Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A toe nudges against Two-Bit's thigh, once, and then a second time with a harder press. With it comes a voice colored by annoyance, "What kinda drunk sleeps in the stables?"

Wearily, Two-Bit cracks open his eyes to see a familiar enough face: high cheekbones, flat brown eyes, long brown hair and a scowl that seemed placed there by God himself. He blinks, bleary-eyed, and croaks out, "Me, pal. Get your own spot."

There's a kick to his thigh, the pain sharper than before, and the sound of a horse whinnying in response, pawing at the ground. "This ain't your place to sleep, drunkie. It's for my horse and he ain't like to share with no one except me."

Groaning, Two-Bit sits up more and looks around himself — it's early morning, it has to be for him to be waking up in a stable like this. For sure though, it's a stable with hay, a trough, and the works. And that, indeed, is an Appaloosa horse utterly unmistakable with a dappled white pattern, a long dark tail and big brown eyes that matched the brown of him that wasn't the scattered white. The pattern is distinctive enough for him to put two and two together: the damn thing belonged to the equally infamous rider, Dallas Winston.

He'd seen him before at the rodeo or on the television or newspapers — which he can't recall with the thunderous headache he's starting to feel dart across his forehead. Two-Bit's sure the horse has a name, but he can't remember it through the impending pain darting through in his head, mixing with the heady fog of drunken sleep. Two-Bit has seen him ride for two years now, at least, with this horse at various points. He's always been whip thin, pale, and wild — qualities Two-Bit has only seen in him from a distance.

Up close, able to see him scowling so deeply, stone cold sober in a stable was very, very different from those times he'd glimpsed him in papers or from the stands.

"Sorry, ain't mean to get in the way of you and your little horsey," Two-Bit jokes, trying to get up on his feet. His stomach feels like it's a disgusting grease trap as he tries to stand, grimacing. If his stomach moves anymore, he's sure he'll greet last night's meal and then some. "Was just trying to get somewhere last night is all."

"Sure," Dallas rolls his eyes as Two teeters and then straightens up with the help of a wall he grips. His horse seems equally attentive to Two-Bit, watching him as he figures out how to walk. Somehow, the horse seems to look disapprovingly at Two-Bit as he finally stumbles out and into the main part of the stable. The smells of horses, of water, tools, all of it is almost overwhelming to his senses — not to mention the piercing sunlight, the grass a lurid acidic green, and the smell of even more livestock all swirling about making it all a thousand times worse as he keeps staggering out.

Two-Bit has a couple of questions — mostly about how a once a seasoner like Dallas gets a stable? — but he catches the smell of the rest of the pig pen, feels his stomach turn, hardly gets further into the grass and vomits up the bourbon and pound cake from the night before.

He's sure Dallas is laughing.

At twenty-two, Two-Bit is hardly all that remarkable in Guthrie. Maybe he was more, back in Tulsa where everything had made more sense years ago.

But not in Guthrie. Here, he slips in with the varying rodeo hands here like it's nothing, working jobs where he can, and keeping an eye on the rodeo circuit the way most did given it was their livelihood. It's about as much fun as he gets to have, seeing riders come in and out, picking out those who are actually something special versus the ones who are in it for the money or just the life of it all or ones who should've quit years ago but still was chasing something whether it was money or glory.

It's not necessarily a bad thing to quit, Two-Bit thinks. Being thrown off of a horse or bull, getting bitten, having bones break and your body grind down? It wasn't all that worth it most of the time. He still feels disgusting as he comes to the bar later in the day, near lunch, for his shift. He's on his own now and can't afford to not work there, and the cowboys of all stripes usually flood the bars during the rodeo season and as shit as he feels, Two needs the money.

The shower he'd taken had helped, along with the nap after. It had taken effort to swallow down some aspirin, put on some jeans and a good enough shirt then make his way down to the bar in his Dad's old, still reliable boots. The bar was always waiting for him, as was a thirsty patron.

Which is to say that when Dallas Winston saunters in, Two-Bit isn't all that surprised. He's not like the ones who should've quit; he's about the same age or maybe a few months younger than Two-Bit and when he rides out on that horse of his, he's got spark, flare.

At least it's what they say, what he's observed from a distance a time or two.

"You up for a beer?" Two-Bit leans over the bar, not quite knowing what to anticipate. Whenever Dallas has been to town, Two-Bit usually has been busy, not able to sit down for a real show. The years before are murky enough; back then he'd been newer to Guthrie, and hadn't been working at the bar. Now though, it seems Dallas might become a regular occurrence; he looks just about the same as he had that morning, hair just a little more windswept, a red bandana tied around his neck and dirty from work, sweat on his forehead from the heat.

Dallas for his part snorts, pointing at an empty pitcher. "Nah, can I get two of them, fill it with water?"

"You looking to piss out the Mississippi?" Two-Bit glances over to them and back at Dallas. "We don't serve—"

"I ain't asking," Dallas snaps out, "I just said I need the pitchers of water. I'm returning them an' all, that's all you need, ain't it?" The air of danger around him gets a little thicker, and Two-Bit wants to push it over a little. See what he'll do, if Dallas will cock back and punch him the way other people have gossiped about years before yet he hadn't ever seen himself.

He knows what he wants the water for. No one would ask for two pitchers like that and Two-Bit weighs the option as Dallas simmers. It's hot as hell outside, and he's got some pity. "Tell you what: slip me a ten and I can get you more than that."

Dallas looks like he could bite off Two-Bit's head— and then slaps down the ten. Two takes it, gestures Dallas to follow him out back. Dallas darts outside, and as expected, he comes to the back holding the reins of the Appaloosa he's got. The horse looks like it needs it, wobbling a little as he comes around. Two-Bit guides them to the back where there's a bunch of old troughs out back, some of them with the wood rotted out, others still able to be used. He picks the one closest to the back pump — it takes some work from him to get clean water sloshing in it, and it's icily cold when it splashes up to touch his skin.

The horse about canters over to it, Dallas looking concerned as he leans his head down to drink at the water. Two leans back in satisfaction, voice almost cartoonishly low, "Just keep this between us and the horse, huh?"

"No sweat," Dallas says, patting the horse's neck as he drinks and drinks the water. The relief on his face is palpable, and when he looks at Two-Bit, it's well. Not nice, so much as warmer than before. "I'll pay you every day if he can get this water."

"Oooh, that a fact?" Two-Bit cocks his eyebrow. "I might upcharge you."

He expects a joke to be cracked or to be pushed. Not to have Dallas reach into his pocket and pull out a mudstained, yet very, very real fifty dollar bill and give it to him. "Think that'll last you a week?"

Two-Bit's first thought is: All that for a nag of a horse?

His second thought is voiced out loud, "You pay me this much a week, I'll even brush him up for you."

The horse gives a snort as if it's in on the joke, water bubbling up before he shoves his head further into it. Dallas doesn't pay it any mind, just saying, "Long as you got a spot for him, I'll pay. That stable's only good for the night." He sneers. "And catching your puke, apparently."

"That grass disagrees," Two-Bit pockets the money and Dallas lets out a laugh. "I'm Two-Bit, by the way. Seen you ride up here before."

"That so?" Dallas puffs up a little with a smirk on his face. The horse gives another swallow of water, paws at the ground. "I—" the horse whinnies, tugs at Dallas' sleeve, nosing around his shirt for a treat as he talks. "We're a good team, and ain't like I got much competition out here."

Two-Bit leans on the back of the bar, raising an eyebrow at that. "Not to say you're bad or nothing, but none? With the draw Guthrie gets?"

"They ain't real competition," Dallas insists, pushing at his horses' nose, who nuzzles back, almost whining. Dallas curves his fingers beneath his chin, and his voice is dripping with self assurance, "They ain't got who I got."

He's seen arrogance before on riders, and seen what happens with it. Two-Bit, for a moment, thinks about warning Dallas of where that talk'll land him. Then he hears a car drive up the street and a whoop go up. He swears beneath his breath and high tails it to the bar — that's lunch for the day.

When he gets out hours later from the rush, Dallas and his spotted horse are gone, as expected. The trough is about dried up from the heat, and the fifty dollars is secure in his pocket.

It's well past nine-thirty that night when Two-Bit finally gets to sit down and gather himself on the block outside. The place is still teeming with cowboys all thirsty or hungry, and Two-Bit needs a smoke. He still hates working every damn day, and when he can sink to the ground, beer in one hand and cigarette in the other, he doesn't mind it.

Guthrie's not totally the same as Tulsa; still dusty in places, sure and greener too without so much of that greaser and Soc divide. It was more of a country town — most kids who weren't farm hands of some kind were more greaser like than not and the few rich kids at least weren't as obnoxious as the ones back in Tulsa. They seemed to get along better, in some indelible way that Two-Bit can't necessarily find the source for as he lights his cigarette.

He whistles at a girl who walks past — her hair a golden blonde — and she rolls his eyes. "Aw, c'mon baby. I can get you free drinks!"

"What kind of girl do you take me for?" She shouts back, and a group of kids — greaser, in a pack — walk past her. At the very back a kid trails the rest of them, who looks pretty young and small. He glances at Two-Bit as he passes, and then back to the kids in front of him.

"A fun one!" Two-Bit shouts back, laughing when the girl flashes him a middle finger. "Aw c'mon baby—"

"Two-Bit!" He turns towards the bar, seeing the greasy kids sneak in, and his boss, Tom, at the door. "Get back in here, we need as much help as we can get!"

Two-Bit lets out an annoyed noise, wanting more time to just loiter, and drink. Mostly to drink. He throws his cigarette to the ground though, and makes his way inside to the bar. It's loud, full of raucous cowboys, hoods and greasers. There's no point in shooing out the teens, Two-Bit moving behind the bar to start working beneath the bright lights and in the cigarette smoky haze. The jukebox is playing already, at full volume, and he has to shout to get orders.

He serves them — picking out new faces and old, moving as best he can, opening tabs and closing them, getting orders here and there, moving around dishes and glasses — until things start to die down. Some people leave for other, more illicit, activities. Others just migrate to the billiards across the way. Two-Bit dips outside just to get a breath of air that isn't dyed with cigarette smoke and ducks back inside right when he sees a dark shadow move towards him. He only keeps a half eye on it; it's probably one of the dogs that occasionally come to see their owners at the bar or to eat at the dumpster.

He doesn't think much of it, going back to refresh people. "Someone's mutt is at the door! Big, dark fella!"

One of the greaser kids glances up at that. He's new, small, with brown, almost auburn hair; he glances at the door, and at his friends. Two-Bit pretends not to see, cocking his eyebrow at the woman in front of him. The greaser kids don't notice the small, new one breaking away from them. Two-Bit pops open the register, watches the kid move to the back of the bar, and to the outside.

He can see their shadows from where he's standing, able to peer a bit out the window. The dog clearly is happy to see the kid, even if his shadow looks unnaturally—

"Another round, on me!"

