about the kid in the car. But there ain’t a kid in here. 

And then he thought, starkly: Imma a kid, though. Are they talkin’ about me?

And then: Wait, a damn minute—

Ponyboy inhaled sharply and screamed bloody murder. 

“Help me!” He kicked the seats, jostling his throbbing head. The possible-probable concussion didn’t matter, really, in the grand scheme of things. Who cared if he made it worse. “These guys are psychos! They kidnapped me! Help me! Heeeeeeelp! ”

Silence. “I think I oughta check on this kid.”

Bones and Charlie shared a look. “No, it’s okay, you don’t have to check at all—.”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you—.”

Ponyboy watched as the guy, despite the other two’s protests, practically marched through the pair and towards the rear door. He continued his wailing as the guy did so, to give him a little more encouragement. “Help me! The short guy said he was gonna kill me and leave my body in a ditch and—.”

The words died on his lips as the door was thrown open and his mind finally realized who the two Stooges had hit, puzzle pieces clicking. A very familiar face stared back at him.

“Aw, shucks,” he cursed with a click of his tongue.

“Ponyboy?” Two-Bit asked, voice strangled. 

Ponyboy hung his head. He was supposed to be the next train out of here by now. It was never ending, the mess he had found himself in it, wasn’t it? Could this night go any worse? The answer, it appeared, was a resounding yes.

“Hey, Two,” he said blandly.

Two-Bit seemed to be in a state of shock, a wind-up toy caught in a corner. “You— But,  you—.”

Two-Bit stiffened then, eyes still wide but frightened now, and Ponyboy remembered that Bones and Charlie hadn’t tried to stop him from opening the door. And Charlie had a gun. He could see their silhouettes outside the door, parting the snow, and Ponyboy had a gut feeling that at this rate – and he had absolutely no idea how – that his night was only going to keep on getting worse and worse.

Two-Bit was frozen, arms stuck up on the roof of the car. His hazel eyes met Ponyboy’s and he gave him a shaky, sad grin. “Sooo, you come here often, Pony?”

Ponyboy chuckled a little at that, even though it sounded more like a choke.

“Shut up, man! Don’t move. Don’t even breathe,” Charlie said behind Two-Bit. His hand was pressed into the Two-Bit’s side and by the pale expression on his friend’s face, Ponyboy could only assume that the gun had come out to play. “Bones, go get the kid out of the car.”

“Don’t tell me—.”

“Just do it, man!” Charlie snapped, losing his cool for the first time that night. And by the way Two-Bit had grimaced, it seemed he had pressed the head of the gun deeper into Two-Bit’s side.

Ponyboy watched his friend with a tight grimace and a sinking feeling. Their eyes met once more and Two-Bit plastered his signature smile back on. “ Don’t worry,” he mouthed.

Ponyboy thought that was a stupid thing to say, considering he was handcuffed and concussed and Two-Bit had a literal gun buried in his ribs.

Bones huffed, grumbling to himself as he walked around the car. Ponyboy glared at him with as nasty an expression he could manage when the greasy hood threw open the door. Bones pursed his lips. “Get out,” he ordered.

“No,” Ponyboy said and hoped Darry wasn’t around to hear what he had to say next. “Fuck you.”

Bones’ hand flew forward and grabbed Ponyboy by the hair, pulling hard. “Get – out! ”

Ponyboy yelped when the action jostled his very-much-concussed head, the edges of vision sparking with fireworks. Still, he fought the offending hand, digging his nails into flesh. “ No! Let me go!”

“Hey, paws off!” That had to be Two-Bit. “Yer hurtin’ ‘im!”

Bones ignored them both and yanked harder. “Get outta the car, kid!”

“Let go—! ” Ponyboy screeched. He felt sick. His ears rang.

“Leave him alone or I swear to God—!” Two-Bit yelled. 

“Stop it! All of you!” Charlie howled, even louder than Two-Bit. Bones stopped and Ponyboy blinked away the tears that formed in the corner of his eyes. He gasped, coming down from his panic. 

