Chapter Text
No matter how many times Darry tells him not to look at it, Soda can't help but to look at the spread on the newspaper. He can't help it: the photographs that are splashed on the front of the paper is Dallas Winston: one of him in handcuffs, dark hair obscuring his eyes, being led away; and the other is his mugshot.
It's the mugshot that captures his attention the most: they printed both photos in color, and in his mugshot, he's gripping the placard that says UNION POLICE DEPT, 1983, 5724. He's got cuts on his face, and a hardened, angry expression on his face even if he doesn't reveal any teeth. The shirt he wears is dirty, black, buttoned up halfway over a white under shirt. There's dirt and blood on his nails — and on his neck, there's a mating mark that's a dark red fading into pink.
Soda's good at reading people, at knowing how they act, what they want.
He doesn't know what he sees in Dallas' face as the limo picks up speed through the muddy dark streets, on the way to the hospital. The light from the overhead renders him clearly from Soda as he looks at the photos. He doesn't know what Dallas has seen or done in the past years. He certainly isn't the teen that he knew decades before; his face is sharper, he's filled out in a way that someone who physically works fill out, no longer a whip thin boy working at the stables, no longer a hood that Soda had only talked to a few times in passing.
He doesn't know what is going on behind Dallas' dark eyes, and he's not sure if Ponyboy will be able to tell him, if he could tell him.
Everything was so confusing. Darry wasn't with him yet; he and Paul were holding a press conference to speak to reporters and the Marshals and the police. The storms had made everything move at a delay, and as he wasn't the one leading a company, wasn't the head of the family, Soda was the one who was going to see Ponyboy first.
The radio is faint from the front, Soda picking up, "Union has been gripped with the story of the Curtis kidnapping. We've had floods of calls about the details of Ponyboy Curtis being rescued, including a currently unsubstantiated rumor that he was voluntarily given up by his captor to the Marshal service." The woman's voice is clipped, quick, the windshield wipers going fast enough that even if every other word isn't heard, Soda can finish the sentences on his own. "A press conference will be starting in roughly an hour, with Darrel Curtis and Paul Holden speaking in conjunction with law enforcement regarding this situation. We'll keep you updated. Next up, the new David Bowie song, Let's Dance."
The song fills up the car as it banks to the right, water kicking up. Normally, Soda would be into the song, into Bowie, and his eyes keep drifting to the paper, his leg starting to bounce. "How long til we get there?"
"Three more minutes," the chauffeur says, her voice just as serious as the announcers. "The rain's making it longer than normal, Mr. Curtis, I apologize."
"It isn't your fault," Soda says, and he flashes a smile. She sees in the rearview, looks away but he sees the corner of her lips twitch. "This is a private one, right? Shouldn't be too many people."
"No, there won't be," the rain gets harder outside. "It's really— it's a pretty fancy, private hospital. Don't think the press will know you're here, Mr. Curtis."
He feels a wave of relief. "Good. I don't think Pony will want that." or at least, the Pony he knew. His leg bounces more until the car eases to a stop.
Soda doesn't wait for her to open the door, instead unlocking it on his own. There's a sheet of rain down and hurriedly, the chauffeur comes over with her umbrella. The rain feels cold, and he grins at her as they hurry to the back door where she'd park. The hospital doesn't even look like a normal one; it seems more like any other building out there, until the doors open and the smell of antiseptic hits him.
Soda pulls a face at the scent. His chauffeur puts down the umbrella, wiping at her brow. "If you don't mind, I'll be in the lobby, for when you're done. Your brother—"
"Yeah, I get it," Soda huffs — he hates being treated like a hapless little omega most of the time, but Darry is right on this one. There's the sound of footsteps, and then a woman rounds the corner, and by the grey in her hair and the way she straightens up, she must be the Dr. Kensington that he was told about. "Thanks, I'll be there soon as I can…?"
"Christine," the chauffeur tips her head, even though she's a good half a foot taller than him, "I'll be there." She adjusts her hat, and then follows the signs to the lobby.
Dr. Kensington waits for her to go, and she seems to study Soda for a moment; she's an alpha just like the driver — and she's about as tall as Darry. Her hair is pulled into a Ponytail, her eyes very big in her face as she says, "Sodapop Curtis, correct?"
