Chapter Text
An hour or two later, booked and processed and the adrenaline long since bled out of him, Dallas Winston lounged sullenly in a holding cell in the sub-basement of the Tulsa police station. The Cooler was the same as always, cramped and stale and stinking of disinfectant and old vomit. A single barred window high up on the wall let in a weak stripe of moonlight, but that was fading fast, the darkest point of night before dawn approaching. All of the New York native’s muscles ached and his head was throbbing, the dull buzz of the overhead lights grating his nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
Dally’s side was bruised and his lip was swollen and his shoulder still didn’t feel like it was sitting right, but he’d rather risk going into shock rather than call over one of the officers still on duty to get him some medical attention. Besides there were plenty of greasers and hoods spread out in the holding area looking even worse off; the three sharing his cell alone looked like shit. Tim Shepard had a busted nose, blood splattered all down his front, and one of his eyes was swollen shut as he snored loudly on the concrete floor. The guy from Dal’s squad car, Mark Jennings, had a twisted ankle they’d made him limp in on and his brother, Bryon, had a wrist that was likely broken cradled against his chest. The two of them huddled together near the cell door, dozing in turn and giving Dally a wide berth since they were both down a limb if it came to a bop. Dallas would survive a few bruises.
The hood leaned back on his cot, back against the wall, and fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his jeans as he replayed the night over and over in his mind. He thought about how the music and the lights and the heat and the crowd had all culminated in a dreamlike experience where he had Ponyboy Curtis pressed up against the wall the way he’d wanted to for way too long. The seventeen year old licked over his aching lip, hissing as he thought about the way Pony had swayed into him, shouting over the noise even while Dallas himself tried to play it smooth and breathe all his questions right into the kid’s ear. He flexed his hands open and shut as he remembered having the younger teen’s pulse pressed just under his fingertips, his face tilted up to look at Dal.
The New Yorker thought about Ponyboy's breath, hot against his ear, the way it had come in shallow little bursts when they’d been close in the hallway. About the weight of the other boy's hand spanned across his chest, thumb grazing just under the edge of his collar like it belonged there. The heat of the party hadn’t held a candle to how hot Pony had felt, squirming but not pulling away, mouth parted like he was already halfway to saying yes to Dallas. He could’ve kissed him right then—could’ve leaned in, gotten it over with. Could’ve seen what Ponyboy tasted like, what he sounded like when he wasn’t running his mouth, just breathing into Dally's.
“Shoulda kissed him,” the New Yorker sighed, thumping his head back against the wall, wincing when all it did was make his headache burst open with renewed energy.
He was breathing deep through his nose, trying to fight off the mounting pain, when he heard it; a faint, low whistle. Not a song, it had no recognizable tune, but a hesitant trickle of sound that floated down from the street above, barely audible through the window. Dallas blinked, worried for a second he’d finally cracked up and was imagining things, but then the sound came again, stronger this time; a trembling two-note whistle, the second bar cracking slightly. The hood rushed to his feet on top of the bunk, the old springs screaming in protest as Dally stretched up to reach the bars of his window and pull himself the last few inches up to look outside.
At first he didn’t see anything, just the empty alley behind the Cooler, just the dark street beyond, but then one of the shadows began to shift and stretch and a familiar freckled face came into view, illuminated by a flickering light off the side of the station. Ponyboy’s brow was furrowed and he was glancing up and down the side of the building, his eyes pausing at each window, but aimed too high to see Dallas down at street level. The hood swore lowly, stretching his arm through the bars too rough and fast in his haste, hissing as his tender shoulder twisted so he could wave. Pony, who had seemed like he was preparing to whistle again, jumped when he saw what probably looked like a hand reaching out of the sewers, but then his face split into a grin and he hurried over, lowering himself to his belly right outside Dally’s window. He pushed his face to the bars so the seventeen year old could ease back, standing flat on the cot as gray-green eyes looked down at him with relief and mirth in droves.
“Found you,” the fourteen year old enthused in a whisper, a dazzling smile pressing his cheeks against the iron. Dallas blinked at the little maniac at a loss, mouth hanging open in a way that he knew didn’t look tough at all. Equal parts relief and disbelief were flooding through him and making him feel dizzy to the point of nausea.
“Glory, hallelujah,” he breathed, voice pitched low so none of the other delinquents locked up with him would hear. Tim snorted in his sleep. “The hell are you doin’ here?”
“Seein’ the sights,” Ponyboy snarked, rolling his eyes and shifting where he lay on the ground. His clothes were going to be filthy. “Lookin’ for you obviously.”
Dal felt something twist hard in his chest but pushed it aside to attempt a stern scowl. Pony chasing after the police cruiser out on the street was one thing, but walking himself right up to the station way past midnight was another. Dally didn’t know whether to laugh or yank him through the damn window. His fingers itched to hold something—a smoke, a bottle, the kid’s neck, it didn’t matter. Just something to ground him. “That was real stupid, Pone. You could get yourself in a world of trouble, showin’ up here.”
