Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

The gunshots rang out like firecrackers, loud and sharp, echoing down the darkened street. It seemed like it would be the end of Dallas Winston, and everyone thought it was—Ponyboy Curtis included. But fate had different plans that night.

Dallas didn’t die.

He got shot, sure, bleeding out on the cold asphalt outside a convenience store he’d tried to rob with an unloaded gun. Police swarmed the scene, lights flashing red and blue, voices shouting in chaos. But when the heat settled, Dallas Winston was still breathing. Barely.

A bullet lodged in his thigh, another just beneath his ribs. His collarbone fractured from the fall, and internal bleeding had nearly taken him out more than once. The hospital staff weren’t optimistic at first.

But Ponyboy was.

From the moment he found out Dallas had survived, he made it his mission to be there. Every day after school, he’d head to the hospital, undeterred by the police officer stationed outside Dallas’s room. The officer’s job was to keep people like Ponyboy out.

Ponyboy would sit in the hallway just outside the door, his back against the wall, school books scattered around him. At first, he asked politely, hopeful. “Can I see him, just for a minute?” The answer was always no.

So he stopped asking. Instead, he began waiting.

Hours passed. On school days, Ponyboy rushed to the hospital as soon as the final bell rang, sitting there until curfew. On weekends, he arrived early, bringing snacks and thermoses of coffee, books, and blankets—everything he thought might make the time pass easier, anything that made it clear he wasn’t leaving.
After about a week and a half, the cop stopped arguing. Maybe he felt sympathy. Maybe he was just tired of repeating himself. One day, he looked at Ponyboy with a long, worn-out sigh and said, “Ten minutes. Don’t touch anything.”

Ponyboy stepped into the room like it was a sacred place. It was too white, too quiet. Dallas lay still, pale against the stark sheets, an oxygen tube in his nose and a dull scowl on his face. Machines beeped in the background, a slow, dragging heartbeat.

Dallas squinted at him. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”
Ponyboy sat in the chair beside the bed, trying to play it cool. “Just thought I’d drop by and see how you were doing. Brought your book back. You finished ‘Of Mice and Men,’ right?”
Dallas huffed. “Tch. Don’t matter.”

But he didn’t ask Pony to leave.
So Pony stayed.

That first visit was awkward. Dally didn’t say much—just grunted or muttered under his breath. But Pony stayed anyway, reading softly or scribbling in a sketchbook, only looking up when Dallas groaned or shifted.

The next day, he came back. And the next.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

It became a routine, one Dallas would never admit he liked. He’d scowl and snarl, insisting to Ponyboy that he didn’t need company. Yet, whenever he grunted for water or barked at Ponyboy to adjust his blanket, there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes, an unspoken acknowledgment of their growing bond.

At first, Ponyboy simply began to read aloud, not bothering to ask for permission. Then he began bringing food, after hearing one to many complaints from Dallas regaining the hospital food, He brought things Dallas actually ate. Tinned peaches, warm soup in a thermos, occasionally his favorite chocolate bar , the kind he used to sneak from the corner store.

“I ain’t a charity case,” Dallas grumbled the first time Ponyboy offered him the candy.
“I know,” Ponyboy replied, determination in his voice. “You’re a friend.”
Dallas didn’t have a response for that, and for a moment, the room was filled with a silence that felt almost comfortable.

Slowly, painfully slowly, things began to change. Dallas started letting Ponyboy stay longer. He’d request things without really asking “Get me that book,” “Switch the damn channel already.” Each small command felt like a step toward normalcy for Ponyboy. He found comfort in the rhythm of it, in the sense of responsibility. It was the first time since Johnny died, Maybe even the first time since his Parents died that he felt... steady.

In those moments, he could almost forget the weight of his grief. The laughter they shared, even if it was laced with sarcasm, reminded him that life could still hold small joys. He never voiced these feelings, of course. But deep down, he cherished the connection they were building, even in a sterile hospital room.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

It was late on a Wednesday when Dallas asked Ponyboy to fix the window blinds.
“Sun’s hittin’ me right in the face. Feels like I’m in a damn oven,” Dallas grumbled, his voice raspy.
Ponyboy got up without a word, tugging the cord to tilt the slats just right. Warm light filtered in, casting soft gold lines across Dallas’s hospital blanket. He looked thinner now, pale and bruised, and the white gown made him appear even smaller than usual. But his eyes remained defiant and sharp.
Ponyboy sat back down and flipped open a dog-eared copy of Catch-22. He hadn’t been reading it aloud today, Dallas had said he didn’t like the story, but he kept bringing the book anyway.

