Chapter Text
It was the Socs who’d wanted a fight: not Johnny. He’d never asked for one. They always seemed to find him, anyway.
Johnny was of the sort that could take almost anything… but they’d scared him. He was as good a kid as you could get on the East side of town.
Now he was gone.
There was no taking that kind of news. For all the ‘ifs’ thrown around about his life, no one had really considered the possibility that he’d go so young. He was a good kid and a damn good fighter; he wouldn’t just die.
Steve could hardly think over the ache in his side, but he knew he was hearing things wrong. Ponyboy must’ve got mixed up from getting beat around; he didn’t know what he saw. People don’t just die — hell, Johnny wouldn't. Pony didn’t think to check; he never thought! Steve took half a step forward, and the kid retreated towards the hall. He knew they were crowding him but that explanation wasn’t enough.
Pony backed against Two-Bit, stumbling and bleating like some cornered animal, his eyes wider than anything Steve had ever seen.
Steve couldn’t do anything but watch as the kid shrunk into himself. No matter how much they tried to help, he wouldn’t let no one touch him. Two-bit barely had time to act before Ponyboy was pushing past him, his face blown up sick covered with bruises, snot and tears.
Even as he heard Pony retch in the bathroom, Steve wanted to grab him and shake him — to get the truth out of him: that Johnny was alive, and Pony was just as delusional from his injuries as the rest of them.
But, as mad as he was, Steve wouldn’t confront him. Pony had already taken a beating by the Socs, and was scared senseless by what he’d seen in that hospital room. It wouldn’t be fair.
Soda stood outside the bathroom with his arms crossed, his back against the wall, caring for his brother at a distance. Steve could see how his sad blue eyes lingered, and a part of him ached in sympathy when Pony retched. But still…
They’d won.
Didn’t anyone remember that?
It was supposed to be over. Good things were supposed to happen. They’d won back the streets Johnny would never walk again.
Steve left them to it and retreated with the rest of the gang, now short on numbers and strewn about the dining room. None of them touched nor spoke, and they hardly seemed to move except to press a hand to a wound. Darry and Two-bit had the same blank expression on their faces, and Steve knew he must look the same; as deep in denial as he was, Steve knew that the tears they all shed weren’t just from forgetting to blink.
For all the times Steve’s old man had kicked him out of the house, he never felt half as worthless as he had hearing the news that night.
Steve had been the one to find him that day in the lot; they used to think that day to be their worst. Had he been in that hospital room, he could’ve done the same thing again… call for help, clean Johnny’s jacket — something!
He just needed to find him again.
If Johnny were in front of them, Steve could’ve done something. He was certain he could fix it somehow… but a dead boy ain’t a motor.
Steve sat on the edge of the dining room table and held himself, lowering his head to hide the gleam of tears in his eyes. He couldn’t pretend like the others. The only time Steve felt the need to alter his behavior was around an officer, and even then it was tough. He was too emotional to pretend. He was sensitive and, though no one would dare suggest it, he knew it to be true. Only, it wasn’t a very tuff-sounding word, so he preferred… reactionary.
The phone rang and he ran to answer before he could even think. Somehow, he was across the room without ever standing up. He kept a low steady voice before handing it over, to whoever would take it. Then, just like magic, he was sitting again.
Two-bit sat by him, at the head of the table, seeing how far he could flick the playing cards left scattered across it.
Steve made an effort to watch while making a half-hearted attempt to twist at a beer top — as if he wanted it! The slowly warming bottle just sat on his leg, leaving a dark ring behind on his jeans.
Somewhere behind him, the toilet flushed and Ponyboy emerged. Not one foot in the hall before he was stopped and fussed over by Soda.
Steve could hear them mumbling, but couldn’t force himself to turn and check if the kid was alright. He wasn’t looking at the floor anymore than Two was looking at the cards. None of it meant anything.
The phone slammed into the cradle and, Darry, apparently the one he’d handed it off to, turned to the group. Soda nudged his shoulder - they were moving? - and the boys squeezed out the door as fast as they could. Darry had said something to spur them into action, but Steve couldn’t remember if he tried.
It wouldn’t matter; they ran as if by instinct, and Steve just tried making sense of the few words he made out through his feverish delirium.