"Irma!" Two-Bit turns in annoyance at the woman who'd spoken with her gap tooth, "You can't just keep buying rounds you can't pay for!" He huffs out good naturedly and the older woman laughs, the crows at her eyes deepening in mirth.

By the time he's finally able to get into the night air, hours later, Two-Bit is feeling buzzed but not achey. The boots he has crunch against the gravel — how they were fitting so well on him after years of wear, after his Dad had worn them damn near every day except the last — and he clutches the can of beer closer as he moves through the town. It's almost four am; most people are asleep, dragging themselves off to sleep, or being otherwise quiet. It's the nice part about Guthrie being this small, and Two-Bit gives another pull of beer as he goes towards his place.

The money from the bar is in his waistband rather than his pocket, and it rubs against him as he moves, looking at the houses, the trees, the patches of house lights. There are still some moments of kids cruising by in cars. Tonight though, all he can see are illuminated streets. He can, however distantly, hear footsteps on the pavement, voices mingling in with static tvs.

When he gets to his room, he shucks off the shoes he has and pulls out the money. The money gets stuffed into the back drawer, with all the others, and the beer, he polishes off. The room is cool, and when he settles into bed, he quietly hopes for blonde hair in his dreams tonight, and no green eyes.

Distantly, he can hear a wolf baying and the last coherent thought Two-Bit has is that there wasn't a moon out that night.

That doesn't stop him from dreaming about it: a moon hanging in the sky, shining a bright white. A howl rippling through his dream and a wolf running in long lopes, fur dark as night.

"So, who do you think is gonna come out with the most wins, huh?"

Two-Bit glances up from his breakfast, half tired. He cracks a half smile at the other, drawling out, "I reckon whoever's best." He feels bleary; it's about nine fifteen in the morning, and he doesn't want to do much talking, for once. He'd rather just sit in the booth, but apparently that's not good enough for Peggy.

She's a nice girl; a little buck toothed with a cute rabbit-like smile, a button nose and bottle blonde hair that has some dark roots showing as she stirs her coffee. She's a waitress here and a total rodeo aficionado, her eyes flickering over to the people gathered in town. "We got a whole week ahead and nobody caught your eye?"

"I try not to place a bet 'til the big stuff," Two-Bit bites into his eggs, chewing rapidly, swallowing. "They usually do these warm ups and kid stuff and it gets real cutthroat later, you know how it is. Sides, we got at least ten more days of this, so why do it now?" He glances up at her and Peggy rolls her eyes as the door opens.

In strides Dallas Winston again — his hair is shaggy looking, he looks about as pissed off as one can be in the morning, and he goes up to the counter, takes a seat and Peggy perks up. She gives Two-Bit a wink, gets up and moves behind the counter to accommodate him.

Two can see her flirt, and he makes his meal quick, getting up right as Dallas takes a cup of coffee from her. Dallas cuts his eyes at him, goes back to his plate and Two-Bit just gives a slight nod. Then he's out the door, into Guthrie proper and is making his way to the bar for the stock he has to get loaded up for the day.

He thinks about what else he could be doing, what it would have been like to have simply stayed in Tulsa as he waves into the bar. About what he would have been doing if he'd stayed with his mother and sister. When he gets to the back, shrugging off his Jacket, he tells himself he made his choice — so he had to live with it.

And living with it meant working even though he'd rather be drinking a beer about now or chasing skirts. He could steal beer, he could fuck this all up — and he chooses not to. He'd chosen a long time ago all of that wasn't worth it. So he takes his time to unload the stock, to account for it piece by piece. All the while, he thinks of the people he left behind in Tulsa, thinks of his father, and can feel that sour itch start to scratch at him, of a need to just have a beer to quell down any thoughts he had.

It's around noon when he hears a knock at the back. He looks up from his work to see Dallas there, reins on his horse as usual. He looks less pissed off than he had that morning, voice gruff, "You still getting me water?"

"Yeah, sure," Two-Bit sets down a box and, deciding that they wouldn't miss one bottle of beer, he grabs it, and beckons Dallas to the back trough. His horse is as polite as ever, waiting patiently as Two-Bit runs the water. It's a really hot one again — the air is dry, and Two-Bit can feel the sun bearing down on him intensely as he does it. He wouldn't blame Dallas for sticking his head into the trough with the horse at this rate.

Dallas leads the horse up, and the horse ducks his head in sloppily, a splash going up. The sight makes Two pause, put the beer down and duck inside. They won't need some of the ice, neither, he thinks, and dumps at least half a bag into the trough.

"Gimme some," Dallas reaches over, grabs some ice cubes and pops some in his mouth like candy. He's sweating, and Two-Bit is starting to as well. They both migrate to the wall of the bar, where the awning at least casts a cool shadow for them to stay under. Two-Bit sits down and opens the beer with one hand, Dallas munching on the ice cubes in silence for a few moments. He breaks it with, "You from around here?"

"Nah, from Tulsa," Two-Bit takes a pull of the beer, and it'd be better cold. "You're from New York, right? Can tell with that fancy accent of yours."

"Wouldn't call it fancy," Dallas says, half snorting. "Just sound like any street kid up there." He throws an ice cube into the trough, and the horse's nose moves, tongue lapping at the cube. Dallas grins at him in a way that little kids kind of do — a little too eager, too wide with a lot of teeth and Two-Bit is curious.

He takes another pull from his beer, keeping an eye on the door. "What made you come from New York to ride rodeo in a bum place like Guthrie?"

"Got a cousin in Oklahoma, got me into it," Dallas throws another cube that lands with a splash. His horse whinnies and he sticks out his tongue. "Got the hang of it real quick, got more money out of doing riding than anything else."

Anything else makes Two's ears perk up — there was no guessing what that meant here. "Alright, makes sense. What don't make sense is how you landed a horse like that," he points, and the horse's tail flicks, as if he knows he's being talked about. He sucks up more water, vying for a rapidly melting ice cube, the act almost comedic with his huge set of teeth. "I don't think it'd be outta line to say you probably couldn't afford to buy one."

"I ain't take him, he took me in," Dallas' voice is about brimming over with pride, in a way that Two-Bit doesn't know if he finds endearing or not. He's also not sure if he isn't lying about the taking part; in any case, it just makes him more curious, looking over at the way Dallas grins at the horse. "Long as I treat him right, we win rodeos and that's the deal. Better than those idiots with all the dumb equipment, slow horses, and rich parents."

Two-Bit cracks a half laugh, and when the horse sucks up another ice cube with an audacious slurp, Dallas laughs too. He stands up, reaching out to Two-Bit who clasps his hand. "Well, I'll tell you this: you wanna keep winning, don't stick around in Guthrie too long. People get rough out here — real rough." He keeps his tone serious, cautionary. "You get too big, they don't gun for you—"

"They gun for the horse, yeah," Dallas' expression gets darker, and the grin on his face can only be described as dangerous, Two-Bit thinks. "I ain't too scared of 'em." He checks the sky, and clicks his tongue. "I gotta go — they got some bullshit qualifier stuff we gotta get to. See you, Two-Bit."

"You gonna come around tonight? Beer's free on me," Two-Bit offers. "And the girl's always like a champion."

Dallas gives a short bark of a laugh, grasps the reins and leads his horse out. Two-Bit watches, and he's not sure if he's conveyed the danger of it all enough for Dallas to listen or not. He shakes his head, goes back inside and gets ready for the first wave of people of the evening.

It's pretty predictable at first: most of the usual drunks roll in first, and then the real rodeo crowd starts to fill in during the evening. Some are old cowboys, pissed that they didn't qualify for the rodeo. Some are hanger-ons who go circuit to circuit. Some are the greasers and hoods who come up.

He talks to them all in snatches — hearing about the normal people who try and fail, the regulars whose drinks he knows, and then newer faces he's getting accustomed to. What really gets interesting is when some of the newer, blustier riders get in.

" — that Winston kid, he's way too confident," grumbles one of the regulars, a blue eyed man named Jack who's got a ferociously large mustache (which Two-Bit could usually see beer foam in night after night), throwing back whiskey for once (probably on account of the foam issues). He's a man who's in his mid thirties, has ridden for the past five years, only three of which Two-Bit was around for. "He's been riding that nag from here to Tremonton, winning all on some bullshit."

"I think he's in with some of the staff," another rider — a man with a swollen nose and a sullen look Two-Bit doesn't know the name of. "No way he's just winning without some kind of help." Two-Bit glances up at that, able to see Dallas framed in the doorway behind him. The sun is low, but not quite out of the sky and the look that Dallas gives the man is so venomous that Two-Bit himself freezes.

The cowboy doesn't see him, voice rising. "I bet if you go through his pockets, you'll find more cash in there than what he deserves." There's a round of agreement and it seems only Two-Bit can spot Dallas striding through the doorway, making a way for the older rider. He almost is able to warn him; the sound just dies outright in his throat right as Dallas turns the guy around and slugs him right in the face.

The sound is hard, wet, and Two-Bit lunges over the bar top to try and keep Dallas from landing another blow. Glasses crash down, there's a cry and Dallas lands two more hits. He about lifts the man up off the floor, eyes dark, and the light makes the snarl on his face seem worse, as if his teeth are literally fangs as he snaps out, "I ain't never take a bribe! I race, I rope clean—"

The rider spits — blood and spittle — and Two-Bit wraps an arm around his neck, pulls him back before Dallas winds up for another blow. "Hey! No fighting in here!"

Dallas snarls again, and he looks like his very hair is about to stand on end in rage, but when Two-Bit snaps out, "Dallas!" he looks at him and Two-Bit is taken aback at the way his eyes seem too bright in his face, the way the snarl on his face twists his mouth.

And then he's out the door in a rush, the rider is gasping and Two-Bit has to resign himself to a rough night. The rider shoves him off, and Two-Bit shoves back in a moment of anger, everyone in the bar utterly silent for a moment. Two-Bit glares back, snaps out, "Maybe next time you'll keep your mouth shut instead of insulting someone, huh?"

Jack gives a hoarse laugh and Two-Bit looks at the older rider, until he mutters out, "I'll pay for the glass."

"Good, you might as well," Two-Bit nods. "Least you'll look tough with that nose, huh?" A laugh goes up, and he gives a good natured grin back. The mood eases then, but Two-Bit doesn't forget how Dallas looked, snarling and pissed off. He's never seen someone that angry at accusations of cheating; and most men worth their salt were pissed at that sort of thing.

But that? That was an overreaction.

And he's curious as to why.

He's allowed out at midnight, going off into the street, the cold nipping at him. The town's layout is something ingrained in him now, every route possible taken — so he allows his body to make the choice for him, making his way not to the other bright parts of Guthrie, but to the stables. Something tells him that Dallas is there — and that he might like to have a beer with Two. The stables are large — they count on rentals there, from riders coming in for rodeo season and from there, when there wasn't the rodeo, they relied on the rich set to pay.