"That's me," he shoots her a smile, hoping to put himself at ease. "I'm here for Ponyboy — is he okay?"
He doesn't much enjoy hospitals or doctors. Sandy had a difficult birth with a doctor who was, in a word, an ass. It had made Soda a little more wary than what he'd like to be, and when Dr. Kensington doesn't return the smile, that feeling increases. "In terms of the mental, I am not a psychologist. I think that question is best left up to your brother when he wakes up. Physically?" She beckons Soda and he falls instep with her, watching her wizened hands open a folder. It's all gobbledigook of words that he can't decipher heads or tails of even as he tries to scan the page. "Your brother had a case of sepsis that was thankfully treated very early — he's been put on rounds of antibiotics, and he's been set up on an IV in order to help him recover. However, he is also displaying other issues."
Her hand darts out and presses the button to an elevator. It lights up and Soda has to force himself to not touch it or to chew the inside of his cheek into shreds. "Other issues?"
The elevator doors open and she steps inside. He follows, the elevator moving quickly up. "I'm not specialized in omega physiology; I'm a general practitioner. I know enough to inform you that Ponyboy is having separation stress from his mate; he's having fevers that are very hard to manage at times, he was outright delusional when he got here. We found that the mating mark he had is…" she pauses and Soda can feel his stomach leaving him, dripping to the very bottom floor. "I've never seen a mating mark as aggressive as the one he came in with. The skin was clearly, deliberately broken repeatedly."
"What… what does that mean?" He struggles to keep up with her as the words come through, as he tries to understand what she's saying. He and Sandy weren't mated — hell most people he knew weren't mated, at all. It was something well to do people didn't partake in, and it's more than a little shocking Ponyboy has it. He wishes Darry was here, he wishes Sandy or two or Molly all were here, to put the pieces together as the doors open and he follows her out, at a loss.
She sighs and her wizened hand comes up to push at her hair. "What I mean to say is that the mating bond he has is very aggressive. It is going to affect his recovery in the long run and I'm not… I have read the case, I listen to the news. I think you all are going to have a very uphill battle with your brother."
It's not what Soda wants to hear. It's not what he wants to think about as the doors open.
He feels like he's walking through water as he follows her, the fear in his stomach turning into knots. She's saying more — about a specialist, about other treatments — as she opens the door to Ponyboy's room and Soda isn't hearing her. Not when he sees Ponyboy, propped up on pillows, for all the world an adult man and not the little kid Sodapop had known.
He's tall for an omega; he's probably 5'8" or 5'9" to Soda's 5'5", limbs long in the bed. He's got cuts on his face, taped up carefully by the doctors, in a hospital gown with cheerful duck patterns. And his eyes are drawn to his neck and Soda can't believe how dark it is. It looks worse than what she had said, a dark bruise that looks closer to purple than to the rest of Pony's pale skin. He's not, at least, thin — he looks slim but healthy, not like he was being starved. Soda can feel tears pricking his eyes as he looks over him, coming over the bed, running his fingers through Pony's hair. It reaches almost the top of his back, his eyelashes long, against his cheek.
He looks… Soda's not sure who he looks like anymore: him or Darry or his parents. Only that this is his little brother, that every line of him is Ponyboy. It's his brother that he hasn't seen in eighteen years. He's alive, he's here and Sodapop doesn't even attempt to stop the flow of tears down his face. He can't help but to cry as he strokes Ponyboy's warm cheek, as he looks him over as best he can, finally able to confirm that he was alive, that he hadn't been killed in the decades since.
Eighteen years have passed, and they're finally, finally together again.
He feels a hand on his shoulder, and the doctor says, "I'll leave you two alone."
He blubbers something out — and then goes for Ponyboy's hand. It's rougher than what it had been at fourteen, and Soda squeezes his hand as the door shuts. "I'm here — I'm here Pony. It's Soda."
Ponyboy doesn't squeeze back. He goes on sleeping, and Soda doesn't leave his side.
There's someone tugging at his hair and Soda jolts up, startled.
There's still rain coming down, it's still dark, and yet Ponyboy's eyes are open when Soda focuses on him. He looks confused, the equipment giving steady beats as he stares at Soda in the otherwise silent room. His eyes are like Sodapop remembered them, a dark brown framed by long eyelashes. "Hey, Ponyboy," he keeps his voice soft, gentle. "It's me, it's Sodapop."