“Get outta the car, kid, or I’ll put a bullet in yer friend! Understand?’

Ponyboy froze, the rabbit caught in the trap of the wolf. He craned his neck, making bile rise up his throat, and looked out towards a pissed-off Two-Bit and tight-lipped Charlie. Charlie was a wild card, and Ponyboy, with or without the concussion, never would be able to tell if he would actually pull the trigger on Two. He caught the glint of something metal in the street lamp. He hated guns, he decided then. Hated them with all his might. 

Ponyboy relaxed, only enough to appease Charlie. He would go low, if Bones tried anything like that again. “Fine. Undo my seatbelt.”

“What was that?” Bones said, fingers still caught in Ponyboy's messy hair. His scalp stung something fierce and it felt like there were miners inside his skull, picking away at the bone with their tools.

Ponyboy fought the rolling of his stomach and shot daggers up at Bones. It was hard to speak, words like syrup. “I said, undo my seatbelt. My hands ain’t free here.”

Bones raised an open hand, and Ponyboy braced for impact dully. He was too tired to care. 

“Don’t you dare— .”

“Bones!”

Bones stopped mid-air, having the audacity to seem chaffed. “ What , Charlie.”

Charlie seemed exasperated. “Jesus, man. Just unbuckle the damn kid!”

Bones groaned, muttering something under breath about annoying brothers, and released his hold on Ponyboy’s hair with a non-too gentle shove. At least, he did slip under the hood of the car and undo the seatbelt, releasing Ponyboy. Ponyboy had to restrain himself greatly in order to not bring his knee up to Bones’ broken nose and break it again. The consequences would be dire, no matter how satisfying hurting Bones would be. He allowed his captor to pull him out of the car roughly and treaded on numb feet. He was marched around the trunk, and finally faced with a humorless Two-Bit. Ponyboy shifted, unable to meet his gaze. He didn’t think he could think of one time that Two-Bit hadn’t had a joke on his lips. It unnerved him.

Two-Bit’s eyes were stormy as they looked at him head to toe, hands balled up tightly at his hips. The gun was still pressed into his ribs, but he didn't seem to even realize it was there. All he could see was Ponyboy. 

“Did ya have him all this time,” Two-Bit asked them both, voice low. It sounded as if Dallas Winston was speaking, not easy-going and good natured Keith Matthews. “‘Cause if ya did, I swear to everythin’ that’s holy, I will kill ya.”

Bones snorted and pushed Ponyboy against the car, just bedside where Two-Bit stood. He nearly collapsed against it. “Nah, found him half an hour ago crawling out of the Black Sheep.”

Two-Bit frowned and looked at Ponyboy, a question in his eyes. “What’s he mean by that, Pony?”

Ponyboy didn’t answer him. He didn’t know what to say. Or if he even could.

The three of them all stood under a quiet, stormy sky, a standoff. Their breaths swirled up and above them. No one dared to move, lest they face the consequences. 

Ponyboy didn’t have much of a plan at the moment, besides not getting freaking shot. He was beginning to think that he wasn’t the problem here, it was Tulsa herself. The second he had crossed the city limits, Tulsa had sunk her claws in him, refusing to let go. Why else would every single time he made a run for it, he was caught? Ponyboy seemed only to be digging himself a deeper hole with every choice he made. And frankly, he was starting to get a little frustrated. Did Tulsa – or God – want him to go to jail? That was the only natural conclusion to this story. Did he just have to accept his fate? Or did have to keep running forever and ever, in hopes that he might find the right path? 

Ponyboy bit his lip. It hurt to think. 

“So, what’s the plan here,” Bones said. He smacked his hands together, an eager grin on his face. “Ransom ‘em both?”

Two-Bit shook his head, some of his humor returned. “Okay, sorry, who’re you? I’m a little out of the loop here. Actually, I’m very much not in the loop, thank you.”

Bones seemed offended. “Who am—?” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m Bones Jeffreys! Gambler, loan shark, grifter. How do ya not know who I am?”

Two-Bit scratched the scruff on his chin. “Honestly, with a dumb name like that I think I would remember ya.” He shrugged. “But I don’t.”