And that was with the other things, too: sheep and cattle. Both of whom were on an upturn, and even if he couldn't always smell them, he could see them, most of the herds sleeping outside, gated in. The pigs were mercifully kept on the other side for the most part and it was his fault he'd been on that side the other morning.

What's unusual, as he gets closer, is the kid sitting on a fence near the sheep. He's not someone Two-Bit has seen before; he looks young, with a brown Jacket on, smoking a cigarette. If Two-Bit had to guess, he might've been eighteen or nineteen. He seems to be talking to someone, but whoever it is, Two-Bit can't see. What he can hear though is, loud as a bell, is the kid's laughter. It's clear, melodic and it makes Two-Bit curious, pausing on the dirt road for a moment.

The kid swings his legs on the fence, cigarette flaring up. There isn't a lot of light out, but the kid picked a place on the fence right near the light pole. He laughs more, and says, "Aw, c'mon. C'mere!"

Something moves from the shadows and Two-Bit is shocked when out of it comes a huge dog. It's truly enormous, about as big as the fence itself, all black fur, only distinguished from the shadows with it's movement. Fear crawls its way up Two-Bit's throat as the dog moves closer — it looks more like a wolf than a dog, he realizes with horrifying clarity. It takes little effort for it to lean up and press its head on the kid's thigh, and Two-Bit doesn't know what to do until the kid reaches out to scratch at its ears.

The kid is making a cooing noise — and that's when Two-Bit remembers him from the nights before. He'd been at the bar, and this was his dog. Wolfdog, maybe, and he is just petting it, near the sheep.

"Kid," his voice is clear, sharp, and he isn't so drunk that he doesn't know the danger of what he's seeing, "I don't think that's tame."

The kid looks up, blinks at Two-Bit and something about him feels vaguely familiar. He doesn't stop scratching at his ears, "Who, him?"

Two-Bit strides closer, and god the wolfdog is so huge. He doesn't seem to care or notice him, just nuzzling at the kid's hand and thigh, but Two-Bit gives him a wide berth. "If that's a dog, then my momma's the Queen of England. And I don't think you can just walk around with a wolfdog."

"He's sweet," the kid counters, and the wolfdog gives a whuff that seems to disagree. "He ain't so bad, long as you're nice. Ain't that right?" He grins down at the wolfdog again, who gives a lick to the palm of his offered hand. Close up, Two-Bit can see that he was on the money with his age, good looking with hair that's long but not quite a hippy look to him, in a shirt that's white and a little dirty.

"I ain't know about that, no collar or nothin'," Two-Bit keeps his tone jovial, but keeps a berth. "You from around here, kid? Or you working the season?"

"Just here for the rodeo," the kid keeps stroking the wolfdog's head, glancing up at Two-Bit easily. "Following along is all. You're the bartender from Rooster's right?" Two-Bit nods, and the kid beams. "I'm Ponyboy — and it ain't a joke. This here's Fang." He scritches his ear again. "He's tough, but he ain't mean."

Two-Bit has a hard time thinking that's true, but the wolfdog seems more interested in nuzzling and licking at Ponyboy's fingers. "Nice to meet you kid — I'm Two-Bit, cause everyone's gotta hear my—"

"Two-Bits!"

"Right!" Two grins back at Ponyboy. "Your parents ride in rodeo for you have to have that name?"

"Nah, just creative," Ponyboy shrugs, and Fang sits between his legs, head turning to look at Two-Bit. His eyes are utterly yellow in the night, and piercing in the way it settles on Two-Bit. "You work here too? Or just here to see sheep?" He swings his legs eagerly, as if pleased with himself.

"Nah, was looking for someone," Two-Bit polishes off his beer. "You heard of Dallas? About six feet and change, dark hair, rides often?"

Ponyboy hums, nodding. "Yeah, I heard of him. Rides good, clean. I ain't seen him here tonight, though. Why?" He looks curious, enthralled even. "I know he stirs up trouble sometimes."

Two-Bit raises his eyebrows at that, even if it's more acknowledgement than shock. "Nah, well. I mean he got into some trouble at Rooster's tonight. Punched the snot out of someone for trying to say he cheats." The way Ponyboy snickers tells Two-Bit that that's not unusual behavior for Dallas. "Just wanted to see if he was around here, wanted to talk to him. Tell him not to let his temper get him too bad cause the guys around here ain't soft, and not all of them are real clean."

"You mean betting?" Ponyboy leans back, cocking his head. "Or something else?"

Maybe it's the beer that makes Two-Bit hesitate for a moment. He doesn't know this kid; even if he follows around Dallas, it feels like violating something, to tell him. He goes with shaking his head, "It's... Just if you see him, tell him to catch me at Rooster's, huh?" He looks at the wolfdog again, standing up. It wouldn't be fair to burden this kid with it, or make him pass on a message. "If you catch me there though, I'll give you a drink on me."

For a moment he thinks Ponyboy looks like he'll say something more, changes his mind, and he nods. "Sure. Forgot to say it but thanks for letting Fang in. He's tame, I promise." He coos at the massive wolfdog again, glancing up. "Nice to talk to you, Two-Bit."

A grin cracks Two-Bit's face. "Nice to talk to you too, Ponyboy."

Two-Bit turns, makes his way from them both. The last thing he sees is Ponyboy looking down at Fang with an odd expression on his face, almost... sad if Two-Bit had to say.

That night, he doesn't dream of howling or the moon. He dreams are filled with red hair and a smile, and not a single blonde shows up. When he wakes up, he wishes for more, the sheets around him tangled up around his waist, his bed feeling emptier than it ever has been. He stays there for a few minutes, thinking of what lead him to Guthrie: his father in the doorway, his mother in the kitchen. The way their voices had been raised and that he had felt like the only choice he had was no real choice at all. That he'd followed his father out the door, and into the car, leaving his mother, his sister in Tulsa.

He breathes out again, throws his arm over his eyes. It can't block the sounds of Guthrie from the cars to the yelling to the distant voices of announcers and he tells himself that at least the rodeo season means he'd make enough money and then some. Then he gets up, takes a shower. Gets his clothes on, and gingerly, puts his feet into the same shoes his father had worn when he walked out the door with him years ago. Every day he wishes that they might not fit this time, that maybe he wouldn't feel the way he does now.

It doesn't change.

He walks out his door, locks it and hopes he can catch up with Dallas, quick.

Chapter Text

The next two days are busier than what Two-Bit expects; he doesn't see Dallas once, nor does he get the time to get down to the stables. Everyone's busy with all manner of events around the rodeo and things associated with it, including him as people come in and out of the bar, thirsty and eager to talk or break into fights. It's good for tips, at least. Every night the money he had grows larger, even his aches get worse and his dreams continue to have those green eyes.

Who he does see is Ponyboy. He shows up the next night at the Rooster, dressed the same as the night before. There's not much time to talk; he just gets a quick glass of water, waves at Two-Bit and then he's lost among the sea of people.

The night after that, Two-Bit can see him in the back of the bar, near the doorway. He's talking to one of the greasers there, leaning against the wall. The look on his face can only be described as intent at whatever the other greaser is saying, brows furrowed, expression serious, eyes following the other. It's juxtaposed with the book that's tucked into one of the pockets of his brown jacket and the fact that he just looks so young in comparison to the other, more hardened greaser who's most certainly seen jail time.

The other greaser breaks away and there's a disappointed look on Ponyboy's face as he goes. Two-Bit watches him open the book he has, fish a pencil out of his other pocket and write something down. Once he's done, he turns away from the bar, glancing out into the dark night. Then he looks in again, catches Two-Bit's eye and waves.

Two-Bit waves back, shouting over the din, "You wanna drink or anything?"

"Nah, I'm good, Two!" He waves back, and then he disappears out from the bar and into the night.

That seems to be his favorite thing to do with Fang, Two-Bit notices. There's a bit of a delay for the start for the rodeo — a few steers didn't come through and some people take it as bad luck and leave while others take it for good luck and stay. Two-Bit takes it for what it is: happenstance.

In the meantime, his days go into a noticeable pattern, always getting water for Dallas and his horse, shooting the shit, comparing the riders. At night, sometimes he catches Fang coming out of the shadows to walk beside Ponyboy in the streets, Ponyboy always either talking with someone out of ear shot or leaving right when Two-Bit is coming.

Fang, he has to admit, is frightening in his size, and his ability to seemingly just slip out of the shadows without warning. Two-Bit knows he's not the only one who's terrified by him, as a few people jump and others wheel away. Jack yells at him to get away from the Rooster, and the wolfdog snarls in response before slipping away; another time, Irma shrieked when she spotted him beneath the booth Ponyboy was sitting in and both hightailed it.

Despite that, Fang always seems oddly polite for a wolfdog that could open his jaws up and easily take off Ponyboy's hand if he wanted. Why he prefers to let Ponyboy scratch his ears, Two-Bit doesn't know but is grateful for the choice.

The few times Ponyboy is in the bar, he's not very talkative. He usually orders something to eat and reads dime novels in the back when he isn't bothered. A few times, Two-Bit catches him at the fence again, near the sheep.

Tonight, on the eve of all the actual festivities, they're by the sheep again. Ponyboy's tucked his dime novel away, the sheep either asleep or shifting around and Two-Bit beside him, handing him a beer. He knows — somehow — that Fang is close by, can almost feel him as he licks at his chapped lips and says, "Where you planning to go when this is all over? Back to school?"

"No," Ponyboy blows a smoke ring out, watching it drift in the night sky. "Thought I was gonna but school ain't for me." He looks back at Two-Bit, the lantern light illuminating his eyes, turning them hazel. "What about you? You ain't the schoolyard type either. How'd you get to bartending?"

"Old man told me I might as well be one with how much I drink," Two-Bit shrugs, remembering the fight they'd had, the last time he'd seen his father. "He wasn't exactly all that wrong about it, and I don't mind it. Gives me people to talk to, and I do make a better drink than a teetotaller." There's a half grin on Ponyboy's face that Two-Bit returns with ease. "Sides, I wasn't too smart in school anyway and I ain't a good cowboy either. Can always work if you can pass along drinks and keep up gossip." He blows out smoke too, able to see Fang shift in the shadows.

He knows that that wolfdog isn't actually part dog; no dog would be that big. It's still a comfort to at least hope he's part dog as Fang's amber eyes focus on him and then shift to Ponyboy. Ponyboy lets out a low whistle, and Fang stands up, loping out of the darkness to him. Two-Bit watches as the wolf nuzzles against Ponyboy's hand, tongue darting out to lick at his fingers. Ponyboy coos at him, then glances at Two-Bit. "Dunno, y'seem smart to me," he shrugs, fingers rubbing at Fang's maw. "I get it, though. Specially with some of the people who end up there."