Dally.
Police.
Hide.
The world was a blur of desperation, all sound lost except their shoes beating against the pavement.
Steve felt his heart crawl up his throat, restricting his breath. It hurt, but he almost didn’t mind it if it meant not hearing that damned whistle every time he inhaled. He wasn’t known for good teeth or anything, but at least he had all of them… up until recently. Steve was sure one of his ribs, obviously broken but not enough to down him, would stick his lung. It was something to worry about in the future, though — if they had one. He couldn’t stop when they were so close…
If it had been some other hood, they would’ve kept out of it. But it was Dallas…
The Curtis outfit had few rules by which they governed themselves, but the most important was to stick together. They’d all grown up in the same no-good neighborhood, and Steve couldn’t imagine a situation where they wouldn’t stick out for each other.
The gang had already lost Johnny that night, and Steve wasn’t sure what he’d do if Dally was thrown back in the jug so soon after he got out.
It hadn’t occurred to him until they’d reached the hill, and the approaching sirens rang in his ears, that their six might as well have been five.
Dally had been carrying around that gun…
None of the gang had ever stuck up a place with more than a knife before. Even then, they’d never used it; the bluff was more than enough. Even if they needed the cash, none of them were cracked enough to try, but … none of them had lost anyone like this.
Johnny…
Steve couldn’t say for sure that he wouldn’t, were he in Dally’s place… had it been Soda instead.
It all happened so fast.
Dallas reached the park just as the cop cars surrounded him. He slid his way between the shiny white vehicles and out into the open, his thin figure seen sprinting under the street lamps.
Jesus Christ, Steve thought, it’s like spotlights!
He could see little, between the distance and the pain, but there was one thing he was certain of: Dally raised his arm. He didn’t need to be close to tell.
The cops raised their heaters in return, and Steve knew they wouldn’t hesitate. They were no better than the Socs; worse, to tell the truth of it.
The sirens were replaced by gunfire, steady and precise. The cops wouldn’t have listened, even if they could hear them, but they begged for mercy anyway.
“No!” He yelped.
“It’s not loaded!” Someone yelled.
“He’s just a kid!” Two-Bit cried.
“Stop!”
“No!”
They were still running to meet their friend, pointless as it was.
Dallas shuddered, and Steve’s stomach turned. His body was rocked by the impact, but he just wouldn’t fall. He never went down easy; he was too proud. Dal turned towards them with a staggering motion as his final moments played out… It must’ve taken a moment for his brain to register what was happening…
Even across the distance — even through the darkness that covered the ground between lamps — he saw his friends. He saw safety. For a brief and terrible moment, Steve imagined he saw a glimmer of hope and regret in the boy's eyes. It didn’t last.
The body jerked towards them, wide eyed and open mouthed, before crumpling at their feet. Inches away. Dally just missed Darry’s arms, open in a pointless gesture, as if all he had done was tripped. When Steve looked down the illusion broke.
The bullets had torn into him and, any bare skin, whether it be virgin or bruised, was virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the gore. Blood covered the boy's chest like a bib, trickling down to meet the color on his stomach. His black eye was the only thing left to tell you what kind of boy he was: tuff and mean. The kind who could handle anything; who used to be able to handle anything — but that was when he still had Johnny.
Dal was turned away from them, his cheek half resting on the pavement like he had nodded off to sleep. To Steve’s relief, his eyes were closed; it was the last favor Dally would do for anyone.
“H-h-hey, look,” Two-bit pointed at Dally’s arm, making a huffy hysterical little noise.
Steve followed with eyes blown wide, and he could see the white hospital gauze sticking out through Dally’s tattered sleeve, still perfectly intact. It wasn’t funny, but… in that moment, it had to be.
How come Dally couldn’t handle it?
Steve was upset about Johnny too, but at least he didn’t go and get himself blown to pieces! So why on Earth did Dallas? As mad as Steve wanted to be, he couldn’t muster anything more than a shallow, aching pity.
Looking down at him, his friend — dead — he was gonna be sick. Steve tried to hold it back, he really did, but soon enough the bile had built in the back of his throat, and a sharp, hot feeling filled his mouth. He let it go, a small dribble of refuse smacking against the cool pavement, then forced himself to swallow the rest.