Bones gawked. “My name ain’t dumb!”

“Is to.”

“ No! ” Bones jabbed a finger in his face. “It ain’t!”

Two-Bit pushed it away. “Then, why’re ya called Bones? ”

“”Cause ya cross me and I leave nothin’ but bones!”

Two-Bit shrugged, unimpressed. “Boring. I’d give it two stars.”

“Why ya—.’ Bones was getting red-faced, nearly about to pop his cork again, and Ponyboy watched with interaction with increasing worry. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with Two-Bit, or hated the fact that he was goading him, he was just still reeling from what had happened last time Bones had gone off his rocker. I.e, concussion. He leaned heavily against the car, inching away from the both of them. Ponyboy swayed where he stood and rubbed his ears with his shoulders mindlessly, attempting to clear them of their faint ringing.

Two-Bit winced. Ponyboy assumed Charlie had buried the head of the gun into his side again. “Stop it. For the love of God, just shut up. Bones, where’s the keys to the cuffs?”

That seemed to shake Bones out of his tirade. “The keys?”

“ Yes. The keys,” Charlie said slowly, as if talking to a child. “We’re lettin’ ‘em go.”

Ponyboy felt himself perk up at this. Letting him go? Would it really be that easy?

Bones' dark eyes were wide and confused. “But—.”

“No,” Charlie interrupted firmly. “I don’t know what shit this kid has gotten himself into, but I don’t wanna be a part of it anymore. He’s practically dead on his feet, and I don’t want that shit on my conscience. And don't even think of telling me otherwise.”

And then, the strangest thing happened. Bones deflated, shoulders dropping. Like a scolded child. “How the hell else am I s’pposed to get my money from his mangy brother than?”

“Uh, woah. Hold yer horses,” Two-Bit interrupted, hands out to physically stop the conversation. “One of the Curtises owes you two hoods money?’

“Soda owes ‘em five hundred dollars,” Ponyboy whispered at his side, eyes half-lidded.

Two-Bit’s jaw dropped to the ground. “ Five hundred — holy shit. No wonder he and Steve’ve been sneakin’ ‘round lately. Glory. Five hundred dollars…”

“I think we should go with my plan,” Bones said at once, invigorated. He crossed his arms with a nod. “Ransom ‘em both. Clearly the annoyin’ one’s friends with Sodapop, too. More the merrier, I say.”

Charlie shook his head. “I don’t want a dead kid on my hands, Bones.”

Ponyboy scoffed. “Hey, I ain’t gonna die .”

Sure, he felt like one strong breeze away from collapse, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to die. He had been through worse. Something like a concussion wouldn’t do him in.

“You can barely stand up straight,” Charlie snapped.

Ponyboy opened his mouth, prepared to fight back, but was cut-off by Two-Bit. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Hey, I gotta question.”

“What?” Charlie and Bones said at the same time.

“Soda owes you five hundred exactly, right?”

Bones nodded. “Lost it in a game.”

Two-Bit grinned loosely. “Well, it just might be your lucky day, fellas. I got five hundred dolla-roonies in sittin’ in the trunk of the car ya just crashed into.”

Ponyboy furrowed his brows.

What was Two-Bit’s game? He had known Two-Bit for a long, long time and not once had the guy had more than a nickel on him at a time. He didn’t need money when he could just slip whatever the hell he wanted under his shirt and walk out the door. Still, Ponyboy knew to play along. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from the king of bluffs. “It’s true,” he mumbled. “I’ve seen it. Keeping cash in the car is better than under the mattress, ol’ Two always says.”

Two-Bit agreed with a slight smirk.

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Yer lyin’.”

Two-Bit crossed his fingers behind his back. “I would never. Not with a gun to my ribs.”

The two brothers shared a look. Bones eyed Two-Bit’s mangled truck suspiciously. It was cast under the flickering light of a street light, snow falling gently. The bumper was hanging by a thread.

“It don’t hurt to look,” Two-Bit pressed. “Ain’t like it’s boobytrapped or nothin’.”