"Sheltered rich kids who don't know their heads from their own asses," Two-Bit fills in the blanks himself. "And everyone who should be there ain't." It's the way of things, that he's understood it. "Like I said though, I like being out here, I like being at the bar. It pays better than anything else around here and the cowboys aren't as bad as people make 'em out to be, most of the time." He chews at his lip even as he says the words, not sure he's necessarily believing what he's saying. "You seen Dallas recently? I can't seem to find him whenever I go lookin' these days."

Ponyboy nods, and Fang settles into his lap, about taking up half of Ponyboy's body as he does so, making the kid grimace at the weight. Two-Bit laughs — Fang's so big, he must be half crushing him with it. "I seen 'em, you need me to pass a message to him? Think he's busy with all the rodeo shit to prep for," he squirms, but Fang is resolute, apparently, in pinning him.

Two laughs around his beer. "Yeah — tell 'im to be careful out here. Told him once already but I dunno if he actually got the message. Like I said, most cowboys ain't too bad. Some though, they get bitter, angry at any rider getting too much attention." He takes another swig of beer, shaking his head, swallowing it down. "They like to do dirty tricks, sabotage equipment and it got ugly a few years back — I heard they actually ended up killing some rider's horse, deliberately. I don't wanna see that happen to him or his lil nag."

Silence fills in between them which isn't that uncommon; Ponyboy doesn't talk too much unless he really needs to and what he's said, Two-Bit hopes it's sunk in. He glances over; Ponyboy seems contemplative, running his thumb over Fang's maw again, the wolf licking his chops as his thumb moves up to his ear.

Two-Bit doesn't know him enough to tell what he's thinking. Just that Ponyboy says quietly, "I'll let him know. Thanks, Two."

A bit of relief fills him at that. He passes his beer to Ponyboy, who finishes it off. Jokingly, he offers it to Fang, who about bats it out of his hands. Both of them laugh at that.

In the morning, Two-Bit goes down to the diner, feeling sore from the walk back from the stables back to his place. All he wants is some coffee and some eggs before he had to pop down to the bank.

What greets him is Peggy, her eyes wide, waving him over to the counter before he can say anything. And if Peggy wanted him over there, then Two-Bit was going to get to her as soon as he could. "What's going on, Pegs?"

"You're not gonna believe this," she whispers to him in a way that has Two-Bit hurrying up, "You know they ran out that old wolf pack a few years back, right?" Two-Bit shakes his head and Peggy rolls her eyes. "Okay — couple years back, they had a lot of wolves out here, used to attack the stock all the time. They finally went out, made sure those bastards weren't coming back — til today." her voice drops a notch. "They found some sheep missing and only two got recovered. The other three? Only found a carcass."

Immediately, Two-Bit is on the alert with that information. "They gonna have to suspend shit for a bit to go after them? That's pretty bold."

Peggy shrugs. "Not sure, truth be told. So far it's a one off, but if they have more, they might have to." She looks Two-Bit over, obviously wanting for more.

And that's her right. Two-Bit is thinking of one wolf in particular that morning as he gets breakfast and leaves. The cowboys that show up at Rooster's are all murmuring about it too; a few of the older ones remember the last wolf hunt, too.

When Dallas shows up around noon with his pony, Two-Bit takes the moment to ask him about it. The horse plays with ice as Dallas listens, head cocked. "It's just one sheep, they're jumpy out here, huh?"

"Think they're just itching to do something before the rodeo gets in, use that energy," Two-Bit frowns, tossing a piece of ice into the trough. "You ready for the events and all?"

"The Kid and I are gonna be fine," Dallas says, boastful. "All I gotta do is give him his head at the right time and hold on to any sonuvabitch who thinks he can throw me." His grin gets wider, teeth sharp in his face. "We'll make the paper, easily."

Two-Bit bites down the inside of his cheek. "Just — be careful. I know I'm sounding like a nag, but I wouldn't trust most of these guys when events start up for as far as I can throw 'em."

"I been around rougher," Dallas pushes back, self assured in a way that's both interesting and something that makes Two-Bit feel cautious. He lets the issue drop as the sound of more people in the rooster swell up, his signal to leave.

That evening isn't all that tense, at first as Two-Bit gets to serving. He's got more money in his pockets now, and most people seem to have mostly glossed over the sheep. They're all hyping each other up over the rodeo, Two-Bit tuning most of them out as he moves about the bar.

"Where's your dog?" It's said by Jack, voice loud over the din of the bar. Two-Bit thinks he's just being a dick until Jack's voice gets raised, sharper, "I'm talking to you! Where's the dog?"

Two-Bit looks up from taking the order of an older man to see Ponyboy looking at Jack, frowning at him, jaw tense. "That ain't none of your business—"

"He ain't just a dog," Jack brusquely pushes back, hand on his hips. People are starting to get quiet, to stare at him. "And we killed the last pack out here. Where is he? You ain't feeding him sheep are you?"

"He feeds himself, and he ain't eating sheep," Ponyboy straightens up more, unafraid of the older man. No one's going to point out that he's too young to be in the bar or that Jack's got a bad temper on him. Two-Bit stands nervously behind the counter though as Ponyboy keeps his ground, voice steady. "If someone ate them sheep, it might be any one of those wolves you missed the first time."

There's a tense moment where Two-Bit thinks Jack might lose it, hit him. Two-Bit doesn't want a fight, and he speaks up, "They were with me when those sheep were getting killed." Eyes turn to him, and Two-Bit cocks his head to Ponyboy as he continues, "So unless that wolf can be in two places at once, he didn't do it."

Jack and Ponyboy both eye each other, and it's Jack who backs down first, angrily leaving through the front doors. Two-Bit breathes a sigh of relief as he goes, but Ponyboy lingers for a moment, eyes flicking towards Two-Bit in what's clearly a thank you. Then he turns and leaves.

Two-Bit doesn't have the time to seek him out. The bar is busier than normal, they're short staffed. By the time he finishes up for the night, he's utterly exhausted, staggering back to his apartment to sleep it off.

He thinks he hears a howl in the distance as he shuts his eyes and gets to sleep. Apparently, his mind is too tired to give him proper dreams: he just relives the memory of the last drive away from tulsa, of the way he had felt beside his father in the car as they'd left, the way he had felt he had made the only decision he could at the time.

He dreams of the way it felt in the car, of feeling that this way, maybe his mother and sister would be happier, better. He wakes up thinking of their faces, and it makes Two-Bit hunger for a drink, for cigarettes, for anything to make up for that choice he'd been forced to make too young.

It's something Two-Bit's got to live with, though. That fact hadn't changed in a long time, wouldn't change now, and the only way he can even semi make amends is what he does once a month. There's little time to waste draining the cans of beer he's got around the apartment; most of them are so old that it barely makes a difference. It's just enough to get him back in his head and body, to get the money together and head down to the bank.

They know him well enough by now, checking very little, sending the money along in minutes. The money he's sent is going to last them a month at least, and he licks his lips as he finishes up.

That's the easy part.

The hard part is putting coins into the telephone, and dialing his number, waiting for the phone to ring. A lot of the time, he wishes that his mother wouldn't pick up, that Katie wouldn't pick up. It's a coward's way out, Two-Bit knows. It makes him grip the receiver harder as the phone dials out, and right when he thinks no one will pick up, his mother does, her voice rough over the line, "Mathews house, who's this?"

"Mr. Rogers, of course," Two-Bit makes the crack over the line, and he can see the way his mother rolls her eyes over the line. "Just calling about the delivery."

"Bit soon for you to send money, isn't it?" She doesn't bite at the joke, not that he expected her to. "You making sure to make enough for you to eat?"

"You don't have to worry about me," he rebuffs her, itching for a drink just then, hearing the wear and tear on her voice. "You just worry about what you and Katie are gonna spend it all on."

"Keith," she sighs out, warm but tired. "You know—"

"I do," he shakes his head, feeling his eyes warm with unshed tears, with the fact that it really didn't have to be this way, that he wished he'd made a better choice all those years ago. "Gotta keep you both okay and I know you ain't making all that much." There's a drop of silence on the line, and he wonders if she has more gray hair than before, if she's got more lines on her face. He wonders what Katie looks like now, almost fourteen years old. He clears his throat, cradling the phone closer.

He knows that she can ask a lot of questions: why he was on his own so soon, where his father went, if what he was doing was really all that good and instead, Two-Bit asks, "You hear anything about Molly, at all?"

"No," her voice sounds as disappointed as he feels. "Tried to talk to her mother, but you know that battle ax. She'd rather say three words you're not looking for than the five you want." His mother makes a frustrated sound. "If I hear anything, I'll be the first to tell you, I promise Keith."

"Thanks," he runs his thumb on the receiver, able to hear a car pass, wishing for more. Wishing that his girl — well, the girl that could've, should've been his girl — was somewhere, anywhere in the world to be found. Wishing he'd been there when she had been forced to leave home. Wishing a whole lot for things he couldn't change, that they both knew. "I'll let you go on, get some sleep. Love you, mom."

"Love you too, Keith. You be safe," she hangs up.

Two-Bit hangs up to, leans against the booth. He tells himself that he could just go out, have as much drink as he can. That one day of losing money wouldn't be so bad now; and the rest of him knows that he can't do that anymore. That he was trying to fix things, not fuck it up again.

So he wipes clammy hands on his jeans, swallows up his own saliva in his mouth and goes to the rooster.

The rodeo was finally starting today, and it was vital he be there.

"Welcome to the Lazy-E-Rodeo Competition of 1969!" The announcer booms out over the loudspeakers, and Two-Bit relaxes on the stands. Despite his promise to himself not to, he's got a beer in hand as he watches from his seat.

It's a pretty damn good turn out; even some of the hippie sets have come out to see the rodeo this year and Two-Bit relaxes as he watches everyone get their seats, cheer with anticipation, or clap. He recognizes most of the riders out here, and those that he doesn't, he knows that either he will get acquainted — or they'll wash out and it won't matter.

Thing is, he's most curious about Dallas. He talked a lot of bullshit, had a lot of confidence in himself, and when Two-Bit sees he's lined up for some pretty big events: bareback riding, steer wrestling, roping, and bronc riding.

All of those events are physical, and Dallas — to be blunt — was built like a beanpole. He was lean, and to Two-Bit, it didn't seem like he had a ton of obvious muscle on him. Most riders weren't that tall, and Dallas was maybe too thin, too overgrown for that horse. That could be made up for with sheer grit, determination and skill and Dallas was so damn cocky.

Two-Bit can't help feeling surprised and energized when Dallas comes out for the first event. Wherever his pony is, Two-Bit hopes he's somewhere safe as Dallas grips the back of the horse he has. There are some scattered jeers at the fact that he's from New York; people are going to hold onto that. He can't see into the pen, but when Dallas is let out, he recognizes the horse. It's one of the meaner, fiercer broncos, and Two-Bit feels himself wince as he watches Dallas hang on.