Dallas stared at the ceiling, lost in thought.
“What’re you always scribblin’?” he asked after a long pause.
Ponyboy blinked. “Huh?”
“In that notebook. You always bring it. Sometimes you draw, sometimes you write. What is it?”
Ponyboy shrugged. “Thoughts. Stuff I notice.”
“Like what, the shape of my nose?” Dallas smirked.
Ponyboy didn’t laugh. “Like the way you look away when someone asks if you’re okay.”
That comment silenced Dallas. His smirk faded, and Ponyboy returned to his notebook, pretending not to notice the tension in the air.
A moment later, Dallas huffed. “That’s dumb.”
“I think it matters.”
“Figures you would.”

Just like that, Dallas turned his head and shut his eyes. But he didn’t ask Ponyboy to leave. Ponyboy stayed until the nurse told him visiting hours were long over.
As he left, he glanced back at the bed. Dallas Winston was asleep, his face relaxed in a way Ponyboy had never seen before. Something about the scene stayed with him, even when he lay awake in bed hours later.

It was Saturday when the nurse mentioned washing Dallas’s hair.
She was cheerful, almost too cheerful. “We’ve got a cart for it, you know. Warm water, little basin and all that. I’ll come back in a bit, all right, Mr. Winston?”
Dallas’s expression hardened instantly. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
The nurse blinked. “Pardon?”
“You heard me. No one’s washin’ my hair. I ain’t that helpless.”
The nurse paused, her lips parted as if to argue, but the glare in Dallas’s eyes told her it wasn’t worth it. She left without another word.
Ponyboy waited until the door clicked shut.
“You really won’t let her do it?”
“I ain’t lettin’ nobody fuss over me like I’m some damn baby,” Dallas muttered, turning his head toward the wall. “Lyin’ here’s bad enough.”
Ponyboy hesitated. “I could do it.”
Dallas scoffed. “That supposed to be better?”
“I’d be careful. I wouldn’t treat you like you’re helpless.”
Dallas didn’t look at him, but he didn’t argue, either.
“Fine,” he muttered finally. “But if you tell anyone, I’ll break your jaw.”
Ponyboy cracked a small grin. “Deal.”

The nurse returned with the supplies but didn’t ask questions when Ponyboy took over. She handed him a towel and nodded before leaving the room, clearly knowing better than to get involved.
Ponyboy rolled the basin cart close and gently lifted Dallas’s head, sliding the towel underneath. He dipped the washcloth in warm water, added a little soap, and started slowly dampening Dallas’s hair, running his fingers through carefully.
Dallas stayed quiet, eyes shut, jaw clenched.
“Too hot?” Ponyboy asked.
Dallas shook his head just a little. “S’fine.”
Ponyboy continued, letting the rhythm calm them both. He used the pads of his fingers, gentle and steady, lathering up the suds before rinsing with the sprayer.
The hospital faded around them. The act itself was quiet, simple but something about it felt bigger. Private.
Ponyboy looked down at him, at the line of Dallas’s jaw, the way his face relaxed despite the tension in his body. The tough guy routine had slipped. Just a little.
Ponyboy had never touched anyone this gently before. Not like this, careful, focused, with his chest feeling full and his breath caught somewhere between.
When he finished, he padded Dallas’s hair with a towel, then gently combed it back, clean and damp, soft under his touch.
Dallas cracked one eye open. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Ponyboy smirked. “Told you I wouldn’t screw it up.”
And just for a second, Dallas gave a tired little smile.
Something in Ponyboy’s chest clenched.
He didn’t know why.
Not yet.

The next day, Dallas didn’t speak for the first ten minutes of Ponyboy’s visit.
It didn’t bother Ponyboy. He sat cross-legged in the chair, scribbling a drawing of the view from the hospital window. There wasn’t much, just power lines and a lonely maple tree starting to lose its leaves but somehow it reminded him of something quieter, older, slower than the rest of the world.
Dallas finally broke the silence.
“You ever think about just leavin’? Not runnin’. I mean really leavin’. Leavin’ this city, Tulsa, the gang, all of it. Like just wakin’ up somewhere new, not knowin’ a soul?”
Ponyboy looked up, startled by the openness in Dallas’s voice.
“I dunno,” he said slowly. “Maybe. I think about what it’d be like to have a fresh start. But I don’t think I could do it. Not alone.”
Dallas gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Alone’s the only way I know.”
He didn’t sound angry. Just tired. Just... honest.
Ponyboy swallowed. “You’re not alone now.”
Dallas didn’t reply. But his hand reached for the cup of water on the tray, knocked it slightly off balance, and didn’t grab it in time.
Ponyboy stood, catching it before it could fall.
Dallas let out a breath. “Thanks.”
There was something heavy hanging in the air between them. Not tension, exactly. More like recognition.