“He’s hoodwinkin’ us, Bones,” Charlie rolled his eyes.

“ Me? Two-Bit Matthews would never hoodwink nobody!”

Bones’ eyes narrowed. “I’m lookin’,” he said with a firm nod and then began to saunter over to the rusty Bug.

Charlie scoffed. 

Ponyboy looked up at Two-Bit, hoping he’d find what his grand plan was in his expression. 

Two-Bit winked and mouthed the word, Watch.

Ponyboy did. He turned his head, blinking back his dizziness, as Bones trudged over Two-Bit’s car, slipped his hands under the trunk door, and pulled up with all his might. It didn’t budge. He tried it again with a great heave with the same result. 

 “Hey!” Bones cried. 

Two-Bit smacked his forehead. “Oh, silly me! I left it locked. Let me throw ya the keys. They're in my pocket,” he looked to his captor for permission, batting those long, red eyelashes. Charlie nodded impatiently, moving the gun up a little to allow Two-Bit to dig his hand into his jacket. 

“Ah! Here they are!”

But Two-Bit didn’t throw Bones the keys; instead, the friendly look on his face was completely wiped off. Charlie didn’t catch it soon enough. Two-Bit raised his arm suddenly, hitting Charlie’s arm with a fleshy thud. He gasped in shock. The gun loosened in the taller hood’s grip, and Two-Bit grabbed his wrist with two hands, the struggle beginning. The two hoods fought like dirty dogs for their prize, pushing and pulling. The piece hung above their heads like a gold medal, shiny and ethereal.

“Let go!” Charlie cried. “I’ll shoot!”

“Do it!” Two-Bit shouted with a crazed smirk, then let go all of a sudden. Charlie sucked in harshly, caught off guard, and stumbled in the snow. Within the blink of an eye, his face was caught by Two-Bit Mathew’s scarred knuckles. Spit sprayed and Two-Bit had wrenched the gun out of Charlie’s hand with ease, turning it on the two hoods. 

“Ooh! Too slow!” Two-Bit laughed with a bounce. “Now, hands up, assholes.”

Charlie raised his hands, scowling. Bones stopped a few paces behind his brother, copying the motion.

 “Good Ponyboy, get behind me.”

Ponyboy watched in amazement at how fast Two-Bit had turned the tides against the Jeffreys brothers. Or maybe it was because the cannon fire in his head had made it so that he was seeing in slow motion. Two-Bit looked back at him briefly, the gun unwavering. “Pony.”

With a groan, Ponyboy pushed off the back of the car and stumbled behind Two-Bit, blinking sluggishly. Two-Bit threw an arm back protectively, encouraging him to use him as a shield if things got ugly again. Ponyboy couldn't help but roll his eyes at the action. The most these two dunderheads had done was get into a car crash. Sure, they had threatened to kill him a few times, but that wasn’t entirely unusual for him.

Two-Bit cocked a brow at Bones. “If you like havin’ a buddy with no hole in his face, I’d get in the car. Oh, and leave those handcuff keys on the ground.”

Bones was red in the face again. “Ya dirty greaser! Is there even any money?”

“No, dumbass,” Two-Bit scoffed. Then motioned with his hands for Bones to get a move on. “Go!”

Bones hissed an unholy sound, sounding a lot like a pissed off teenage girl, and threw a pair of small keys to the ground.

Two was unimpressed. “Hey now, you can drop ‘em closer.”

Bones screeched and picked them up, marching over dropping them at Two-Bit’s feet. 

“Get in the car, now,” Two-Bit smirked, gesturing with the gun.

“Fuck you,” Bones spat and practically stomped over to the passenger side door, throwing it open and crawling inside. 

Two-Bit turned his attention back to Charlie. The amused expression had disappeared again and been replaced with something far too serious for Two-Bit Mathews. “Get in,” he said lowly, voice void of any of his previous delight. “Drive away. Forget about Sodapop and Ponyboy Curtis and the money they don’t owe ya no more, savvy? And I swear to God, if I ever hear that either of ya are anywhere near my gang again, if you put another finger on this kid’s head, I’ll pull this trigger. I mean it. Ya dig?”