There are whoops, hollers, but Dallas doesn't let go for as much as that horse kicks and stomps and twists. He holds on for the full time, and Two-Bit can't help like the way he's done it. Dallas looks triumphant when they get him down, and Two-Bit claps, whistles like everyone else.

He's lucky. There are a few people who get dragged — one of them is Jack who looks pissed as ever when he's let up. A few others do well enough, and then the events move on.

The steer wrestling isn't his favorite. There's something in him that feels uncomfortable to watch the event; but the liquor helps it go down better. Jack does alright for his time, and most of the other cowboys tend to either be very good at this or not that great.

Dallas, once again, surprises him. He's by far the skinniest one doing it, the lightweight, but when the pen is opened, the bull darts out quick. Dallas is even quicker on his horse; Two-Bit blinks and it's just about over, Dallas off the horse, hands around the bull, gotten it to the ground in what felt like a breathtaking three seconds.

There's more applause now, real respect growing as he stands up, grinning wide. His dark hair is windswept, he doesn't have on a fancy hat but when he walks away, it's to pats and congratulations.

Most of the events are like that. He does damn well with roping, and bronc riding, gripping on so tight that even Two-Bit is white knuckling his beer. He talks on and off with the people who come in, come out of the events and it really is true: most of the people are warming up to this scrawny kid from New York. Some are obviously annoyed at it; he wasn't one of them, but was whooping them on their own turf.

What's odd, Two-Bit notices, is that Dallas doesn't do any of the night events. After the bronc riding, Two-Bit doesn't see him as he makes a beeline to Rooster's, good and buzzed. That pattern keeps up all night as people stream in, bragging and boozing around, happy for a good day of events.

Two-Bit can hardly keep up, but it's not entirely the drinking doing that as he weaves in and out. There are more than a few people who want Dallas' attention from the cowgirls who wink at Two-Bit for a number to the cowboys who think they're a little slicker — with ill intent or otherwise.

Who he does see, coming in later, is Ponyboy. He's as animated as Two-Bit has ever seen him, going from table to table, asking questions, picking food and more than once Two-Bit sees him palming a wallet into his pocket or money outright.

"Jesus kid, you're busy tonight," Two-Bit points out, when Ponyboy finished putting a ten dollar bill from an absent minded cowboy into his pocket. "You looking for a sweetheart or something?"

"Something like that," Ponyboy doesn't seem bothered at all or suspect that Two-Bit saw him put the money in his pocket. "Just a cowboy is all."

"Just?" Two-Bit challenges — and then there's a smashing of glass, a yell and then he has to break up a fight. It's harder than usual; everyone's pumped up, angry and when he finally gets them all out, another fight is in progress.

The whole night runs him so ragged that by the time it's over, his head on the table, limbs aching as just about everyone leaves. Two-Bit thinks not enough tips are good for this, and a wet tongue laps at his fingers.

He glances downward and Fang is there, seemingly amused by his plight. Ponyboy is right behind him, scratching behind his ears. "Need a walk home, Two?" He looks younger than ever, eyes bright and cheeks flushed a bit from booze. "Fang got tired of me running around all night."

"Sure," Two-Bit stands up, stumbles, and both of them walk out of Rooster's together, into the minastreet. The whole town lights up whenever the rodeo shows up, making most of the darkness scatter, and Two-Bit knows that he'll have to get up early the next day again.

He watches Fang weave around him to get to Ponyboy's side, still uncomfortably massive. The alcohol Two-Bit had consumed was all sweated and pissed out by now for the most part, and he scrubs at his eyes as they go. "Where'd you pick him up?"

"Been raising him since he was an ornery little puppy," Ponyboy grins, Fang growling from around him. "He ain't act like it, sometimes though."

"I take it that why you ain't home — running around raising Wile E. Coyote?"

"Nah, not really," Ponyboy lights up a cigarette as they cross a deserted street. Fang stops to sniff at a hat left on the ground, tail wagging. "Just didn't wanna stay home anymore. Looking for something else."

"Someone else, you mean," Two-Bit cocks his eyebrows, "You were running around all night, trying to find out." Fang trots back over, paw swiping at an empty bottle. "Your daddy a cowboy or something?"

Ponyboy pauses for a moment, curiously. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, something in his expression is off, not entirely there. As if he's searching for an answer he can no longer find. It bugs at Two-Bit, and finally, Ponyboy says, "No, he ain't. Not really one for that kinda thing."

"Even though he had you?" Two-Bit points out. Ponyboy flips him the finger and Two-Bit laughs as they finally reach his apartment. He glances up and back down at Ponyboy. "You wanna come up for a drink, sleep somewhere that ain't a part of the ranches?"

Ponyboy smiles at him — and Two-Bit thinks that something is still missing there, still off. "Thanks, Two. But Fang and I got somewhere else to be — need a lot of sleep for tomorrow." He waves, and Two-Bit watches as he turns around, a book sticking out of his back pocket. Fang gives a whuff — maybe a dog goodbye? — and follows him loyally into the night.

Chapter Text

"—two more?" Peggy's voice creeps up, filled with shock as Two-Bit makes his way inside of the diner. He doesn't have to guess at what she means with the way her eyes are widened in her face, the clear shock and fear coloring her voice.

Her eyes connect with his, and Two-Bit stiffens as he walks inside. There are more cowboys around now, and he hears snatches of conversation as he goes to his normal booth: There's no way they're gonna let this stand — It's gotta be that wolf around here — What's the name of that kid it's with? — The kid has to know what's going on here or he's a damn fool.

"It ain't him," Two-Bit rebuffs the last point again, more firmly than ever as he takes a seat. Some of the people whispering around look skeptical, some of them distrustful. "Listen, I know that kid, and we were around each other last night. When'd it happen?"

"Around three," Peggy says, and Two-Bit nods his head.

"Wasn't them; they were both with me, at Rooster's," Two-Bit cracks a grin. "Ya'll will have to look somewhere else to blame."

There's a hope that will be enough to settle everyone around him as he orders breakfast, Peggy scratching down the order.

On the contrary, his nerves get worse as Two-Bit hears snatches of conversation between aggravated cowboys, looking for a reason to go after who they think is responsible. Their heads press together, their mouths move, and all the while, Two-Bit can feel that this isn't settled at all.

It makes Two-Bit feel ill as he finishes his plate, the food feeling like it spoils the minute it passes down his throat. They've started to make up their minds as to who's responsible, rather than listen to anyone nor anything else. And that was never, ever going to go over well.

Things like this spread and spread fast — it's happening before his eyes as people who weren't previously involved start to nod in agreement, and look over their shoulders in suspicion.

As soon as he swallows down the last of his coffee, he puts down money on the counter, unwilling to wait for Peggy to get change, already heading out of the door. His mind is made up: he has to find Ponyboy, quick.

The only problem with that, is that he doesn't know where he is. He's only got a hunch to work off of, and little time to act on it. Still, Two-Bit makes use of the two hours he has, looking for Ponyboy's auburn hair, his jacket, even Fang, moving as fast as he can. All of the greaser spots he knows don't have hide or hair of him, frustration, fear building in Two-Bit with every missed moment.

The last place is a small garage, where the older ones hang out. It was probably the greasiest place of them all, and with mechanics mostly hoods who don't seem intimidated by him nor particularly moved when they can't come up with Ponyboy.

"Listen," he tells the biggest hood there, who's half squinting down at Two-Bit in skepticism, "If he comes around today, tell him to get to Rooster's, soon as he can. Tell him I'm asking for him."

The hood nods, and that's all Two-Bit can do for now.

Getting to Rooster's is quick, yet Two-Bit can't stop worrying as he gets to that day's loads. The competition for that day wasn't until two, and he works steadily through the rest of the morning, head buzzing.

At best, he could warn Ponyboy, tell him to get out of town as fast as possible. At worst? They were going to lead a whole fucking pack of people after him and Fang. Fang would certainly end up dead, and Ponyboy heart broken. That's not something Two-Bit wants, even if he doesn't know either that well.

Something in them is... He sees them as friends, even if they weren't close, even if it wasn't like back home. He wants them safe, no matter what and the idea these cowpoke idiots would hurt them makes Two-Bit almost shake with anger.

He's so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn't realize until there's a rap at the back, that Dallas is there. His head jerks up to see him leaning against the back, eyebrows raised. "What's got you all tied up in knots?"

There's almost something akin to relief that floods Two-Bit when he sees him. "Jesus — sorry, where's The Kid?"

"At the stables," Dallas says casually, still looking at him sharply, eyes in a half squint. His hair seems longer than usual, and he cocks his head at Two-Bit, lips pulling up to expose his sharp canines. "Something going on?"

"It's... Nothing," Two-Bit ends, not wanting to get Dallas off of his game for someone he didn't even know. "You competing today?"

"Sure am," Dallas keeps eyeing him suspiciously as he moves inside, to the back of the bar. He gets himself a glass, scooping up ice, flicking the jerk to give him cold, clean water. "Doing the barrel racing with The Kid, you comin'?"

Two-Bit watches him as he takes a pull from the glass. At how cocky he is, at the assurance he has, and he can't help but ask, "Why ain't you compete last night?" He straightens up a bit. "You think you were too good to do those races?"

"Sure am," Dallas doesn't miss a bit, wiping at his mouth. "They can do those, get in knots. Ain't none of 'em worth my time." He gives Two-Bit a cool look, as if Two-Bit might challenge him on it. "Jack talked a lot of shit and got dragged like someone just getting his legs under him. Times yesterday was slow." He shrugs. "Barrel racing might give me something worth competing against. Kid's never lost, though."

"You're really itching for someone to take you down, huh," Two-Bit hums, Dallas taking another long pull from the cup, teeth snapping out to get some of the ice. "One day someone's gonna knock you right on your ass for that and you might be deserving it."

The ice crunches in Dallas' mouth, something charming in the way he all but sneers at Two-Bit despite the annoyance that Two-Bit is beginning to feel in the undercurrent of worry. "He ain't here." The way he says it, though, feels strange. There's an odd emphasis on he as if he knew the exact person who could beat him. "They can try all they want – they ain't gonna beat me."

"C'mon," Two-Bit pushes, trying to let it out before he loses his nerve. "You ain't the least bit worried for yourself? For The Kid?"

"No," the word is said defiantly, and this time, there's a real warning in Dallas' voice to Two-Bit not to push it, that he knew what he was talking about.

So Two-Bit is forced to drop it. He's not itching to get punched.

For all his concern, Two-Bit can hardly keep still as he sits down to watch the barrel races in the stands later that day. Every bit of him is watching for any signal that someone messed with The Kid or Dallas, and it's enough that not even one of the blonde girls he usually has eyes for can distract him from as he looks around. He doesn't even have a beer in hand this time, too wired up to even enjoy that.

The air is dry, the temperature hotter than ever as he looks at the set up for the barrel racing. Of all the competitions, this one is the deal breaker for many out here. If it's the same in other places, Two-Bit isn't sure. But if you couldn't cut it here as a rider, you generally weren't going to fare well the rest of the time.