Ponyboy looks at him, blinks slowly, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing or hearing. "Soda?" there's a note of fear in his voice, disbelief mixing with it. He squints at Soda more as Soda sits up more, straightens himself out. "How're you here?" He blinks slow again, can barely move. "Where…?"
"We're in a hospital, honey," and god, when was the last time he called Ponyboy honey? Soda's throat feels tight as he grips Ponyboy's hand, squeezing it. "In… well I don't think this is exactly Union. But close."
There's a grimace, and Soda guesses Ponyboy needs water. He gets up, grabs a cup and runs it full of cold water in the side bathroom. He comes back and carefully helps Ponyboy drink it, running his fingers through his hair, feeling how soft it is beneath his fingers. When it's done, Ponyboy's eyes flutter, and he leans back. "Thanks, Mama."
Then he's asleep before Soda has the ability to catch up. And it's awful that he forgot: Ponyboy's always mixed up when he's sick. He was mixed up a lot when their parents died, and Soda can't help the flood of tears that come up, the memories of how Ponyboy had been so small, of him deliriously asking for their parents, for Soda.
And it stays that way.
Soda has hardly been given an hour to breathe when Ponyboy moans in his sleep, whimpers out, "Dad? Mama?" Soda turns from his place in the chair, shifting to get up when Ponyboy says, "Dallas?" that makes Soda pause more than anything, makes him stare as Ponyboy turns in his sleep, whining out, "Dallas — please —" his voice breaks and Soda reaches over, runs his fingers through his hair, focuses enough on calming Ponyboy with his pheromones. It's easy now that he's done it for a lifetime now — calming down Sandy, his kids — and Ponyboy seems to simply sink into the bed, whimpering quietly until he's slumbering again.
It's spooky. That Ponyboy… that he felt that close to Dallas to ask for him.
Or maybe they'd been together so long, Dallas had taught Ponyboy that he could only rely on him. Or maybe… maybe it was genuine.
Soda doesn't know as he strokes Ponyboy's hair, until his eyes are shutting and he sinks into sleep again.
There's a knock on the door that startles Soda awake. He looks around the room first — he spots Ponyboy, awake and startled too, some of the weak morning sunlight on him — and then glances at the door. Ponyboy seems surprised to see him, and Soda gives him a warm smile, "It's okay, honey."
He can feel Ponyboy watching him as he gets up and opens the door. A nurse is there, with a tray of food pushing it into his hands, "There's enough for the both of you. Dr. Kensington sent your driver home — we can get you a pullout if you don't want that uncomfortable loveseat."
Soda smiles at her, "Perks of a private place, huh?" The woman — very much an omega — beams at him, and he can see her lipstick looks fresh. He takes the platter from her, "Thanks. I'll push the button if Pony needs anything."
He shuts the door, and comes around to Ponyboy in the bed, still staring. He looks… wary, almost. "Is… are you…?"
Soda puts the tray down and comes to sit on the bed. He can see Ponyboy's still mixed up, scared, and while he's never done this much, he reaches over, slowly, to brush his fingers against Ponyboy's neck, right where his scent glands were. Ponyboy stiffens only a moment — and then his eyes shut. He dips his head, and Soda strokes his cheek and neck, scenting him as best as he can. "It's me, Ponyboy. It's Sodapop." He gives a watery, sad smile. "You remember me?"
Ponyboy's eyes well up with tears, too. His hand reaches up to grasp Soda's wrist, and for a moment, Soda thinks that he'll turn his nose into his wrist. Instead, Ponyboy gives a choked, sad noise. "How— how could I forget?" his voice sounds strained, and… strange. Thinner, almost hysterical. "I wouldn't forget you."
"I know, I know," Soda hastens, keeping his voice soft. "I'm sorry, Ponyboy. It's okay, you're safe with me now." He moves over, to pull Ponyboy in a hug, and Ponyboy gives a choked, keening noise. He reaches up and Soda pulls him into a hug, rubbing his back. "You're safe, honey. It's just me here." He rubs his back as Ponyboy clings to him. He can see now that he's up close, scars on him that aren't just the mating mark. Most of them are small, little bursts of them and Soda itches to know the how and the why.