Charlie looked at the gun and then Ponyboy, past Two-Bit’s shoulders. Ponyboy’s locked eyes with him and Charlie seemed resolved. He nodded. “I dig.”

“Then get out of here!” Two-Bit kicked the ground with his cowboy boots, stirring up the powdery snow. “Go on! Get!”

Charlie didn’t need to be told twice. He practically stumbled back into the car, one hand blindly searching for the door handle. Once he found it, never breaking eye contact with Two-Bit, he threw the door open and crawled inside. Bones burned holes in their heads from inside the cabin and Charlie slammed the door, starting a whispering match with his brother. The gun never left its target. The car started within seconds, whirring to life with an ear-splitting screech. After a moment it backed up in a halted motion, sputtering. Then, the car screamed as it was thrown back into drive, and it took off like a bat out of hell, swerving around Two-Bit’s car. The fender drug on the ground with a loud metallic hiss, igniting sparks. 

Ponyboy watched with a weak grin. He’d escaped again. Life: 0. Ponyboy: 4. But, he didn’t have the strength to celebrate it. All he wanted to do was sit down where he wobbled, lay his head down, and sleep for a hundred years. He hung his head, struggling a little in handcuffs. His arm hurt. His feet hurt. Everything hurt. Frankly, he wanted to die a little.

Ponyboy was tired. Still, he remembered now, he had to make it to the train station. Somehow. Some way.

Two-Bit whirled on him then, grabbing his shoulders. The gun clattered to the ground between them. “Are ya okay, kid? Geez, that’s a stupid question. You look like death warmed over.”

Ponyboy blinked slowly up at him, mind catching up. If it weren’t for Two-Bit holding him up, he thought he might have collapsed right there and then. He started at where Jeffery and his buddy were hauling ass off into the snow storm. And then back at Two-Bit. He hadn’t changed much in the time he was gone. His hair was still greasy, snow sticking to it. But there were dark, heavy circles under his eyes, like hadn’t been sleeping too well. He looks like Darry used to , Ponyboy realized. Stressed. There was something else there too, something off, that Ponyboy didn’t have the bandwidth to spell out.

“Kid?”

“I’m gonna puke,” Ponyboy announced and then, with little elegance, he vomited on Two-Bit’s shoes. 

Two-Bit, to his credit, held Ponyboy up as he emptied his stomach with violent jerks. He pushed his long, bleached hair back. The motion was shockingly gentle. “Aw, jeez, kid, I just got them washed.”

Ponyboy gasped as the nausea passed, his body quaking. He really couldn't stand up now. “Sorry,” he mumbled. 

“No biggie. I’ll just wipe ‘em off in the snow,” Two-Bit shrugged, adjusting his grip so that he was lifting Ponyboy up by his shoulders. He helped Ponyboy take a load off near the curb, looking at his head with a click of his tongue. Ponyboy’s bangs fell back against his face. “Look at yer head, Glory. Maybe I should’ve shot ‘em. Yer gonna have one hell of a bruise. 

Ponyboy allowed his head to fall between his knees limply. “ Two ,” he chastised. Assholes or not, Ponyboy didn’t want anybody dead. Whether or not the thing inside him, that creature that came out whenever he was pushed to the brink, would abide by that wish was up to God and the Devil. It was dormant now, sleeping, but he feared the day he’d make such a decision again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Two-Bit rolled his eyes. “Let’s get ya out of them cuffs, yeah?”

Ponyboy heard the scuffing of Two-Bit’s boots as he walked away, and he opened his eyes, watching him down the street. He wondered if he should try to make a run for it now and how far he would make it. But, Two-Bit didn’t have a concussion or injured feet. So, maybe not far. He was too tired and sick to bother.

Two-Bit returned, and Ponyboy shivered when he touched his shoulders. 

He got to work unlocking the handcuffs. “Jesus, kid these have damn near rubbed ya raw.”