As the air kicks up, he wishes that Molly were here. He wishes that she was nudging his side, pointing out funny looking people or making jokes that were so stupid you had to laugh, her red hair kicking up, catching the sunlight in a way that always made him pause for a second. He wishes she were here, cause maybe she could talk some fucking sense into Dallas Winston, and maybe she could hold Two-Bit's hand and get rid of the fear in his stomach that he can't loosen, his leg about jackhammering into the wood beneath him.

She'd at least be the one who'd tell him he's wearing a hole in his daddy's shoes, and he'd laugh about it instead of feeling bitter.

"Next up is Dallas Winston and his Appaloosa, The Kid!" The announcer's voice booms over, and Two-Bit's gaze is towards the front, where the starting line is. He can see them in a static second for a moment: Dallas with the red bandana on his neck, The Kid's spotted hide –

And then they're off.

Shock of all shocks, Two-Bit doesn't think he breathes for a second. There isn't anything he's seen like this as The Kid shoots out, his hooves beating on the brown dirt of the track, moving like he was the wind itself as he does the course. Two-Bit doesn't even think he can see Dallas guiding him so much as riding along, grinning widely as The Kid gallops, winds his way around the barrels as if they were nothing. Other riders look like toys barely hanging onto their mounts; not Dallas. Dallas looks like he's been there his whole life, at ease at the speed of The Kid when he zips back to the starting line.

The roars from the crowd are raucous, loud, and pleased. Hats are tossed, people whistle, boots are stomped, hands are clapped.

Two-Bit is among them, slamming his own well worn into the boards, almost going hoarse from his enjoyment. There's no doubt that The Kid has set the record with that one, with the way he had moved, and Two-Bit can finally concede to one thing: Dallas Winston could ride.

All that bravado, all that swagger was earned. There's no one here that has made Two-Bit want to achieve what he's done, no one here that has made him feel like he's been holding his breath the entire time they were out on the course, feeling excited when their number is called.

That point only gets stronger when the trail course is set up an hour later and not a single person got a faster time than The Kid. This time, Two-Bit allows himself a bit of beer, having moved up for a better view of it all.

He's not disappointed, and neither is the crowd that is clearly just as in love as he is with the sight of The Kid darting out, Dallas all but cackling as they go through the obstacle course, The Kid moving so quickly, hooves hitting the ground so sharply that Two-Bit can hardly keep up. Every jump, every wheel, every gallop has Two-Bit and the crowd hooping, hollering, stomping, cheering them on. Every single second of it feels electric as that horse, that boy seem to merge into one fluid being, made to fly like the wind, made to compete at a scale that dwarfs any old cowboy here.

When The Kid thunders back to the starting line after the course finishes, the sunlight shining on that dappled coat, Dallas' brown hair shining in the sun with sharp teeth glinting in his smile, Two-Bit thinks he's screamed himself hoarse in shear excitement, glee.

Dallas was fucking right. They were untouchable.

He doesn't think he'll get the image out of his mind for weeks of Dallas in the stirrups, deciding to take a victory lap, playing to the crowd. The Kid whinnies, wheels around playfully, his coat beautiful, tossing his head with Dallas. By the time they leave, Two-Bit is crying out for an encore despite the jostling around him, the laughter.

He doesn't know when's the last time he's enjoyed himself this much at a rodeo. Doesn't know when's the last time he ever felt this engaged, this ready to cheer for someone. Or if he ever will again.

Two-Bit replays it all for himself as the crowd disperses for the evening, the sunset not far off. Hastily, he finishes off his beer, trying to keep his head down as he makes his way to the general stables where he knows they must be.

Some of the other cowboys are certainly not happy – The Kid and Dallas showed up and showed out, and the way some of them are clearly pissed means that they'll make a pretty penny at Rooster's tonight. It also makes Two-Bit still at a level of unease; who knew how that jealousy would spill out for a rider that young, cocky, and actually competent?

He tries to ignore it when he sees one of the older ones – a salty old dog with a thick mustache – talking angrily with a clearly unimpressed Dallas at the stables. It probably helps some that Dallas is looking down at the old bastard quite literally but even feet away, Two-Bit can tell that the anger is real.

He moves forward to–

"Two-Bit?" Peggy's voice rings out. He turns around to see her waving at him, her face flushed. "Two-Bit, you didn't say you were coming. Get over here!"

"One sec, Peggy!" He shouts back, turns his head. Dallas, however, is leading The Kid away from the bristling old man, and Two-Bit knows he won't be able to catch up, not without crossing that old man's path. And he doesn't want to have to clash with that kind of man right now.

Later tonight. He'd catch up with Dallas.

Two-Bit turns and goes to Peggy, looping his arm on her shoulders. She laughs, and he glances back just once – Dallas and The Kid are long gone though.

For all the fun had at the rodeo, that night is no different than any other one after a big day: it's teeming with people, with people celebrating their wins and Two-Bit has to work through it all the instant he gets through the door.

All the while, he hopes to get Dallas there, to speak to him, to celebrate, to ask him how he felt with that grin on his face, with The Kid moving beneath him, with him.

Instead, he is disappointed no matter where he looks. All the other competing riders save two or three others besides Dallas show up. Every time he thinks he sees a flash of him, he's disappointed when it turns out to be someone else. It bugs Two-Bit as he works, makes sure to keep the beer going, the fights down.

It's not until it's getting a bit past midnight that he sees Ponyboy, yawning, at the back. That wolf dog of his has squeezed his way into the booth, half hiding as Ponyboy nurses not a beer but a giant flagon of water he's gotten halfway down, and a cheeseburger. Two-Bit makes his way over to clap him on the back, Ponyboy jumping at the contact. "Jesus, kid. It's a party! Can't be jumpy at a party."

"S-sorry," Ponyboy yawns, rubbing a palm at his eye. "M'tired. Everything go okay?"

"Go okay?" Two-Bit whistles disapprovingly. "Ain't Dallas your friend? You didn't go see him ride?"

"No, I had something come up," Fang's tail thumps against the booth, "How was it? I can't find him to talk about it."

Two-Bit beams at Ponyboy, as another round of cheers go up. "You should've see him, Pony. The way that horse flew, the way he rode – thought his mouth was running before, but whoo-ee. Dallas Winston can ride a horse. I don't think I've seen a rider like that, with a horse like that in years."

The smile on Ponyboy's face is bright. Two-Bit returns it, that pride Ponyboy must feel, the happiness. Fang apparently does too, tail thumping against the booth more, making both of them laugh. "I wish I could've seen it. I know he's damn good." Ponyboy's voice goes wistful, almost too hard to hear over the din. "He take his hat off too? Do that little victory lap he always gets pinched for?"

"Sure did," Two-Bit guffaws, imitating how he'd done it, with the whoops. It gets the attention of others, and they laugh and cheer with him. "Dallas Winston, yankee who can ride!"

Ponyboy, the others laugh and Two-Bit can see that there are cowboys who want to get infuriated over Dallas' lack of presence, and he ignores them as he finishes, pretending to bow. The laugh that Ponyboy gives is warmer, happier and Two-Bit thinks that he'd like to see that on his face more often, that it makes him look younger than he is.

He doesn't know why that wild thought pops into his head, even if it's right as Ponyboy puts his cheek on his hand, asking him, "Tell me about it. All of it."

And well...

Two-Bit hasn't had an audience like this in some time. He doesn't mind squeezing in the booth, letting Fang grumble and shift out enough to accommodate him. He likes the way that Ponyboy pays attention to every word he says, likes the way that Ponyboy can guess at certain things, the way Ponyboy clearly feels something for Dallas, about The Kid.

And as the party winds down, as Ponyboy shares a few beers with him, he thinks that he might feel something like that for Ponyboy, for Dallas too even if he can't put his finger on what that is. Only that when he wakes up in Rooster's hours after dawn, he thinks he dreamed about it. About Dallas and Ponyboy, Fang and The Kid, and something about it feels significant.

Of course, that feeling is easy when he's just waking up in need of a shower, his teeth brushed, and fresh clothes.

It's not so easily kept with a day of work ahead of him — cowboys can party and Two-Bit finds himself getting freshened up and then immediately set to cleaning up Rooster's. It was the second to last day and it was going to be worse than before. People were going to be riled up, too excited, and tempers would be running hot.

Most of the day is spent restocking things, checking orders, cleaning up from the night before, nursing a hangover and puking when it needs to be done. He kicks himself a little — he knows that he needs to find Dallas as soon as possible. But there's simply no time without other people at the rooster to help, with his boss needing him.

All the while, his thoughts keep turning back to Dallas, with the way he'd been riding and the happy feeling of seeing him do it. With how he'd thought all those words were just talk and there was something more to him that Two-Bit hadn't been guessing on. How Ponyboy had beamed at hearing Dallas, how he'd known so much about him. How Two-Bit simply wanted to talk to them both at the same time, have them both in a room together.

The thought that they could be friends, maybe. Real ones. Something he hadn't had in a long, long time. Something that could evaporate as soon as this rodeo week was done for.

He's old enough to know that some friends came in and out with the season. That some of them were just not to be. Yet those two...

Something about them, Two-Bit is drawn to no matter what. He doesn't know precisely why in such a short amount of time. Doesn't know why he cares so much, even if he knows that Dallas seemingly is a threat to the other riders in ways that they don't like, even if he knows that Ponyboy could be in trouble with Fang.

But...

Two-Bit had been attached to other people in a short time for less. He'd known people longer and deeper and didn't feel the same way he had here.

So he keeps the thought in his head, even if his body isn't doing well with keeping food down after all that drinking.

A nap is snuck between it all, and Two-Bit is hardly back on his feet, ready for the night when he hears a familiar voice floating through the back window, " – care what it takes. We need to get them out of competition. Today."

Two-Bit's blood runs cold when there's an answer in Jack's voice, "You don't have to tell me twice. Meet me up half an hour, stables. We'll get it done."

All Two-Bit can do, as his stomach revolts, as his heart plummets, is think: shit.

Chapter Text

All he wants to do is bolt out of there, go look for Dallas and The Kid immediately. Instead, Two-Bit can hardly wheel around before the world spins, his stomach gives a violent turn and he's moving as fast as he can to not be heard — all while fighting the burn of vomit rushing up his throat.

It's a miracle that Two-Bit winds up a block away from Rooster's, puking his guts out violently, the smell, the feeling mixing with his anxiety and anger. Every contraction of his stomach heightens his panic, his fears and when he's spitting out the last of it, one thought runs around his head: he needs to find Dallas, now.

There's no time for cowardice, as he stumbles up, tries to get his breath. Sweat pours down his face, and Two-Bit wishes he had water. There is no water to have, only the force of will he had to get on his feet, to keep going forward, even though he feels like shit, even though every step makes him want to falter in the waning sunlight, afternoon starting to churn to evening.