He pulls away, and Ponyboy's still got a halfway, far out look in his eyes as he looks at him even as the tears are drying on his face. "M'tired, Soda. Real tired," he sniffs, shaking his head. "Where's… how did…"
"Don't worry about that now," Soda is reminded of when Kelly's sick, of how hard it is sometimes for her to realize what's happening. "You hungry, honey? Thirsty?" Ponyboy nods, and Soda ruffles his hair. "Lay back down, okay? We got some food here." He turns and gets the tray, opening it — Ponyboy's nose wrinkles at the scent of it, turning his head against the pillow.
It takes a bit of work from there — Ponyboy seems half put off by most of the food, struggling with it. Soda gets him to eat half of it before he finally just finishes off the water and rolls back into the bed. He blinks slowly, and Soda has an urge to hit off rapid fire questions — and holds off as there's a knock on the door.
Feeling stiff, he gets up, opens it and a nurse is there, the same one from earlier. "I need to check on him — do you mind?"
"No, no," Soda widens the door. "You guys have a coffee or break room? And a bathroom?"
"Down the hall," she points, and Soda gives one glance at Ponyboy, "She's gonna help you out, honey. I'll be right back."
If Ponyboy hears him, he doesn't say. So Soda meanders down the hall — getting lost twice and retracing his steps, before finding the small break room. It's clearly meant for the staff, but there's no one there.
He makes himself coffee, wondering what to do. If he should call Sandy, see what she says about all this, check on the pups. Call Darry, see what he and Paul think and when Ponyboy could be sent to Tulsa. Calling two-bit, giving him an update, compare notes from Tulsa to Union.
There are too many avenues to choose from; and Soda knows that Darry is liable to blow if something else is leaked to the papers before he's ready. And more importantly to Soda, he's not sure what can be said to two-bit now; Ponyboy was so damn mixed up now and Soda was starting to feel it too.
He stirs creamer and sugar into his coffee, and it's nice and hot going down his throat. The simplest thing would be to call Sandy and to hear from the kids.
So Soda walks out, coffee in hand, flagging down a nurse. She takes him to the little room they have, and in no time, Soda's dialing out to the house. It takes two dials for Sandy to come over the line, "Hi, Curtis residence!"
Soda laughs into the receiver, "That you? My little wife pretending to be a secretary?"
Sandy laughs over the line, warm and honey-gold and it's a salve. "I kinda miss being your secretary. We used to have so much fun!"
"Isn't that how we got those pups of ours?" Soda teases back, "Having all that fun?" They both laugh, and he can't help it, "We should really have some more fun like that sometime. Get a fourth." He can hear Sandy giggling more. "How are you, baby?"
"Well, kids are itching to hear what's going on — you don't know how hard it's been to try and keep them from the television. Benny and Jet, especially, lord," Sandy shifts, and Soda can tell she's just as curious. "Darry and Paul are all over the news, too with those big hair styles they got and suits. They don't even look tough."
He loves it when she says it, tough. Only the greasers said it, the little reminder that even though she had rhinestones and diamonds now, she hadn't grown up with it. "Well… Ponyboy's in the hospital, with me. You should see him — he's real tall for an omega, still a little skinny." Soda takes a swig of coffee, able to hear Sandy moving around, the sound of a bark in the background. "Doctor said he's got a really aggressive mating mark on him, said he'll be acting funny cause of it."
"Aggressive? What does that mean?"
"I don't know," Soda admits, cradling the phone. "I know it looks really dark on him."
Sandy hums, a little sharper than him. "Like, he got mauled or something? Really deep in?" Soda nods and remembering she can't see him, hums. "I know Marcia had a mating mark like that, before she left. She and the alpha she got used to just bite each other up — you remember David, right? David used to do it just be a possessive asshole, make sure everyone knew she was his. And when they broke up, she got sick for a while til it faded."
That makes sense for Soda, and he feels worry bottom out in his stomach. "He's kinda sick like that now. Not really sure where he is — like he was after our parents died." He bites at the top of his lip, nervous. "Other than that, he isn't doing bad at all. He's not hurt, really. Just looks like a farmer more than anything else. I don't…" he gnaws at his lips more, able to hear people passing by in the hallway. "It's confusing, really. I just want him to get better so I can talk to him, see what he says."
