Chapter Text
Ponyboy Micheal was 8 when his parents died.
He remembers the day so clearly. The cops had shown up at his elementary school, with their crisp uniforms and pitying expressions, along with a social worker, a stern looking woman whose dark hair was twisted into a tight knot on the back of her head, and who had a sharp nose and eyes that seemed to take in every room like she knew something everyone else didn’t. She had been the one to tell him. The one who held his small hand and told him that his mama and daddy weren’t coming home.
He had cried. Big, fat tears that rolled down his cheeks and gasping sobs that shook his small frame. The stern woman looked uncharacteristically kind as she squeezed him into a hug and told him they’d find a nice family to place him with.
Well, when the first family didn’t work out, they tried boys homes. And then when three of those didn’t work out, they went back to families. Then two more of those didn’t work.
He never lasted too long in each house. He felt like he was always a stranger, a shadow who lurked around each new family he stayed with, a reminder of the tragedy and uncertainty in the world.
Some families tried. Tried to open their arms and welcome him in, but he learned fast it was always too good to be true. Soon enough each one would give up, decide they couldn't deal with a kid who woke up screaming from nightmares, a kid who couldn't control his tongue, a kid who learned fast to hurt before you get hurt, a kid who constantly daydreamed and ached for a better life than the one he got.
So here he was, 13 and a half, and on the front porch of family number seven, shivering in the early February cold, one hand messing with the string on his sweatshirt, and the other clutching the strap of his faded old backpack, a welcome present from boys home number two.
His social worker, Amy, still with the same tight twist in her hair and sharp nose with her thin glasses, had warned him that this one would be much different. There wouldn’t be an unhappy married couple or a woman short on income or starry eyed newly weds who have no idea what they signed up for. This time, Amy told him that the guy taking him was young and had just been approved.
Pony took in the house in front of him. It had a beat up, faded but definitely still there green door, an old truck in the driveway, and it looked homey. It made him think of his old home, his first and only true home. The one where his mama kissed his cheek and called him her “little colt”. The one where his daddy threw him onto his back and tickled him until he couldn’t breath. The one where he felt happy and loved. The one that was gone now and he wouldn’t get back.
The sound of the door creaking open snapped Pony out of his memory and his eyes met those of the man who was now his foster dad.
Ponyboy wasn't sure what he expected, but it sure wasn't the sight of a man who couldn't have been older than 22, with dark and messy curls, dark eye bags, and grease stains on his cheek and on his shirt.
The man stuck his hand out and shook the social worker's, before turning to Pony and giving him a tired but genuine smile.
"You must be Ponyboy. I'm Darrel, but feel free to call me Darry, it's what my kid brother and his friends do"
Ponyboy braced himself for the laugh that always followed when someone said his name. He understood, I mean, what kinda name was Ponyboy?
And maybe it's because he got defensive fast in the system, but something about the lack of a laugh made Pony stiffen even more before muttering out, “I know your name. Amy told me. And ain’t you gonna laugh?"
At that, Darrel did chuckle, "Ponyboy, I got a kid brother named Sodapop. I ain't gonna laugh at your name.”
And with that, Ponyboy finally stepped into the small house and breathed in the air, smelling chocolate cake, oil, cigarettes, and something he would later become oh so familiar with, but still only able to describe as a smell that was so distinctly Curtis that it made him feel safe in a way he hadn't in years.