“You gonna lecture me or say thanks for comin’?”
“Neither, you little shit!” Dally hissed, reaching to pull himself up again, putting his face right in the younger teen’s. Pony didn’t draw back, his expression unbothered as he openly checked the seventeen year old up and down. Dallas for once was glad for the shitty lighting in lock-up because his cheeks felt suddenly hot under the attention.
The boy asked, “They rough you up?”
The older greaser scoffed, sneering as if the question hadn’t made his stomach drop out. He tossed his head and rolled his eyes and jutted his chin out, posturing. “You ever see me let someone rough me up?”
Ponyboy raised a brow, tilted his head. “Your lip’s busted and you got blood in your hair.”
Dal brushed said hair back absently, feeling the pull and tug of dried blood clumping the pieces together. He shrugged. “Cosmetic damage.”
The boy outside snickered at that, smooth face wrinkling with laugh lines. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down into Dally’s cell with a cloying smile. He mocked, “Ah, sure, you’re real pageant ready.”
Dallas narrowed his eyes, fighting a losing battle against the smirk tugging at his mouth. He couldn’t help it, the kid just looked so damned happy, even spread out in a dirty alley and talking to the guy that was supposed to be taking him out through jailhouse bars. The hood hummed low in his throat, letting his eyes go half lidded and coy as he propped his chin on the edge of the window.
He noted, “Guess I’m a pretty lousy date, huh?”
Ponyboy’s chuckles hiccuped and tapered off. He coughed, eyes thrown to the side as he shrugged. He inched closer, resting his forearms on the cold concrete ledge, chin tilted down, eyes sharp and glittering in the low light. “Oh yeah, you’re a real rotten fella. Get me in bed then ditch out on our date before I even get a kiss.”
The words hit Dallas like a southpaw punch, completely off guard so that he was left stunned and staring. The fourteen year old watched him shrewdly, unblinking as the hood tried to gather whatever dregs of finesse he had left, aching head whirring loudly. He looked down, dragged a hand through his hair again, and huffed a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
“That why you came?” he tested, “To bitch about your first kiss?”
Pony’s lips curved as he quipped, “Who says it’d be my first?”
Dally looked at him then—really looked. Ponyboy’s mouth still had traces of a grin, but his eyes had gone soft; too honest and open the way they had been at Buck’s. His breath came in anxious little pants, the beer that had been on it earlier long gone. His pupils were blown wide in the darkness, gray-green irises gobbled up by inky black and he looked excited and scared and hopeful and young. However he wanted to joke around, Dallas knew it would have been his first kiss -at least his first real one- and the thought he’d maybe fucked that up dug at his nerves something awful. He slouched away from the window, watching the kid at an angle as if that would show him something new, and chewed on a smirk.
“You want it?” he tested, flashing a sharp grin, not caring who the hell in his cell or in the whole holding area heard him. The smaller teen's breathing caught and even through the tiny window Dallas could see the way his whole frame went still.
Voice hushed, rushed, he asked, “You offerin’?”
Ponyboy would let himself be kissed right then, right there, through the filthy bars of a cramped old jailhouse and that knowledge was enough to make Dally not want to do it. It wouldn’t be his first, nothing with the kid would be, but that didn’t mean it had to be like all the others. He’d kissed a bunch of chicks with blood on his mouth, gotten pulled off Sylvia tons of times at Buck’s parties, pants still around his ankles. This didn’t have to be that to be real; maybe it shouldn’t be. He could take it—Christ, he wanted to take it—but Pony wasn’t just another warm mouth in the dark. Dallas leaned back towards the edge of the window, keeping his eyes and voice low.
“Nah,” he mused, fingers itching for a Kool as they tapped along the bars inches from Pony’s face. The boy didn’t flinch. “Better save it for some hotter accommodations.”
“Didn’t know you knew that word,” the fourteen year old teased, tone high and tight as he huffed a laugh. It sounded forced and it gnawed on Dally’s hindbrain; the kid was disappointed. They stared at each other for a moment and then the baby greaser shrugged. “I should get goin’. Darry’s probably angry enough as is-”
“Hold up,” Dallas cut him off, eyes fluttering rapidly as his brain caught up with his mouth. He hadn’t meant to make the younger teen wait, but now that he had an idea that was gnawing at his psyche. Without thinking about it too much, he reached up and tugged his chain up and over his head. The St. Christopher medallion glinted in the low light, swinging back and forth as Dal thrust it threw the bars towards Pony’s startled face. It was warm from his skin and blackened on the backside from years of striking matches. “Hold onto this for me, would ya?”
Ponyboy looked at the thing like the clouds had opened up and blessed it into his eyeline. His jaw was slack, lips parted and a low thrum of noise escaping through them. “Dally-”
“Since you didn’t get your fuckin’ kiss yet,” the hood interrupted, pressing flush against the iron bars so that he could stare at the dangling chain in tandem with the younger boy. The ‘yet’ landed about as subtle as he’d meant it and large eyes zoomed towards him incredulously. They stayed like that, suspended in the quiet night, for a long, fragile moment—Dallas on one side of the bars, Ponyboy on the other.