Ponyboy didn’t feel like telling him that most of it was from the ropes Chevy had tied him up with. Glory, that felt like ages ago now. He wondered if maybe he should have just let Chevy kill him. Maybe that would have been easier.

The handcuffs unlocked with a click, and Ponyboy brought his sore arms forward with a groan, rolling his shoulders. He rubbed his wrists absently, hanging his head. He could use a smoke right about now.

Two-Bit threw the handcuffs and their keys into the bushes behind them, taking a seat next to him. He was uncharacteristically quiet for a minute before he spoke. “What happened to yer tuff, tuff hair?”

Ponyboy frowned. That…wasn’t the question he hadn’t been expecting. Maybe something more akin to, Where have you been? Why did you run? What the hell is wrong with you? He licked his lips, words like molasses. “Bleached it.”

“Oh. Why?”

Ponyboy shrugged with one shoulder. “I was on the run. My face was all over the news. It made sense at the time.”

Two-Bit nodded as that was the most logical thing he had ever heard, hands held out in front of him. He wrung them. “Ponyboy…why’d ya leave?”

Ponyboy scoffed and cradled his head in his hands. There it was, the question. Why had Ponyboy Curtis turned tail and run like a coward. He had been asking himself the same question over and over the past few months, wondering if he had made the right decision. And the honest truth was this: he didn’t know. Ponyboy had been scared for his life. Scared of being put in jail. Scared of his brothers. Scared of himself. It felt easier to simply vanish, to wash his hands of it all. But all Ponyboy had found in his travels was more hardship and bloodshed. Things hadn’t been made easier by running away, but he didn’t know what else to do but to keep on running away. Even now, all Ponyboy could think about was how he could Two-Bit the slip. 

He figured that maybe he owed his buddy a truth in exchange.

“I dunno, Two,” he said slowly. “I was scared.” It was a pathetic answer, he knew, but it was the dog's honest truth.

“But, Dally said that he told ya he was coming in a few days. All ya had to do was wait. I don’t know if I trust his judgment all the time, but he’s our buddy. He would’ve taken care of ya.”

Ponyboy closed his eyes, remembering that day. Watching from the tall grass as a golden sun rose on the church where Johnny slept, feeling resolved. “Maybe.”

Two-Bit rubbed his face “Glory, Pony. Where’d ya even go? Ain’t like we got friends outside of Tulsa.”

“Around.”

“ Around .”

Two-Bit changed tactics. “Okay, how’d ya end up in the back of them two buffoon’s car?”

“Like they said. Caught me outside the Black Sheep.”

“And what were ya doin’ at the Black Sheep of all places.”

Ponyboy thought for a moment. “Lookin’ for Soda.” It wasn’t a lie.

“Dammit, I’m gonna kill him. Darry told him time and time again to stay away from that place, and he just don’t listen,” Two-Bit scoffed. “So…where were ya before that. You been in Tulsa all this time?”

Ponyboy remained silent in his little cocoon. 

He could feel Two-Bit’s eyes on him. He released a heavy breath, splaying his hands. “Alright, alright, I won’t ask. We’ll put this conversation on the back burner. But…promise me you’ll tell me one day? For ol’ Two’s sake?”

“Sure, Two,” Ponyboy sighed. He could feel his eyes flutter closed, sleep pulling at the edges of his consciousness. It was cold out. His fingers were stiff, and his nose was red. Maybe the snow would make a good pillow.

“Hey, kid.” Two-Bit knocked his shoulder gently.

Ponyboy hummed.

“Ya know, I gotta take ya home now, right?”

That caught Ponyboy’s attention. He groaned, rolling his head to look up at his buddy tiredly. “C’mon, not you, too, Two.”

Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow. “Me, too?”

Ponyboy wondered if he should tell Two-Bit that the reason he was in Tulsa in the first place was because Steve and Dallas had practically drug him back by the scruff of his neck. He decided it was wise to not mention it. He didn’t want to encourage Two-Bit, or make him think that Ponyboy was planning on escaping again. As far as Two-Bit knew, he’d just blown into Tulsa like a tumbleweed.