Sandy makes a soft sign on the other end of the line. "I hope he'll get better soon. I'm sure he'll be happy with you, when it's all over. Y'all were so close, weren't you, before?"
Smiling against the receiver, he nods. "Yeah. We used to nest together, everything." He hears raised voices, and glances up. The yelling escalates, and there's a door slam. "Might be easier to talk to me than Darry—"
There are rapid footsteps and then Dr. Kensington is in the doorway, "Mr. Curtis I need you here, now please."
Sandy must've heard, her voice quiet. "What's going on, honey?"
"I don't know — I'll call you back, okay?" Soda puts the phone up, confused, alarmed. "Is everything okay?"
"Your brother is being questioned by law enforcement," Dr. Kensington clips out, "I don't think he should be doing that alone."
Even Soda knows what she's saying is correct. He gets up and gets to the hospital room where he can see a red headed woman in a suit, a bald man in a suit as well and two uniformed cops crammed into a corner, and Ponyboy in the bed. Soda wrenches the door open, able to hear the woman say, "—firm that your name is Ponyboy Michael Curtis?"
"Yeah," Ponyboy says slowly, and Soda tries to wedge himself further into the room. The cop beside him scents heavily of bad cologne, and Soda forces himself forward. He's able to get to the woman's shoulder, seeing Ponyboy frowning at her, clearly still not himself. "Course I am."
The woman continues, voice stern, "And the man who kidnapped you, his name is Dallas Winston, is that correct?"
And strangely, Ponyboy laughs. The seriousness of it all seems to not reach him, shaking his head incredulously. "No. Why would he kidnap me?"
Soda can feel his stomach twist and he tries to raise his voice, "He's not okay— he's still sick."
Both her and Ponyboy look at him and Pony seems to, for the first time, really see Soda. His eyes are completely focused on Soda, fully aware. He seems to be taken aback and then he glances back at the woman, stiffening in bed.
She leans forward, her voice hard. "Maybe I didn't state that correctly. You're Ponyboy Curtis, you've confirmed that." Ponyboy nods slowly. "And so, that means you were also kidnapped in 1965 by Dallas Winston—"
"No," Ponyboy pushes back, frowning. "I ain't been kidnapped by anyone. Dal's my mate. Why… why would he take me?"
A feeling of unease settles into the hospital room. Soda's heart sinks, and he feels nervousness growing. The red-haired woman looks angrier, and this time her voice raises a notch when she speaks, "Mr. Curtis—"
"I ain't kidnapped," Ponyboy says, his voice climbing too, almost hysterical. "I ain't been taken—"
"Stop," Soda intervenes more forcefully, moving to grasp Ponyboy's hand. The woman — the Marshal — looks up at Soda with fury in her face. "Listen, he's messed up, he ain't okay right now. He can't do this— this interview, interrogation. He's not in his head."
The Marshal looks even angrier, but Dr. Kensington adds, "This is what I explained earlier. My patient isn't ready for any of this."
For a moment, Soda is concerned she'll push it. And then, in one movement, they're all standing up. The woman levels a cold glare, saying, "We'll try this again, when he's feeling better. Thank you for your time, Mr. Curtis."
Then she turns on her heel, joining the others. Dr. Kensington is fuming as she goes, and follows her out with a snap of the door.
Ponyboy grasps Soda's hand tighter and Soda squeezes back. There are raised, angry voices and Soda simply decides that it will be easier to leave Ponyboy alone. He withdraws his hand, and comes around the bed. Ponyboy watches, doesn't fight him when he offers water. He drinks slowly, and curls into the bed.
He looks up at Soda, voice quiet when he says, "I know what I said. I know. He ain't take me."
He should correct Ponyboy. He should fight back, the way he fights with his kids sometimes when they wake up from a nightmare and think monsters are real. Instead, Soda runs his fingers through his hair, thumb running along his forehead every so often and says, "I know, honey."
Ponyboy nods at that, then rolls over, shuts his eyes, slips into sleep. And Soda?
Soda watches all the while, and he feels dread. He doesn't think Ponyboy is lying and that is the scariest thing of all.