Steve looked up, and his trembling hands flew into the air. He put no more thought into it than the cops had done before they pulled the trigger. Looking at them now, he noticed that not one of them had lowered their guns; they’d get any one of them for one false move — hell, they’d do it for fun!
He looked down, expecting to find what was left of his courage in a puddle on the street, his heart pounding in his throat. Steve took a sharp breath, cringing at the whistle through his teeth, and turned to the others for support.
Someone had to say something... but then he took a better look at them all. Soda had run the full two blocks without shoes. His socks were covered in muck and new holes. Two-bit flexed his hands and swallowed hard. Darry was yelling something he couldn’t understand. If it weren’t for the ringing in his ears, Steve probably could have made it out. At a time like this, though? He didn’t care if he did, his eyes shot back to the cops.
Steve sobbed, the building pain suddenly bursting, and he stumbled aimlessly forwards. Sodapop, hurt but not quite as lost, caught him by the shoulders before he could do anything he might regret. The ringing faded to a dull roar, and Steve huffed and shuddered like an angry bull.
“H-he saw us!” Steve croaked. His voice was broken and punctuated by whistling breaths. Another sob wracked his body as he struggled to move.
“And now they’ll—.”
His focus never left the cops and their nice leather shoes, the heaters still poised to shoot. Again, Steve raised his hands to his chest, convinced he’d said too much — that his terror and concern were incriminating. All the air was sucked from his lungs, and he just stood there shaking and muttering and wheezing.
“Oh, God,” he sobbed.
“Easy, buddy, easy,” Soda murmured, his hands warm and steady on Steve’s shoulders.
Soda’s voice was dry and strained, and there was no fight left within him to contest it. He struggled to look back at him, all the while trying to stifle another sob.
“There's nothing we can do now,” Soda sighed.He’d never looked so defeated.
From somewhere behind them, Ponyboy staggered forwards, a part of him knocking against Steve’s shoulder. Gripped with rage, he turned and saw that the kid’s eyes were locked on what was left of Dally.
“First, Johnny…” Pony cried. The pain in his voice coulda killed him. “Now Dally…?”
“It’s over, man,” the kid groaned.
He dropped so hard and fast that Steve thought he damn-near died on the spot. His body just gave out.
Darry dropped down and grabbed his brother by the hoodie. Soda soon rushed to join the two of them on the rain-covered asphalt. The pair grabbed at their younger brother in a blind panic.
First Johnny, then Dallas, and now… God, Ponyboy… not him too.
He was a smartass and a tag-along, but there was no denying he was a good kid. Steve would’ve never admitted it out loud, but he was one of the gang. They had already lost two of their own tonight, and the Curtis boys were already without their parents. Please, Lord, he prayed, keep those brothers together.
“He’s not…?” Steve sniffled.
“He’s breathin’,” Soda looked up with a weak smile, almost hopeful. “Just overwhelmed. He’s gonna be okay.”
He looked back down at his brother, pawing at his ruined shirt for attention. “D’ya hear that, Ponyboy? You’re gonna be okay.”
“Soda, help me prop ‘im up. He hit the ground real hard and I don’t like him layin’ like that,” Darry asked softly.
The brothers moved him into a sitting position with all the grace of a rag doll. He looked as though he were on display.
Looking at them now it was hard to picture that just two hours ago, Steve had been the happiest he’d been in his life, chanting with pride about being detested. Greaser wasn’t such a dirty word when it was said by their own kind and, in fact, for a minute, their pride was more than just their words or their hair — winning meant something.
Means something.
Maybe he was just feverish, but Steve thought that things such as winning and heroism were good things, and that a fight and a newspaper were going to solve everything. Two-bit had had him half convinced that, if they stomped the Socs good, everything would be alright.
As it turned out, ‘hero’ was just a word on a page. It didn’t change the fact that Johnny had to die to be noticed; or that Dallas had become just another juvenile delinquent dead on the streets, shot down once he couldn’t take it no more.
The same town that praised them let them die.
He wasn’t surprised. The good people of Tulsa showed little remorse towards those they left behind; it was their habit of sitting by that made guys like them, guys who were never given a chance from the start, who had blades, heaters, pool cues and chains handed to them right out of the womb. Nobody cared enough to protect them, so they’d had to learn to do it themselves.