What he needed to do was buy himself some more time. “I’m hungry.” He wasn’t lying. He was always hungry these days. But he had sort of learned to forget about his hunger, tucking it away until it became unbearable. Right now, the literal throbbing of his head overpowered it.

“I don’t know…,” Two-Bit said.

“Please, Two?” He begged, laying it on thick. “A hamburger or somethin’? And then, you can take me home, swear. I’m starvin’.” 

Two-Bit seemed torn. “Darry’ll skin me if I don’t take ya straight home…”

“ Please? It’s been days. All I can think about is a good hamburger.” 

Two-Bit slouched forward and Ponyboy knew he had won. He rubbed his neck. “Alright, geez,” and then he lit up, struck by a thought. Two-Bit grabbed Ponyboy’s shoulder, and he resisted the urge to shrug it off. “Hey, I know exactly where to go. I gotta buddy who’ll whip you up a damn good burger, Pony. Might even let us fix yer face up a little in the bathroom, too.”

Ponyboy gave him a tight smile. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Two-Bit repeated. He slapped his thought then stood up, stretching his arms. He, then, offered a hand out to Ponyboy. “Let’s go.”

Ponyboy eyed the hand, resenting the idea of needing help, but knew he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own without some help. He grabbed it tentatively, and Two-Bit heaved him forwards. Ponyboy felt his stomach flip when he tipped over, caught by Two–Bit’s arms. “Woah! Maybe yer in worse shape than I thought.”

Ponyboy pressed his lips together. “I’m fine,” he hissed, even though he was fighting the need to puke on Two-Bit’s boots again. 

Two-Bit threw Ponyboy’s arm over his neck, helping him walk. But he was too tall for Ponyboy, and his feet nearly floated over the ground. He gritted his teeth, and Two-Bit more or less dragged him over to his car, kicking the passenger side door open. Ponyboy allowed himself to be tucked away nice and neat into the seat, but drew the line at being buckled in. He smacked Two-Bit’s hand away, who grinned, and did it himself. 

“Be right back, kid.” Ponyboy dodged his attempt to ruffle his hair.

Ponyboy watched in the rearview mirror, head pressed against the cold glass, as Two-Bit ripped off the rest of his broken fender, opened the trunk that supposedly had five hundred dollars in it, and threw it inside. Two-Bit blew hot air into hands and popped his collar, meandering to take his spot beside Ponyboy. Inside the car, he ran his pocket comb through his hair nervously and seemed to be praying to his car. “Alright, ol’ girl,” he told the Bug, pushing the key in the starter. “Start for me, now. Them big, bad men are gone, and we gotta take Ponyboy here to eat somethin’.”

Two-Bit bit his lip as he turned the key and the Bug started with a low whine. He turned the key again, the engine pitching. “Come on, I know it’s cold, girl. Come on…Ponyboy can barely stand. Don’t make him do a push start…”

“ Hey, ” Ponyboy said with a little bite.

Two-Bit tried it again. “Just give her a moment…,” And then, by a miracle, Two-Bit’s nearly fifteen-year-old car, which ran off duck-tape and dreams roared to life. Two-Bit pumped an arm and gave the steering wheel a fat kiss. “Yes! I love you, baby! Yes, I do!”

Ponyboy grinned at his friend’s antics as Two-Bit undid the parking brake and eased the Bug into drive, rolling down the street. One headlight flickered to life. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the window, finding himself at an odd sense of peace. Sure, he was walking a thin tight-rope, terrified by the pool of hungry sharks at the bottom, but he had fought himself at an intersection for the time being. And that was the only break God was going to give him it seemed. 

Two-Bit snapped by his ear. “Hey! He, no sleepin’ on me now.”

Ponyboy groaned. 

“You got a concussion for sure. Darry really would skin me alive for lettin’ you sleep like that. Come’on now, up and at ‘em. Don’t wantcha fallin’ asleep and never wakin’ up.”