For a moment, he wonders if this is what his mother had felt like when he and his father had walked out of that door together in Tulsa. Was this what it was like when she had left Katie inside and had been running after the car, yelling and screaming for them to come back? After all this time, is this what he deserved, to be desperately running through the dusty streets of Guthrie, hungover and aching, trying to save the life of a guy he could hardly call his friend and his horse? Was he going to fail like his mother did, trip into the ground, palms first, scratching up his face and screaming, begging?

Was he going to regret this, the way he had then?

Maybe it was some kind of sick, cosmic joke that he couldn't laugh at until it was over.

All Two-Bit knows is that he's forcing himself to gain strength, direction with every step, clawing his way towards clarity. Even if this was a joke, he wasn't going to laugh until he got his way. He wasn't going to do a damn thing until he got what he wanted, and that was to get to Dallas and the Kid as the sun starts to get lower and lower in the sky.

So he runs. He runs and runs, kicking up dust, going past the shops, the cowboys, the cars. The desperation fuels him to go faster and faster, his body aching as he moves, sweat drenching his shirt, until he finally sees that green that he's been waiting for, the view of those dirty sheep and the familiar brown walls of the stables, and the horses.

And among them is Dallas there, laughing as he nuzzles at the Kid's nose, praising him for something that Two-Bit can't name. Even from where he was, Two-Bit can see the love and care he has for him, and that gives him the last desperate push of speed he needs to run to them, hollering. "Dallas! Dallas you sonuvabitch!"

That gets his attention, Dallas looking over to him with surprise, his dark eyebrows working together to look at him. He half jogs towards Two-Bit, confusion written all over his face, "Jesus fuck —"

"You and the Kid need to leave!" Two-Bit blusters out, and he thinks tears are mixing with the desperate sweat, "You need to go, they're coming here to hurt him!" He shakes Dallas, voice climbing. "They got their cars, they're coming here to kill the Kid, and probably hurt you, you need to leave!"

Dallas looks at him, confusion on his face — then his eyes catch the horizon, and something in his face hardens. "You're too late. They're almost here, I can see 'em." Two-Bit whips his head around and sure enough, they're heading towards them, in pickups and on their own horses, clearly ready for more than just kicking the shit out of Dallas or killing the Kid.

Panic rises up in Two-Bit, turning back to Dallas, expecting to see panic there, expecting to have to ask to be forgiven. Instead, there's an odd look to his face: a grin there, that's widening every moment, mixed with determination.

"No, no, you —"

"Take the Kid to the tree line," Dallas' voice is a harsh command, his eyes concentrating on Two-Bit in a strange, intense way. In the encroaching evening, there's a strange quality to them, glinting like silver dollars, and Two-Bit tries to say No, you idiot. He can't though; he feels frozen, hypnotized by the stark strange sight, "Now."

The word is guttural, laced with something utterly terrifyingly strange and compelling, as if it's touching something deep inside of Two-Bit he hadn't realized was there before, something that tells him if he disobeys, it will be his life he pays for, strangling the protestation in his throat. What's left is a weak string of words, "Dallas —"

"Treeline. And hurry the fuck up!" There's a crack of a pistol, and Two-Bit is left stumbling towards the Kid, who's wheeling around, curious about what's going on. The horse canters away from him, Two-Bit blindly grabbing for his reins until they're securely in his fingers.

He really is crying with some unnamed terror in his throat, inspired by both the men coming towards him and the way Dallas had spoken to him. "C'mon," he chokes out, voice shaking, "We need to get to the treelines."

The Kid rears up, as if he means to go to Dallas — and all Two-Bit can do is force his head away, towards the trees. Blindly, he mounts him, turning his head back to see Dallas racing to the herd of sheep, towards what Two-Bit thinks is a bag one of the herders kept. He's jerking something out of it — a gun!

Relief sweeps through him, and he urges the Kid on to the treeline. The Kid moves fast, his hooves pounding. Behind him, he can hear the sound of shots being fired, a wave of voices. Another shot as the trees get closer and closer, until The Kid is struggling up the hill with Two-Bit.

There's another shot, and this time it whizzes past Two-Bit. He ducks, trying to keep his grip steady as the Kid panics and tosses him. Two-Bit goes flying into the dirt, hearing another shot, and the screech the Kid gives. The wind has been knocked out of him, and for a moment he's dazed, panic gripping him, terror.

No.

He can't fail them, he can't fail them.

It takes everything in him to force himself up, his vision splitting for a moment to see the Kid galloping past him. Two-Bit's head is pounding as he looks towards Dallas, where the sun is finally starting to sink below the horizon entirely, the man surrounded by people. Two-Bit blinks, once, twice.

A clearness finally solidifies in his vision.

He can see that Dallas has a shotgun held in one hand, with one rancher groaning, a truck in the distance on it's side with wheels turning uselessly, oil teeming out of it. Another rancher is bloodied, and he can see Jack is leading them, a snarl on his face and his own gun in his hand.

"Run," he says, voice hoarse, desperate, "You idiot, run." Two-Bit staggers to his feet.

Dallas doesn't run. He stands up straighter, dropping the shotgun to the ground. Two-Bit screams and Dallas doesn't hear him, he can't. He's too far away.

He thinks that Jack will kill him then, will end it and all he'll have is the Kid. Instead something else happens as the sun finally melts into the horizon, turning into night. Jack aims his gun into the new darkness of night, right to Dallas' form before him.

Dallas doesn't stay standing.

Instead, his head tips back and a horrific howl leaves his throat. It is chilling in how loud it is, in it's deepness and fury. It can only be from Dallas, that horrifying sound, because the sight gets worse for Two-Bit, frozen where he is. There's the sound of cracking, the view of his body elongating, shifting, hair sprouting everywhere, hands shifting into long, horrifying digits tipped with sharp claws and then morph fully into paws.

Those long legs of his, they shift too from an ordinary man who was perhaps a little tall to elongated, horrifying limbs, toes stretching and twisting into claws and then wolf claws. He twists and twists until finally, there isn't a man who stands there: it is Fang, huge in all of his horrific glory, maw wide and challenging.

It happens all in a matter of seconds, and Jack, the other ranchers are frozen.

If that weren't enough, Two-Bit hears something behind him too: the sound of a horse screeching, turning into something else. He whips his head around, and to his surprise, the Kid is changing too. Only instead of an Appaloosa nag, spotted all over, the horse is changing into something else — the limbs retracting, the hair getting shorter, the horse's shrieks changing into human cries.

Two-Bit doesn't know what to say or do as the Kid finally finishes transforming into Ponyboy, so much smaller than he was as a horse. No word beyond shock comes to his mind as Ponyboy looks around, confusion in his face, naked as the day he was born, with an arm dark from the graze of a bullet. He looks around him, confused, eyes widening. "Two-Bit? Where — where are we?"

"Treeline," is all Two-Bit can say, not sure if he's been so shocked he's not hungover anymore or if his body simply hit his limit. "Dallas — they were trying to hurt the Kid. You."

Ponyboy looks at him, and then there's the ring of another shot. A determined look settles on Ponyboy's face — human, pale, pink, dotted with freckles — and he grasps Two-Bit's arm. "We need to help Dally! C'mon, c'mon!"

Two-Bit can't even protest, following Ponyboy down the brush, back towards where Fang — Dallas was.

What else can he do?

He wants to make a joke, any joke, and they aren't there as they rush down the hill. Already, the truck is on fire, the sheep are shrieking in the pen and Jack, bewildered Jack, still has his gun lifted, shooting wildly in the wrong direction as Dallas snarls.

There's already one rancher dead with his throat torn out that Dallas stalks over, another cowboy shaking as he clearly tries to understand the situation. Two-Bit lags behind as Ponyboy runs off like a shot himself, buck naked and absolutely unwilling to slow down, going for Dallas' dropped shotgun.

"Get away from me!" Jack fires again, and one of the other cowboy's stumbles away from the burning car, as confused and pissed as the rest of them. Two-Bit can see him focusing on Ponyboy, as Ponyboy finally reaches the shotgun, Jack too busy with Dallas' angry, snapping form.

Ponyboy doesn't need any help, it appears, as he gets the shotgun up and fires it at the cowboy. The cowboy is hit dead on, blood staining the air, the man staggering back in shock. Two-Bit can't look at him dying, going back to look at Dallas as he corners Jack closer and closer to the burning wreck.

Jack's hand is shaking, and Two-Bit knows that Dallas isn't going to spare him. The remaining cowboy turns, and Jack barks at him, "You get back here, you coward!"

The turn of his head is all he needs. They all can see and hear Dallas' huge form overtake Jack, his gun dropped from his head, his screams echoing as he tears at Jack.

That's about enough for Two-Bit, the sight overwhelming, his vision running together and everything slips into a void of nothingness.

Something wet is nuzzling at Two-Bit's hand. He doesn't know why it would be there; he didn't have any pets in his apartment and his cat he'd left with Katie all those years ago. The wet, cold nose still keeps pressing against his hand, and with a groan, he cracks open his eyes.

What greets him doesn't make sense for a full thirty seconds: a fire burning in a pit dug a few feet in front of him, a dark shape moving around the darkness, and a figure hunched over, spooning what looked like beans from a can into their mouth, dressed in blue and black flannel.

A campsite? That didn't —

Dallas transforming. Jack's screams. Ponyboy with the gun.

All of it snaps into place in his memory, and Two-Bit reaches up, feeling the part of his face where it feels like there's something dry and cracked caked onto it. "Jesus Christ, I really am in a fucking werewolf movie, ain't I? With a were-horse."

"I'll throw this can of beans at you if you make a single neigh joke," is Ponyboy's reply from the other side of the fire. As Two-Bit sits up, he can get a better look at him, even with the cracked dried blood on his face flaking a bit. The firelight makes Ponyboy's hair look redder than ever, his mouth slightly smeared by the beans he's eating. They're not anywhere near Guthrie as far as Two-Bit can tell as he looks around: a meadow greets him on all sides, filled with green and flowers for miles in every direction except one where he can see a truck was parked. It's not the one that was on fire, for certain, as it's a little bigger and a dark red in the slight light. There's a tent already pitched up, the moon high in the sky and as he adjusts, he can see Dallas has made his way to sit beside Ponyboy, his eyes focused on Two-Bit.

"You know it'd be more like hay," feels limp from his mouth, Two-Bit rubbing at his forehead. Ponyboy gives a snort at that, Two-Bit trying to figure out what to say and how to say it. Except, fuck there's no real way to start a conversation about two people you know who can turn into animals that isn't awkward. So Two-Bit looks at Ponyboy, wiping his mouth, and just says it, "So. How did you two wind up a rodeo horse and the Big Bad Wolf?"