Despite their losses, the idea of some stability after months of unrest seemed almost attainable. The Socs had to stay on their side of town and abide by territory lines; they’d be outta their minds to try and start another fight… not without a whole hell of a lot of time to recover.
Steve even believed that they’d stay true to their word. After all, they were still human. They must’ve had some sort of honor.
Steve looked to Two-bit for that same relief, only to find his face contorted by the effort it took not to break… He was the sort to never cry if he could help it, and the way he carried on made it hard to picture him without a smile. It was like looking at a whole other person.
Two-bit dried his eyes on his shirt, still damp with rainwater and blood, and — without checking for the cops approval — dropped to his knees at Dally’s side, his hands reaching out for the dead hood's worn face. The Saint Christopher pendant he always wore was stuck up over his chin, having nearly flown off him in the struggle and, to the gang, it was just another indignity bestowed upon him.
Two-bit, with his head lowered, moved it slowly back down to Dally’s chest where it belonged.
“Wouldn’t be right-” he choked out.
“Wouldn’t be right to leave him like that.”
“He-he’d like it better ‘dat way,” Steve agreed.
Tears clouded his vision, and the warmth that spread across his face as they fell reminded him bitterly of the trail of blood flowing down Dally’s forehead to the ground. Steve’s hands were still hovering just above his own waist, his eyes following the police as they lingered.
His rage turned over to soft-bellied grief and, slowly, as if sensing the change, the officers holstered their guns.
The immediate threat was gone, but their backs remained as rigid as when they first stepped out of their vehicles. Even Ponyboy, as young and naive as he was, would have noticed that they were still on edge.
“What are you kids doing out this late?” One of the cops stepped forwards. He wore a convincing enough frown. He asked questions he already knew the answers to, trying in vain, Steve figured, to run through the shreds of procedure.
“Hey!” Steve yelled. The power behind his voice surprised him, and though Steve wasn’t particularly loud, he spoke fast.
“D-don’t you come any closer!”
Steve wanted nothing more than to lunge at the officer like the animal they saw him as, but he didn’t move. He knew if he moved an inch he’d be gone laying on the pavement right next to Dally.
“Haven’t you already done enough?!” Two-bit snapped, staggering to stand before Steve offered him a hand.
“I-I…” the officer tried to compose himself.
There was nothing he could say to justify what had happened and he knew it, but he still stammered in a futile attempt to absolve himself of the guilt.
“You shouldn’t be here… it’s…”
The cop removed his cap, not out of respect but to wipe the sweat from his brow. There was a look in his eye Steve thought he could recognize, but he sure couldn’t understand.
“You see a kid run like that… you call his bluff. He was scared. All it was…” Darry said, red eyed and sniffling as he stood.
He wasn’t trying to play the strong leader anymore, and looked just as small and hurt as the rest of them.
“He was a buddy of yours?”
The cop glanced down at Dally, that unknowable emotion still setting deep lines across his face. He wasn’t much older than them, maybe five years at the most..
“Yes, sir, he was.”
Darry lifted his chin and pulled himself together enough to give the answers the cops wanted. He could control himself to a degree that was, frankly, startling. He’d saved all of them by simply knowing how to behave. All ‘Yes, sir. No, sir.’ Steve wasn’t sure how he could stand it – bowing to the fuzz like that.
As he spoke, Darry scooped his youngest brother into his arms and Pony hung there, limp and battered and feverish, but Steve took notice of the rise and fall of the scrawny teen’s chest.
“You boys should head home,” another cop said. This one was a little older, but not exactly old enough to be one of their parents.
“It’s late and your folks must be worried. Besides, you shouldn’t have seen this. Hitting him in the— it was a mistake. ”
“Lordy! I’d hate to see what you fellas do on purpose,” Two-bit gawked.
“We got an ambulance coming for your buddy. But we can’t work this out with a bunch of…” the cop noticed Ponyboy then, his head cocked and mouth open in his brother's arms.
“What’s wrong with the kid? Is he high?”
All eyes turned to Darry. He’d be the one to say something sensible.
“No, but he’s runnin’ a fever…We’ll take him ourselves n’ get out of your hair.”