“You sure?”
“I said it didn’t I?”
Ponyboy hesitated for a heartbeat longer, as if afraid Dal would seize the offer back if he moved too fast; deny that he’d made it at all. Part of the hood thought with anyone else he would have as his eyes tracked the other greaser, fixated. Finally, Pony reached out slow, his fingers brushing Dallas’ knuckles as he closed them around the medal. The skin to skin contact was brief, the touch featherlight, but it was enough to make the older boy’s hand twitch. When Ponyboy had the chain secure in his grip, Dally snatched his arm back through the bars lighting quick like he would trying to avoid a dog he knew would bite.
The smaller teen studied the Saint Christopher medallion closely, running his thumb along the ridged edges, over the saint’s worn face. It was too dull at that point to glint in the low light, but it shone all the same as the fourteen year old carefully slipped it over his head. The chain was too long for him, pooling around his collar bones while he cradled the charm in hand to keep it off the filthy ground. The thick line of metal made his neck look slender, delicate, and it drew Dallas’ eyes to the hollow of his throat. He observed the baby greaser closely, chest tight, like he'd done something stupid or maybe brilliant—couldn’t tell which yet.
“Looks good on you,” he muttered, voice rough but sincere.
Pony looked down through the bars, fingers still ghosting over the pendant like if he rubbed it enough he’d get a wish or something. He wasn’t grinning anymore, but he looked pleased and a bit shy, his ears glowing pink under the buzzing lamps. He tested, “Am I keepin’ this til you get out?”
Dallas blinked slow at him, feigning malcontent but the baby greaser just mirrored the expression back, smaller and softer. Eventually the hood corrected, “Til you don’t want it no more.”
Ponyboy nodded once, expression serious as he tucked the medallion into his shirt, smoothing his hand over the spot once it was out of sight. He promised, "I’ll keep it safe."
Dallas rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly restless and itching with the weight of his medal gone and Pony too far away to grab at. The fourteen year old had something of his now, and Dal knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it. About the way the medallion would hang against his skin, get hot there. About what it’d feel like to press his mouth to that chain, to feel it cool between their bodies. Dally rolled his neck, jaw tight, thinking about how fast he’d make his way back to Pony once he got out. He wouldn’t even stop for a fucking smoke.
“Damn straight.”
The silence between them stretched again, but it wasn’t awkward—it was filled , like they both knew there was much more to say, but not with bars between them and dawn creeping close. Dally’s shoulder throbbed and his lip stung, but those were dull distant aches compared to the hot heat growing under his ribs the longer he looked at Ponyboy. The younger boy had chased down a police car, had come to see Dallas, and was wearing his chain flush against his chest now. The hood kind of felt crazy with all that knowledge and sighed his exhaustion out in a great gust.
"You better get going," he said after a beat, eyes focused on a crack in the wall rather than the kid on the other side of it. “Don’t need you gettin’ caught.”
Ponyboy nodded, reluctantly pushing himself up from the cold ground, dust sticking to his elbows and shirt. He sat back on his knees, eyes still trained on Dally and shining with some unfamiliar emotion. Dallas thought it may have been longing; he wasn’t super familiar with it. Low, but firm, he said, “I’ll see you soon, Dal.”
Dallas couldn’t help the smirk that bent his sore mouth. “Yeah, Pone, you will.”
Ponyboy lingered a second longer, his gaze memorizing Dally’s face in the gloom. And then he was gone, slipping back into the shadows the way he’d come, the chain at the back of his neck catching the light one last time before vanishing. A moment later, Dallas heard the soft scuff of his sneakers as the teen took off running. The hood stayed standing on his cot for a moment longer, staring at the place where Pony had been, hands empty but chest uncomfortably full. Eventually he dropped down with a grunt, back hitting the wall, head tilted up toward the slant of the window. His fingers drummed again, still restless, but slower now.
“Shoulda kissed him,” Tim yawned from the floor, making Dal jump bad as his head whipped around to look at the other hood. The guy still had his eyes closed, one arm bent behind his head while the other crossed over his stomach. He snorted a bit, settling down again while Mark and Bryon muttered sleepy little agreements from their spot in the corner. Dallas was sure his ears were as red as Pony’s could sometimes get, but he tried to act like it didn’t matter. He scoffed and snorted and hurled the one brick hard pillow he had at Tim’s head.
The cell fell into a bit of a tussle after that which got everyone else in the other cells started and before too long the house lights were on full and a few sleepy cops were banging their way down the stairs, cursing about the late hour. Dallas threw all his aggression and confusion and want into the punches he launched at Shepard and the others, but he was grinning like a fool, sharp teeth flashing. The rush of it, the sheer life of it, coursed through his veins like wildfire. He felt like he could swallow the sun.
He couldn’t wait to see Pony again.