The fire crackles, and Dallas' eyes glow in the dark, his tail thumping against the ground. Ponyboy leans back, shrugging. "Wish I could tell you that myself, Two. I really do — just everything before this is fuzzy. Everytime I try to grasp onto it, everytime I try to remember anything other that night after night it feels like water slipping through my fingers." His tongue darts out, licks at his lips. "I can't remember when I was born, or where. I can't tell you how Dally and I even met anymore and I know I used to remember that." There's a thread of pain in his voice. "The earliest thing I can remember is just the first night."

His eyes bore into the firelight, Two-Bit watching his face, seeing how it shifts subtly, an age descending on it much older than twenty. "I woke up in a stable, alone — cold, naked. I didn't know where I was or how I got there. I just remembered that something was wrong, that Dallas wasn't there with me, and a man was standing over me. A tall man, in a cowboy hat and with these golden eyes fixated on me." Ponyboy's tone grows more frustrated, bitter. "He told me that if I wanted to see days again or if Dallas ever wanted to see nights again, we'd have to come find him. I didn't understand what he was saying — I just remembered being bewildered, scared. Something about him made the air shimmer. I thought it was just me being scared, but it was magic. I know that now." Ponyboy shakes his head, and Two-Bit knows a week or two ago he wouldn't have believed this.

The thing is, he's seen them both transform now. Things add up: Ponyboy's exhaustion at nights from the rodeos, Dallas' assurance in his place, the possessiveness Dallas had over the Kid — it all made sense.

Moreover, he suddenly understands with horror what's been going on even as Ponyboy spells it out for him, "Ever since then, we've been together like this. I'm always awake at night as a human, with Dallas right here. He always has me during the day, but I'm trapped as a horse. We don't remember things the same and we can't talk to each other unless we leave notes to each other. And we don't do it often anymore — we've been chasing him for years now. Decades. More than that," his voice breaks, and Dallas gives a whine, nuzzling at his hand. "We keep chasing him and chasing him. We just can't keep up and we can't — we can't stop, either. I miss him so bad, Two." A sob crawls out of his throat. "I haven't seen his face in years. I don't even know if he remembers mine."

Two-Bit doesn't have to hear him say it, that they love each other, that they always have. He's never met two men like this, intertwined like this. And he reckons, as Ponyboy wipes at his face, he never will. Hell, he's not sure he could ever meet a man and woman like this, where just looking at them he knows they're intertwined like this.

"I'm sorry, Ponyboy," he says, his own words heavy with the grief they're experiencing, always together and always apart. He doesn't know if he should come around to hold Ponyboy as he cries silently or if he should leave it to Dallas, who's already licking at Ponyboy's face in reassurance. "I don't know why that sonuvabitch did it — just you and him don't deserve this."

The smile Ponyboy offers is weak, upset. "You aren't scared?"

"Unless someone's looking to make me an animal, no," Two-Bit gives a smile back, "I'd be lucky enough to be turned into a mouse." They both share a laugh at that, warm and about all they can do in the fire light. Silence descends again, and Two-Bit turns over his thoughts, quiet in the darkness of the meadow.

His mind races with it all: the two of them trapped like this forever. Always aware of the other, always with the other. Only communicating through notes, only able to see each other's animal faces and never their own.

Without...

Two-Bit looks up at Ponyboy. "You remember the year when you two got changed?"

Ponyboy hesitates, then shakes his head. "No. I — I remember when it first happened we lived somewhere older than this. With –," his face contorts, trying to grasp for more. " — there was a tower, maybe. Other than that, I don't remember."

Two-Bit smiles at him. "I don't do magic. I can, though, show you how to see his face again. Even if it's just once." Seemingly, Dallas keeps up with this, his tail thumping in curiosity. "Before I tell you though — what are you two going to do after all of this? You can't go back to Guthrie, they'd skin your hides."

"They could try," is the challenge from Ponyboy. "I was planning on driving out to the next rodeo we could find, maybe in Arkansas or Texas. Things'll cool down." He runs his hand through his hair, frowning. "What about you, though? You had a whole life in Guthrie."

"Not really," Two-Bit shrugs, "Only thing I'd want to go back for is the money from Rooster's I still have. Need to send it to my family." He stands up, dusting off his jeans. "C'mon, we need to beat the sunrise if we're going to get that present for Dallas."

Ponyboy's face is curious, wanting in a way Two-Bit has never seen on anyone else's face. Yearning, he thinks is the world as he looks at Two-Bit, hungry for any second, any moment with Dallas.

He's never, ever seen that in another human being's face.

As Ponyboy gets the campsite cleaned up, and they get in the truck, Two-Bit wonders what it's like to live like this. To be with someone you love so much, and never be able to see their face, never be able to hold a conversation with them. To not even be able to hold their hand or see their face.

How long could he have held out like this? How long could he have existed like this, in this strange half life, with no way to see the sun? It makes his chest hurt thinking about it, Dallas leaping into the truck, Ponyboy quickly turning over the engine.

"If you can't remember before," Two-Bit says as the lights turn on, drenching the meadow on a yellow light, "What do you — how do you know you two were together?"

Ponyboy pulls out of the meadow, his face scrunched up. "It's — I can't remember the details, but I remember the feeling, I guess. I remember what it was like to just see him, and how it made me feel like the room was brighter, that everything was better with him in it. I know he used to do certain things, like he used to wrap his arm around my shoulders when we walked somewhere, and he used to love eating his food pretty rare." He smiles in the darkness, the truck heading to the road. "I know he never told me he loved me. It makes something — my chest hurts thinking about it, in a good way. I know he did, and I know I love him. I know it would've been wrong for him to return those words even if we felt it."

The more Ponyboy talks, the more that yearning, that want blooms in his face. His words take on a wistful quality, the truck bouncing and then evening out when they hit the road. The lights are bright, and sure enough the sign for the next town says ten miles.

Two-Bit leans back, rubbing at the side of his head. "Go on, I know right where we're going."

Ponyboy glances at him, and Dallas growls from the backseat.

He presses on the gas, and they barrel down the road.

A hand nudges against Two-Bit's shoulder, once, and then a second time with a harder press. With it comes Dallas' gruff voice, "Where the fuck are we?"

Two-Bit, this time, isn't drunk. He's sober as all get out, rubbing at his face as he sits up in the truck bed. It's been parked neatly into the hotel parking lot, the sky a warm orange from dawn. He yawns, sitting up to look at Dallas' confused face, his face wet with what is probably water from a sink, dressed in the clothes Ponyboy had been wearing. For the first time he notices the clothes had been a bit too big on Ponyboy and fit much better on Dallas' form.

For the first time he wonders if they've been passing along the same clothes for decades, if the old ones disintegrated. If they've forgotten notes to each other, keepsakes they'd gotten and then had to discard to run to the next town. Two-Bit gives Dallas a small smile. "Next town over from Guthrie. Ponyboy and I high tailed it outta there after you turned Jack into wolf-food."

Dallas huffs, shaking his head, and still, Two-Bit can see there's a hint of jealousy there. A want that Ponyboy had on his face too, and Two-Bit dusts himself off, as Dallas asks, "So, he told you everything?"

"Sure 'nough," Two-Bit sighs out, "I don't know what happened with you two to get this shitty hand of cards but it ain't fair." He reaches over to his side, pulling up a bag. "We switched out the tags on the truck, got some money, and I got Ponyboy to get you a little anniversary present." Two-Bit offers the bag to Dallas.

A curious look, still tinged with jealousy, flickers on Dallas' face, grasping the bag roughly from Two-Bit's grip. He opens the bag, rummaging through it, and pulling out the first big present, the sunlight glinting off of it. "Is... that a camera? Ain't those real expensive? Don't you have to develop it?"

Just how old were they? The thought is uncomfortable, if Dallas doesn't know instant cameras exist now. "Not if you break into a store at night," Two-Bit grins at him, giving a wink. "Ponyboy's great with picking locks, and I'm good at swiping stuff. And buddy, cameras have come a long way. That's not the big one, though. Keep digging."

Dallas puts the camera back down, and his face lights up at the book there. The bag is unceremoniously dropped to the ground, Two-Bit cringing at the sound. All that matters to Dallas in that moment is flipping through the book — a copy of Gone with the Wind, with an envelope stuffed in the middle. He flips past the money, to the folded up, thickly written letter and to the instant photos that Two-Bit had taken with Ponyboy that night.

There were at least twenty of them there, Two-Bit watching as Dallas flips through them: the one of Ponyboy and Two-Bit laughing in the department store they'd robbed — Ponyboy petting Dallas' wolf form, in the truck — Ponyboy kissing the wolf's forehead, while he panted happily — Ponyboy at the diner they'd eaten at, digging into pancakes happily — and the last one of Ponyboy half asleep that Two-Bit had taken himself before they'd fallen asleep.

There's an awe on Dallas' face as he stares at them, a softness that Two-Bit has never seen on his face. The jealousy has melted away into reverence, his fingers running over the photos, his voice choked with emotion, "These were all from last night? Who — you did this for him?"

"Did it for the both of you," Two-Bit replies, able to see that as much as Dallas clearly wants to cry, he can't. Something is preventing him from it, from shedding those tears of want, longing that Two-Bit knows he could never touch.

He's made a lot of mistakes in his life. This time, he's made the right choice as Dallas wordlessly pulls him into a hug. The hug is returned, because he knows damn well Ponyboy can't do it himself.

When they part, Dallas hastily puts the envelope away, clearly treasuring it. "I ain't gonna forget this, Two. I mean it."

Two-Bit gives a broad grin. "I know. Pony told me ya'll are gonna keep running after the Golden Eyed Cowboy. I know I won't be much help on that but — you ever hear he's around Tulsa, you guys should come and find me."

"Tulsa?" Dallas questions, brows furrowing. "Why Tulsa?"

"I'm going back home, where I need to be," Two-Bit answers, as serious as he can. "I think it's time I go on back home, while I still got the time." He nudges the bag. "I put my house number in there, for whenever you can call. I know this can't be easy — but you two are my friends."

Dallas offers his hand. "Yeah, we are. I don't think we've had one in a long, long time."

Two-Bit takes it, pumping it. A whinny interrupts the silence, and they both turn to the treeline near the hotel. Ponyboy is standing there, his tail swishing, clearly waiting. "You tell him I said goodbye for me?"

"Sure will," Dallas pulls his hand back, the wind picking up in the early morning. "You take care of yourself, Two-Bit."

"I will. You two need to catch that damn Cowboy before I get old," Two-Bit jokes, and Dallas nods grimly.

He turns around, and makes his way to Ponyboy, coming to pet his muzzle affectionately. Two-Bit can't hear what he says to him, only leaning against the truck, watching Dallas eventually mount him.

They turn, disappear together and Two-Bit hopes that they'll call, hopes that one day they'll walk into his home together, side by side.

For now, he has to get back to Tulsa. No more just leaving his family to deal with his mistakes, no more of his Mother having to scrape by without him, no more of his sister living without her brother.