Steve bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood again, biting back the urge to tear into the cop for asking such a stupid question. It was uneven now that he had a tooth missing, and it felt odd..
The second cop had this guilt-ridden look on his face that made Steve’s blood boil. That crooked man deserved every ounce of pain that guilt had given him. Steve would much rather spit in his eye than see it glisten.
It was more condescension than pity, though; one doesn’t feel for white trash for more than they must pretend. Even now, the cops were more upset over how they would look for this than they were over some dead JD.
Darry and the cop exchanged a few more muttered words. Steve didn’t catch much, what with the blood roaring in his ears.
“Cmon,” Darry muttered. Then he nodded, pointing the gang up the street without having to lift a finger.
“I don’t want them getting a good look at the rest of you,” he added quietly.
Steve appreciated the gesture, but knew it wouldn’t save any of them in the future. Most of the gang had been hauled in at least once before – jailed, too. All except Darry and Ponyboy… and maybe Johnny. That must’ve been why Darry could talk with the cops so good — he had no standing record.
“Oh shoot, they’ve seen us before…” Soda pointed out, lingering at his brother's shoulder for a moment as they walked, adding,
“What makes now any different?”
“Don’t get smart.” Darry snapped.
“Right,” Soda hummed softly. He always talked like that when he needed Darry’s approval; short, to-the-point, and agreeable.
Soda shook Pony’s limp foot with a small smile, probably hoping to get a rise out of him. Steve wouldn’t have been surprised if it worked, too; Ponyboy was an awfully ticklish kid. He was still out cold, though, and nothing came of it.
From then, Soda hung back with Steve, keeping a slow pace that neither of them would choose to travel at any other time.
It was frustrating, for Steve at least, but he wasn’t getting anywhere fast with his ribs busted the way they were; all the adrenaline had drained from their bodies and the pain had moved in.
The gang was only a few feet away when the cops descended upon Dally, obviously searching for the heater and the cash. They reminded Steve more of vultures than lawmen, the way they picked at his clothes and peeled blood-slick paper out of his pocket.
Twenty dollars.
That was how much the life of a Greaser was worth on the East side and they tore it from him like he was not even worth that.
A part of Steve wanted to bash their heads in for daring to get so close… he knew Dal would’ve, if he still could.
They’d made it to the lot when Sodapop tapped him on the arm, turning back momentarily. Soda had looked back more times than he could earthly stand. Steve knew he had something to say.
“Hey!” Soda called down the hill.
Steve almost thought he’d be their next bit of target practice, but they just glanced up, almost bored.
“That uh, ‘Christopher, it belongs to him, ma—fellas. He didn’t take it from no one, it’s his… so let him keep it,”
Soda looked down and let out a harsh giggle upon realizing he was in nothing but his stocking feet, and ruined a pair at that. He swallowed hard.
“Please.”
“If it’s his, he’ll keep it. Now head home, okay kid?” A cop shouted back up the hill.
“S-sure, we’ll go, right Steve?” Soda nudged him and Steve nodded, only able to produce a sick yelp in agreement.
He wasn’t sure if they’d meant it, or if they’d just said it to get rid of them, but if it was enough to satisfy Sodapop, then Steve would try to believe it, too.
Soda put his arm around Steve again, and they went to catch up with the others. They’d lingered just ahead of them once they stopped. None of them wanted the gang to be apart longer than they had to.
“You think he still has my blade on ‘im?” Two-bit asked offhandedly as they walked.
“Is that all that’s bothering you? That damn switchblade?” Steve snapped, and he felt Soda’s hand rest heavy on his shoulder again. He reeled back a little, but only for his sake.
“No,” Two-bit admitted with a sniffle, “but I wish to hell it was…”
Soda gave Two a small shove up the hill, probably hoping he’d stop any fights before they could start. Always the peacekeeper.
The rest of the walk back to the brothers’ house was sullen; everyone’s heads were hung low and their feet were dragging.
Such a lack of energy was unknown to them, and Steve wondered if this was nothing but a long, blistering nightmare. Feeling without intensity just wasn’t natural – not for him, at least.