Ponyboy shot him daggers and rubbed his eyes, trying to stay awake. For his own sake, or something. He guessed it would be counterproductive to die before he got the chance to get the hell out of Tulsa. So, he leaned forward and rubbed his legs. It was chilly in Two’s car. That was when something caught his attention, something he had missed when he had first entered the car. It was absolutely covered with papers; they were on the floorboards and in thick piles in the backseat. Curious, Ponyboy picked one up that was lying on the dashboard. He read it. 

MISSING

Ponyboy Micheal Curits

Age 14, Red-brown hair, 5’ 6”, Green eyes, 120lbs

Last seen in Windrixville

If seen please call, +1 (918) 333-3321

Or, Tulsa Police Department

Ponyboy felt something get caught in his throat. The paper trembled in his hand. It didn’t make sense. At all. He grabbed his forehead with a moan, careening forward.

“Darry made those,” Two-Bit said at his side. “The pigs didn’t do shit after the first week. They said you’ere a runaway and if you wanted to come home, ya would. So, Darry called up Tulsa World and made ‘em run this story ‘bout you. It was heart-warmin’, really. They did an interview on the radio. Never seen Darry cry the way he did in that booth.”

Ponyboy shook his head numby. “I never read any of that,” he whispered.

“That’s alright. Buncha hogwash, anyways. The papers painted ya out to be some law-abiddin’, school-lovin’ goody-two-shoes. Not that ya ain’t a good kid, but they just weren’t interested in includin’ the fact that yer a Grease.”

Ponyboy looked at the picture. It was his eighth grade yearbook photo. His mom had done his hair for it, kissing him on the cheek and calling him handsome, and his dad had allowed him to use his good cologne, the stuff he had brought back with him from France. It was strange to think that it had been taken a little over a year ago, considering how different he was to the little boy in that picture. Where he was once vibrant and colorful, now stood a boy with dead-gray eyes, hollow cheeks, and deep bruises. Ponyboy mourned that boy, wanting nothing more than to take him in his arms and tell him to make good decisions. Don’t be stupid. Don’t forget the frosting. Don’t fall asleep in the lot. 

“I– I don’t have green eyes,” he whispered.

Two-Bit looked at him oddly, then shrugged. “Whatever ya say.”

“I just—,” he licked his lips. “Why does it say I’m missin’, Two?”

“Uh, ‘cause you are. Were. Glory.”

Ponyboy grew more and more desperate. “But that can’t be right.”

“Why can’t it be?” Two-Bit smiled tightly, glancing at him. He laughed. “Watcha think it’s s’pposed to say? Wanted: Ponyboy Curtis?”

Ponyboy didn’t say anything, just looked at his buddy desperately. Because, yes, that was what it was supposed to say.

Two-Bit’s jaw dropped and looked frantically back and forth from the road and Ponyboy. “Ponyboy, kid, you aren’t wanted. That’s just…that’s dumb!”

“But—,” Ponyboy deflated, crawling inside himself, feeling childish. Vulnerable. His voice was nothing more than a whisper. “I killed Bob Sheldon.”

Two-Bit blinked, speechless. “Pony…” He stared at the steering wheel for a moment before pulling over to the side of the road, putting the car in park. Ponyboy pressed himself into the car door, as far away from Two-Bit as he could. He frantically ripped away at his nails, mind racing with all the possibilities. A mistake, maybe?

Two-Bit smoothed out the sides of his hair, then took a deep breath and looked at Ponyboy. “Kid, I need ya to understand somethin’, alright. Because I think…somethin’ got lost in translation here.”

Ponyboy popped his knuckles, the world around him growing smaller and smaller. “What?” It was hardly more than a whisper. What did Two-Bit have to say? Was he wanted for murder or not? Did they go ahead with the trail without him, and he was headed for the electric chair? Did Darry and Soda hate him? Did they want him to go to jail?

“Bob Sheldon isn’t dead.”

Poyboy felt himself go white and things suddenly become very, very clear. Like the focusing of a camera. “ What? ”

“Ponyboy, you didn’t kill Bob Sheldon. He’s alive and walkin’ right now. Hell, he’s probably off terrozin’ more kids right now.”

And Ponyboy felt his entire world turn upside down.