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"Are you sure we're gonna be okay here?" Ponyboy asks, looking up from the bed, feeling exhausted from the night at the hospital. Even though it's been three hours, he still feels as if he's halfway swimming through water, so wobbly from being poked and prodded and question.
From the other side of the room, Dallas looks up from where he's going through the duffel bags. While they'd looked Ponyboy over at the hospital, he'd taken his time to go through some of the donation bins around, stuffing whatever he could in there. That the clinic had allowed them to leave with some money and supplies helped—just it wasn't settling his stomach well, his instincts feeling altogether raw beneath his skin.
It's a fair question. They've escaped the reformatory, driven to one of the few motels who don't card or ask questions, and the room is spacious. Nice, even—there's a television on one corner with a curved reflection of Ponyboy's exhausted figure that shows his hair is even longer than what he thought it was, a bed that feels softer than the one in the reformatory by a long-shot, a bathroom that's clean and private, and an air conditioner that feels good from where he is, blowing cool air on him.
"I think so," Dallas says, voice still a mix of hesitant and wanting. As if he's still comprehending at times, what they did. If he had more of a plan to leave the reformatory at anytime, it doesn't show on his face as he finally zips up the duffel. He comes closer to Ponyboy almost cautiously, holding some of the food they packed. "Nurses told me you were a little underweight. You should at least eat something before we go to bed."
There's something oddly endearing how he sets the food down on the bed between them. Careful, almost, as if he's setting down an offering to some deity and not an exhausted, pregnant omega he's run off with. Ponyboy doesn't know how to feel about that as he looks over it: it's just crackers, some apple sauce, juice, and some water. "Ain't you hungry too, Dal?"
The way Dallas says the word No is much too quick, much too clipped for Ponyboy's taste. "Doctors said you're eating for two but you ain't big enough for two."
There's a warning in his voice. That Ponyboy should just do as he says. Ponyboy huffs, and ordinarily he might argue, protest. Just… the snacks look good. The wrapper isn't hard to take off and in seconds he finds himself shoving the crackers into his mouth, cracking open the apple sauce to guzzle down what's offered. The juice and water go down his throat almost instantly, and when he still finds himself hungry, Dallas is already back with another packet of crackers that Ponyboy makes quick work of.
It's almost embarrassing how good the food is compared to what they've had in the reformatory. The meat always tasted a little off, the meals were rushed and always under an air of a threat, and Ponyboy has never been one for a lot of crackers with barely anything on them. This tastes like mana from heaven though, as he finally wipes at his mouth, still a little hungry yet better than he had been.
Dallas doesn't seem bothered at all; more like pleased as he grins at Ponyboy, chuffed up a bit. "You sure you don't want nothin' more?" He glances towards the duffel, expectant.
"Only if you're gettin' something," Ponyboy stubbornly says, yawning a second later. The food may have been guzzled down, halfway settled—it still can't be the exhaustion he feels. "I ain't sleeping til you eat something, Dally. And I mean it."
If Dallas means to argue with that, he doesn't. Just yanks open a packet of crackers, shoving three in, chewing roughly and then slapping it back onto the table. He doesn't care, apparently, if the bedspread catches some of the crumbs, chewing until his jaws are snapping. It's a feral thing to do, how he snaps his jaws like a dog trying to finish down a treat—no, a wolf, really. As if he'd learned how to eat from living with them in the woods rather than a family who loves and cares about him.
A family…
Ponyboy brushes the crumbs off the bed. It goes nicely with the room, a soft red, yellow and orange mixing on the comforter. Still not the place for orange cracker crumbs or dust, nonetheless. "I meant it. Callin' you my husband."
Dallas stills, averts his eyes to the coverlet, licking his lips. "I know. I ain't dumb."
The A/C hums, louder. Groans more like it in the corner. It fills up the space between them for a moment, in ways the chaotic sounds of the reformatory used to fill up the little silences, the gaps. Here, where dawn is sure to come soon, Ponyboy doesn't mind it for a moment. The sound is a reminder that they're not bound to Tulsa anymore, that there is a whole world of possibilities for them now that aren't tied up in his brothers or Tim Shepard.
Ponyboy reaches out for Dallas' hand, in that comfortable quiet. It's bigger than his, a little warm, and slightly sticky. Dallas doesn't protest, doesn't brush him off. "You're his Dad. Or her Dad."
"Hate the word Dad. Rather be called Pops," Dallas mutters, and Ponyboy feels something warm, happy bloom in his chest.
"Okay, Dal. Pops. And I'm their Mama," He squeezes his hand. "We're gonna be a pack. Together. Nobody else. However that happens."
Dallas squeezes back, as close to an I love you the hood would ever say as he looks at Ponyboy with a twist of a smile. His hair is getting long too, stubble covering his face. He reaches over to touch the bandage they have on Ponyboy's head—it hadn't been too bad in the end, despite the glass. "Can't be a Mama if you don't sleep good."
"I'll sleep good if you stay with me," he insists, softly, aware that they aren't in the reformatory now, that Dallas has more of a choice.
It feels good when Dallas scoffs. "Why the fuck wouldn't I share a bed with you here? Take your socks and shoes off, and we can sleep." He says it like Ponyboy should've one it first thing–he laughs as he does, taking them off and putting them in the corner. Too, he lets Dallas braid his hair the way he's been doing it for weeks now, before they pull up the comforter and get into the bed.
It's so mercifully soft, without the scent of hundreds of boys or stale blood or detergent that smells half off. It settles on them warmly, Ponyboy moving so that Dallas can pull him closer, and when Dallas drops his arm on his shoulders, he tries to say, Where you wanna go in the morning?
Ponyboy is just so damn tired that the warmth of Dallas' arm, his care, and his body just puts him to sleep quicker than the thought can form. He only dreams of wheat fields, the sound of his old cur barking, and his Mother, on a hill, waving at him.