Shockingly, it was Ponyboy who broke the silence part way back, cutting in here and there with fevered ramblings where he’d ask for Johnny and Dallas. It wasn’t fair to the rest of them that he should keep bringing them up, but… Steve couldn’t shut him up. Those ramblings meant he was alright. He’d just have to live with it.
When they got back to the house, Steve found the rough-looking screen was close to peeling back, and he found that the metal frame had been broken somehow. Both the door and front gate were left wide open, just as they’d left them in their hurry. It was almost funny, how the house had always been open to them, but they’d forgotten the courtesy of closing the door this time… He tried not to think about how it was usually Johnny and Dally lagging behind the rest of them when they went out as a group.
No one else appeared to notice, though; their attention was all on Ponyboy. The truck doors swung open and he was loaded inside, the kid’s arms sprawled across the bench seat of his makeshift ambulance.
Soda did his best to prop him upright so they’d have room to get in, and Steve caught bits and pieces of the muffled conversation.
“Where are we goin’?” Ponyboy asked. He was still awful lost.
“To the hospital,” Soda explained.
It took a moment before Pony responded again.
“…How come?”
“To get you some help.”
Ponyboy drifted again, prompted to respond only by the slight shake on his arm. That same horrible rag doll appearance, scrawny and loose.
“Oh,” Pony slurred.
“Hang in there, kiddo.”
Soda squeezed his brother's arm, then worked his way back out to talk to the others. One hand was still firm on the door handle, ready to swing it open and tend to his brother at a moment’s notice, and Steve gave him space… just in case.
Pony would have his brothers looking out for him, Soda explained, and the three of them would try to be back as soon as possible. He and Two-bit were welcome to stay if they wanted to, but they might not be back for a while.
“What are you thinkin’ of doing?” Soda asked, his voice as gentle as the one he used for Ponyboy. He must have noticed something in his expression that Steve hadn’t known he was showing.
“I dunno about Two-bit, but I figure I’ll stay over tonight. Hell, I don’t think I could go home…my pa would ask one question about tonight and,” he laughed a dry, bitter laugh,
“I think I’d finally hit him.”
Steve was a frequenter of the Curtis couch over the years. Sometimes he’d been kicked out and forced to look for a place to stay, but more recently he’d leave his folks’ place before the worst of it started. He might have been a street brawler, but Steve had enough sense not to start a fight for nothing. His dad never laid a hand on him – he never needed to.
Soda and Two-bit both stared down at the street. They knew how he felt about his old man more than anyone — and they knew how they all felt about Johnny and Dally.
“Yeah, best stick together anyhow,” Two-bit hummed, snaking his arm around Steve’s shoulder.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen the place without one of you three in it,” Two-bit chuckled, “Someone needs to watch it while you’re out. I’ll watch Steve here, too; he ain’t lookin’ too good.”
“I think I look great considerin’ all that’s happened tonight,” Steve lisped, much to his own horror.
“I’ll give you somethin’ to worry about– C’mere!” He moved out of Two-bit’s hold, trying in vain to start a tussle with what little energy he had. Sadly, his legs wobbled enough to invalidate his point. He would’ve fallen flat on the street if Two hadn't caught him.
“…thanks.”
“Yeah,” Two-bit smiled and hoisted Steve upright again with a firm pat on the back. He kept a better hold around his shoulder this time.
“I don’t know… you looked in a mirror lately?” Darry chuckled.
“Not as much as you, Muscles.” Again, Steve’s voice was heavy with this newfound lisp. Darry looked unimpressed.
Soda stepped between the two of them, effectively blocking Darry from Steve’s view. It was just a joke, and he understood that, but they were all running on a short fuse that night.
“They’re right though, Steve. You oughta go lie down,” he murmured.
“That’s rich, you remindin’ me to do something…” Steve joked.
Soda gave a weak grin.
“C’mon little buddy,” Darry sighed. “We hafta get Pony in while they’re still open…”
“I know,” Soda drawled.
He turned back, met eyes with Steve, and closed the car door behind him. Behind the closed door, he settled in and guided his brother’s head to his shoulder, leaving Darry free to drive. The window was rolled down, and Soda let a few tears slip out, as if he’d forgotten.
“Give us a call when you know what’s goin’ on,” Two-bit reminded, guiding Steve up onto the sidewalk in front of the house so the brothers could leave.
“We will,” Darry promised.